"What do you mean by what are we going to do?" Sam's voice crackled through the phone, sharp with surprise.
Pete stayed silent. Only the faint hum of city traffic filled the pause.
"Pete?" Sam pressed. "Are you there?"
"…Yeah," Pete said at last, the word tight in his throat.
"You know what—forget this over the phone." Sam's tone shifted, firm now. "This isn't something we can just talk about like we're ordering pizza. I'm coming over."
"Sam—"
"Expect me in an hour," Sam cut in. The line went dead.
---
Pete's bedroom smelled faintly of machine oil from an old drone project, the curtains drawn against the night. Two voices rose and fell inside, tense but careful, as though the walls themselves might betray them.
"There's nothing we can do about this," Sam said, keeping his voice low. "Better still, we pretend we heard nothing."
Pete's eyes flashed. "How can you say that? We should just let kids go missing?"
Sam held his ground. "I'm saying we stay alive."
The argument had started the moment Sam arrived and hadn't slowed since.
"Imagine if it were you," Pete shot back. "Imagine being in danger of being kidnapped, knowing there's a chance—just a small chance—that someone could save you but didn't because he was too scared. How would you feel?" His voice climbed. "Wait—forget that—you might not even be here to answer!"
Sam didn't flinch. "What are you even saying? You know this is dangerous. Me going to the fight club is different. At least there I'm not afraid of dying."
"This is the real world, Pete. Not some movie where the heroes always survive. We don't even know if we're the main characters or just the extras who die halfway through."
Pete paced the narrow room, jaw tight. "But we can't just sit here and do nothing. Maybe we can go to the police—"
"Don't," Sam barked, cutting him off. "Don't even mention the force. You and I both know half of them work with the gangs. And even if they don't, no officer's going to risk taking on a mafia contract. They'll look the other way."
He raked a hand through his hair, mind racing. "Who even are those guys anyway? The ones demanding the kidnappings?"
"They're Mafia," Pete answered.
"I heard you the first time. But how sure are you?"
Pete's voice steadied, almost scholarly. "That green-snake tattoo? It's the mark of the Sin of Greed. Only the Greed branch of the Mafia wears it."
Sam frowned. "Difference between a gang and the Mafia? At the end of the day they're all thugs, just the Mafia dresses better."
He meant it half as a joke, but the tension in the room swallowed any humor.
"Not exactly," Pete said. "Yes, both are criminals, but gangs like the Tina crew run mostly on their own, city to city. Loose networks at best."
"And the Mafia?"
"Different breed," Pete replied, sinking onto the edge of his bed. "They're a tightly woven organism, spread across the world like a parasite. One order in one city echoes everywhere."
Sam tilted his head, genuinely curious despite himself. "How do you even know all this?"
"Most of it isn't hidden," Pete said with a faint shrug. "You'd know too if you didn't live under a rock."
Sam shot him a look, but the tension in his shoulders didn't ease. "I'm serious. I still say we do nothing. What can we even do?"
Pete opened his mouth, then paused, thoughts colliding. "Come to think of it… weren't there already reports of missing kids across the country?"
Sam's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Now that you mention it, there was that case a few weeks back. Posters are still up near the train lines."
"Do you think it's connected?"
"Maybe." The word came out grim.
Silence settled like a heavy blanket. The hum of the city beyond the walls felt suddenly distant.
Knock. Knock.
The doorknob turned, and the door creaked open.
A middle-aged woman stepped in—long brown hair tied into a neat ponytail, a flowing dress the same soft brown as her eyes. Mrs. Myers.
"Good evening, Mrs. Myers," Sam said quickly, sitting straighter.
"Good evening, love." Her voice carried the easy warmth of someone used to looking after others. "You know you don't have to be so formal every time you see me."
Sam offered a small, awkward smile. He could never bring himself to call her by her first name—too personal—or "auntie," which, in his mind, might make her feel old. Women didn't like that… at least that's what he believed.
Mrs. Myers turned to her son with a teasing grin. "I came to check if you boys need anything. I know my son forgets how to be a host."
"Moooom," Pete groaned, face reddening.
"No ma'am, I'm fine," Sam said, returning her smile. The air in the room eased, if only for a moment.
She lingered, eyes soft with motherly affection. Sam knew she'd always treated him like family, ever since she learned about his own parents. She had once offered him a room in her home, an offer he had gently refused, but the invitation—and the quiet kindness behind it—never wavered.
"Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me," she said, giving them both a reassuring nod.
The door closed with a gentle thud, and the quiet rushed back in.
Pete stared at the floor. Sam stared at the ceiling.
They couldn't tell her. Not because they didn't trust her, but because once the secret escaped, it could spread—and the wrong ears might hear.
Sam exhaled slowly, the weight pressing down again. "We can't risk our lives for people we don't even know," he said, voice low but steady. "If it were someone we cared about, maybe. But this…"
He sat forward, elbows on his knees. "We can't act on impulse. I may not have anyone left, but you do. You have your mom. Do you really want to put her in danger?"
Pete clenched his fists, then loosened them. He didn't want to admit it, but Sam was right. Charging in could cost them everything.
Sam held out his hand, pinky finger extended. "Promise me you won't do anything reckless."
Pete looked at the hand for a long moment. Finally he sighed, the fight draining out of him, and linked his own pinky with Sam's.
"I promise," he said quietly.
Two friends, one heavy secret, and a vow sealed in silence.
******