Hours passed, maybe an entire day, as Valon sat beside his mother, his arms wrapped around his knees as he stared out at nothing. He refused to look at the frozen, haunted look on her face. Despite the gunshots heard, in his neighborhood, it took the police a while to respond, if anyone had bothered to call. Valon knew, though he was fighting an internal war, that he would have to be gone by that time.

No matter that he knew the truth of the dead bodies in his home, he would be treated cruelly, and would probably end up in one of the homes that were so prevalent in this part of the country. That, he felt, would be worse than anything the police could do to him.

He didn’t have anywhere else he could go. There wasn’t anyone left in the Ahmeti family who had not moved away or been murdered, and Valon knew next to nothing about his mother’s family.

But there was one place that he hadn’t yet considered while he sat there, and the longer he did, blood soaking into his jeans, the more he knew it was his only option.

Climbing to his feet, stumbling a bit, Valon headed for the front door, but not before a sudden, undeniable urge struck him. He couldn’t do much for Galina, not with his limited strength, but he didn’t just want to leave without anything of hers. He knew, even with his limited knowledge, that memories faded. Though he could still recall good times with his mother if he tried hard enough, his father’s fury replaced most of them.

He needed something good to cling to so, even in his darkest hour, he could conjure an image of Galina.

Turning back to her bedroom, he went back to her vanity, his eyes sweeping over the surface, taking in everything resting on top. Sad to leave the rest behind, Valon knew he couldn’t take it all, though finally decided on just the combs. He wrapped them as best he could in an old piece of cloth and pocketed them.

Without looking back, he left the building with only the clothes on his back, knowing that he would never be able to return.

* * *

Barefoot, wearing filthy clothes, his stomach rumbling after going so long without food, Valon finally reached the address that he had seen once in Ahmeti’s book of contacts. He knew Ahmeti had burned many bridges after his release, but Valon had no choice but to go to these people for help, even if it meant he was nothing more than a glorified maid.

As he started toward the house, Valon tried his best to school the anxiety he knew was written all over his face. They were only men after all, and the worst thing they could do was turn him away…or kill him. He had contemplated that thought his entire journey there, and while he might not have been strong enough to take his own life, maybe they could put him out of his misery.

Maybe death wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.

He knocked, gritting his teeth as he heard how timid it had sounded. He hit the door harder. Seconds later, it swung open, a gun immediately appearing in the crack of the door. It was aimed directly at his face, the owner of it glaring down at him from an impressive height.

“Who are you?” the man asked, not caring that Valon was no more than a child. He kept his weapon in place.

Valon cleared his throat, building the courage to speak. His eyes darted past the man, taking in the interior of the house, though there was not much to see from what he could tell. A stuffed chair, a coffee table with two ashtrays filled with cigarette butts and ash sitting on top of it, and a shotgun off to the side, leaning against a wall.

Crumpling the delicate paper that had the address on it in his hand, Valon spoke for the first time, his voice hoarse. “Here to see Bastian.”

The man scoffed, looking Valon over as though he couldn’t see why. That made Valon wonder how many others had come here and encountered this man with the same inquiry.

Glancing around, as though he was checking whether Valon had been followed, he fisted the front of his shirt and yanked him into the house. He stumbled before righting himself, the wood flooring a relief to his aching feet.

The man—who Luka would call Gjarper for the snake tattoo that curled around his ear and over his bald head—slammed the door shut, turning each of the seven deadbolts. He gestured for Valon to walk ahead of him, his distrust of him quite clear.

He instructed him on which hallways to take and which doorways to go through. Despite the rather modest and crumbling exterior, the inside was much bigger. Just like the sparse living room where Gjarper had been sitting, the rest of the house didn’t fare much better. There was hardly any furniture—only an old card table with a couple of folding chairs in the kitchen, a couch that looked like it was being eaten slowly by insects, and an old bed with a stripped, moldy mattress. But after spending the better part of the day traveling through heavy woods and the streets of Berat, Valon would have happily slept there.

Gjarper stopped him when they reached another door, this one opening to a staircase that led down into a shadowed basement. Even from where he stood, Valon could just hear the voices carrying up from the bottom, and he couldn’t explain it, but another healthy dose of fear worked its way through him.

With a slight shove from his escort, Valon walked down the stairs, resisting the urge to reach out for the handrail on his way down. He continued, following the sound of voices without having to be told. The basement was sweltering. The air smelled strongly of must and mildew. Eventually, he came to a room where two more men were standing outside the door, rifles in hand, sleeping hounds at their feet.

At Valon’s appearance, the dogs’ ears perked up, their lips pulling back from their teeth as they went on alert, snarling as he got closer. They calmed, just enough, when Gjarper brushed by him, pushing the door open to what looked like an office.

Sitting behind a desk of dark oak, his pants around his ankles, was the man known as Bastian, a lieutenant in The Organization, and once a friend of Valon’s father. Valon had never met the man in person, only recognized his image from newspaper articles.

He had a very familiar face.

At only thirty-eight, Bastian had made a name for himself, claiming enough territory for himself through money and bloodshed that he had become a rather untouchable figure.

Even seated, Bastian was a rather heavy-set man with a large head and a prominent brow. His hands were large and meaty, his fingers currently gripping the strands of a woman’s dull brown hair, her face hidden in his lap.

At their entrance, his gaze shot over to them, his eyes narrowing on Valon for several moments before grunting out a command to the girl on her knees, and she was just that. A girl. Barely as old as Valon.

