Chapter 29: 𝖄𝖔 𝖘𝖆𝖇𝖎̨𝖆 𝖖𝖚𝖊 𝖚𝖓 𝖉𝖎̨𝖆 𝖒𝖊 𝖎𝖇𝖆 𝖆 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖗.

☆☆☆𝕿𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖘𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌☆☆☆

✦✦ {7:25—𝕬𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖊𝖆}✦✦

“Any luck?” Nevena asked, her voice low—breath fogging slightly in the morning chill.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, just a pale peach hue, stretching across the sky like a yawn that hadn’t finished.

Ahead, Junior crouched low on the sand, poking at something with a stick.

He had insisted that they take a gift with them before going to Antonio .

They'd settled on a shell—buying something might not measure up to Antonio's standard.

He looked over his shoulder. “Found a big one this time!” he called, pulling up a shell that was more hole than shell.

“Look!”

Nevena walked along the tide’s edge, letting the waves lick her ankles.

Her sandals dangled from one hand, her hair slightly damp from the salt-heavy air.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, crouching beside him to take it in her palm.

Junior stood with a frown, dusting off his knee. “It’s broken—just like the rest.”

“So are a lot of beautiful things.” Nevena replied, brushing her thumb along the holes of the shell.

He squinted at her, clearly trying to understand.

Then, with the seriousness only six-year-olds could muster;

“Miss Nevena, we’re looking for pretty ones... the ones tourists, and conglomerates take home—not the ones the sea keeps.”

He reached into his bucket and pulled out the only perfect spiral shell—the size of his palm.

“Something like this.” He handed it to her.

She furrowed her brows. “What’s the difference? They’re all shells.”

Junior kicked at a patch of sand, frustrated.

“No—there’s a lot of difference. The ones the sea keeps are cracked… weird… kind of wrong. And it’s bad to give someone something that’s broken.”

He sat cross-legged, deflated.

Nevena looked down at the boy beside her—so serious, and soft, all at once.

She gave a crooked smile. “And you like the pretty ones better?”

“Not really.” Junior’s throat tightened. He looked out over the endless water.

“I like the weird ones… they’re just like me.”

Nevena tucked both shells into the bucket, and knelt beside him, her fingers tracing the outline of a sand dollar.

“Every gift conveys an unspoken message... from the heart,” she began.

“It doesn’t have to be beautiful—just something that builds a connection.”

Junior squinted again, not quite understanding.

Nevena took out the broken shell and handed it to him, her touch careful.

“Next time you pick a gift, make sure it’s something that helps the other person remember you.”

There was a silence, gentle but deep. The waves whispered.

Junior leaned close to inspect the shell. After a while, he beamed.

“I get it now,” he said, voice brittle. “Mr. Hunt must have so many perfect gifts in his life… he’s probably lost count of who gave what.”

He turned to Nevena, eyes bright.

“But one imperfect gift in his collection—will leave a lasting memory of us. Right?”

Nevena blinked, caught off guard by the strange wisdom in his logic.

“Yes,” she nodded solemnly.

Junior stood and placed the shell carefully back into the bucket.

Then, without a word, his small hand reached out for hers, no warning, just warm, small fingers sliding into hers like they’d done it a thousand times.

She looked at him—really looked. His little face was smeared with sand, eyes wide with purpose.

“Shall we?” he asked. “We’ve got a homage to pay to whom it’s due.”

Nevena blinked. The gesture was strikingly personal. The tide inched forward, washing over their ankles.

She chuckled softly and straightened to her full height.

“I think so,” she replied.

They walked on—two silhouettes on a quiet mission, both a little lost, both a little found.

☆☆☆𝕬𝖓𝖙𝖔𝖓𝖎𝖔'𝖘 𝖇𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖔𝖒☆☆☆

Silence settled as the caller awaited Antonio's reply, but got none, only the drizzle of the shower answered.

Antonio stood there a beat longer, face directly facing the shower—hands on his hip

Then, with one fluid movement, he twisted the faucet off—the last drops pattered against the tiles like fading applause.

He pushed the door open with the back of his hand—stepped out with slow, unhurried confidence.

Droplets raced down the hard planes of his chest—slipping over the shadowed dip between his pecs, down the taut ridges of his stomach.

Sharp V-cut tapered to the corded tension of his thighs.

His thick cock hung low between his thighs. Circumcised.

Soft, and lengthy, relaxed but unmistakably there—formidable, just like what he uses it for. Sin.

He didn’t reach for the towel by the hanger. Just stood there, completely bare.

Chest rising and falling—a full adult unashamed of his nudity in front of another man.

“Handle the reception” he snarled, jaw locked, brows wildly furrowed like the caller's command bore no weight.

“Wasn't he specific ?” Grinch protested. “Las ballenas están hambrientas esta semana. Si no les damos lo que quieren, buscarán otra costa donde alimentar sus guerras.{The whales are hungry this week. If we don’t give them what they want, they’ll find another coast to feed their wars}.”

Antonio ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back. His fingers lingered at his jaw before he moved. Slowly.

Each step toward his closet, flexed the muscle in his back, thighs and calves

—the powerful curve of his shoulders narrowing to a taut waist and lean hips

Grinch caught the subtle weight of that gesture—rage, brutality and stepped aside.

Reaching his closet, he paused.

Another set of white towels lay at the marble counter.

He reached for the cigarette box beside it instead—not bothering to cover himself.

Still dripping wet. He lit the tobacco wrap—ember flared against his scowl. Smoke curled as he took a drag.

“Are you going to talk or just keep to yourself?” Grinch asked, matching Antonio’s gaze from the door.

“Why the heat?”

There was no answer, rather he swirled, menacing toward Grinch. His meaty length dangling with reckless abandon, in-between his thighs.

“Palooka{man}” Grinch throated as he got closer. "Talk to me."

“Go away from here” he snarled in response, and half-pulled the mirrored door, shutting Grinch out.

Grinch's eyes cut against the mirrored privacy door and he shoved it open.

“I warned you”. Antonio gritted, he swung at him, fist blurring.

Grinch blocked, braced, pushed. But he attacks again.

This time he grappled it, and the tussle escalated.

“Talk to me—why the aggression.What happened last night?” Grinch wheezed, his grip almost faltering on Antonio.

“Stop playing with emotions. Traitors.” Antonio’s voice came out as a snarl.

“Palooka. Let's tackle this calmly—we can sort this”

“There's nothing to sort. Let go of me—else I will make sure you don't get to witness the beauty of the next hour”. Antonio swore but Grinch persisted.

“I’d never betray you. I swear—this could be a misunderstanding”

“Shut up Bastard” agitated Antonio spat.

He grappled ferociously and struck Grinch unexpectedly at the lower abdomen.

The sudden gut-strike folded him.

Free, Antonio ramped blows without missing any strike, until Grinch crashed to the wall.

“Stop it already” Grinch rasped, more of a pleading tone, not wanting to retaliate the unprovoked attack.

“Not until every backstabber is out of my path”.

Blade's expression turned grimmer, as he delivered a fatal kick on Grinch's chest.

The room and everything swirled like smoke around Grinch, and he fell on his rare, spitting blood.

“After all we have been through ?” He brittled, choking on his blood. “You think—I'd backstab you”.

“Everyone is eventually showing their true colour” Antonio countered—slow, dangerous. “You won't be an exception”.

Grinch bit his lower lip, holding back his disappointment—his hand instinctively shrank down to his holster, and he pulled his gun.

He tossed the metal weapon at Antonio—staking all his years of loyalty like an armor.

“Medina family's law—Stool pigeons {snitch}, betrayals...they don't deserve forgiveness”.

“I was coming to that,” Antonio began.

Wearing his rage as collateral damage—he scooped up the gun with purpose, just like a man carved from the kind of life most never survive

“Bastards belong to one place—Hell.”

He levelled the gun squarely at Grinch. Steel silence. Grinch’s chest rose, he could smell his death.

“Tell the devil I said—‘Hi’,” he added with a lopsided grin.

The pistol cracked. The round nicked through Grinch's arm,

Glancing at the flesh, his fraying heart bleeds.

“Yo sabía que un día me iba a morir—but nunca se me cruzó por la mente que sería por ti—¡Cabeza de coco! That hits duro.{I know I'd die one day—but it never crossed my thought, that it would be from you—Brain box! That hits hard}”

Darkness closed in and he passed out.