She pulled away from him, wiping her mouth with the back of her forearm, sparing Valon a single glance as she hurried out of the room. Bastian tucked himself back into his pants, not ashamed at all that Valon had just witnessed him with that girl.

“Ahmeti’s boy, no?”

Not knowing whether that was a question or a statement, Valon remained silent.

His eyes narrowing on him, Bastian asked, “Why are you here?”

How could he explain that he’d watched his father murder his mother then take his own life? And furthermore, would he even care? It wasn’t as if he and Ahmeti were on the best of terms, and now that he was there, Valon was beginning to regret his decision, but he doubted he would just be able to walk out again.

Bastian laughed. “Do you speak?”

“I have lost my mother,” Valon said softly though he’d intended to keep his voice firm.

“And you thought what? That you could come to me for help? That I offer charity?”

Valon was realizing very quickly that it was not going to be as easy as he expected. “I can clean—”

“Clean? I have maids for that. Cooking? Plenty of women. What can you offer me that I don’t already have?”

The silence stretched between them as Valon tried to think of a response, anything that would help him. He drew a blank, knowing he didn’t have anything nor was he of any value.

Bastian spared him. “The answer you’re looking for is whatever I want…”

Even with his limited knowledge, Valon knew that the possibilities that that statement entailed were endless, but even as dread filled his heart, he had no choice but to nod.

A part of him knew he’d just signed his life away.

Another part of him hoped that it would be worth it.

* * *

Some time had passed since Bastian had sent Valon away, having Gjarper take him to a place he referred to as “the kennels.” Valon didn’t know what to think of this place, at least until he was walked outside and through the heavily wooded area behind the house to a rather mundane looking barn. The closer they came, the more the sound of barking became clearer.

Valon, almost belatedly, realized that the name was more than appropriate for the place he was going.

The kennels were located in a rust-colored barn, the peeling paint and vine-covered exterior, giving it a rather decrepit appearance. Inside, located on either side, were rows of cages, and toward the back was a large fenced-in space, a space currently filled with at least a dozen dogs, all fighting for scraps of meat. Most of them were fairly large, each with teeth nearly the size of Valon’s fingers.

His hands trembled as his gaze focused on them, and prayed that the “whatever” Bastian wanted wasn’t dog food. However, before Valon could entertain that thought further, Gjarper went to a cage on the right-hand side of the biggest cage. He pulled out a key ring, rifling through the keys until he found the one he sought and stuck it into the padlock hanging on the outside of it.

Once he had it unlocked and unhooked, he yanked the gate open, turning to face Valon as he jerked his head in the direction of the cage, letting him know he was meant to go in.

“No arguing, kid. Get in.”

With no other choice, Valon did what he was told. There wasn’t much room for him to stand, so he had to sit on the dirt, his back against the cold metal as Gjarper slammed the gate closed, locking it back. Without looking back, he closed the barn doors behind him.

Valon didn’t doubt that those were locked now as well.

He was left shrouded in darkness. The dogs’ growls were the only noise being made besides their paws as they drew closer to him. He could practically smell the aggression on them, and with the sweat beading on his brow and the erratic rhythm of his heart, he knew they smelled the fear on him.

For hours, he was left alone there, listening to the dogs, nearly jumping out of his skin whenever they lunged at the fencing at his side that kept them separated from him. He couldn’t see them well in the darkness—even when he tried to make them out, there was nothing but shadows—so he continued to stare forward, trying to distance himself from where he was.

It was easier when there was the growling and snapping of teeth, but once they quieted—perhaps due to Valon’s calming heartbeat—the silence was worse.

Because with that, he could better hear the voices in his head, see the memory of his mother that was already plaguing him. He squeezed his eyes shut, as though that would be able to better help him. He could still see her face in his mind’s eye, the shock, the fear, the acceptance that she knew she was about to die.

And yet, despite how her death played again and again in his head, tears didn’t form. He wanted to cry—not because he was weak, but because he knew he would feel better—yet they never came.

Maybe, he thought as he curled into a ball, shivering from the cold night air, just maybe he would never feel good again.

* * *

When he was sure he had lost his toes to the chill, someone returned, unlocking his cage to throw in a scratchy, wool blanket, and then locked him back up again. Not until the sunlight beamed through the gaps in the wooden walls did someone return. Whether they figured he was the same as them, the dogs had long since grown quiet, just eyeing him peculiarly, like maybe he meant to steal their food.

Feeding time for them had come again.

Not only for them, but a plate was also given to Valon. He didn’t complain once it was tossed in and some of it spilled out onto the ground; he was too hungry to care.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was eating, only that the spicy meat filled his belly, along with the rather substantial helping of rice and bread. He could hear the dogs to his right, growling, wanting the food he’d been given as well as their own, but he ignored them, eating every last bit of the food he’d been given before licking his fingers clean.

Wrapping the blanket tighter around himself, Valon waited, again, for someone to return. He had never given much thought as to whether he valued human company before. There was a time when he actually thought himself a loner of sorts, happy to be by himself. But, there was also his mother, whom he loved to be around, and even his friend, Fatos, that he wondered if he would ever see again. He didn’t realize how lonely he was until he was, in fact, alone.

For the next two days, he struggled with that thought. Sure, someone brought him food, barked at him as if he was one of the dogs if he took too long to respond to their inquiries. When they realized that there had been no place for him to relieve himself—and he hadn’t wanted to do it in a corner of his new living space—and that he’d soiled himself, they beat him with one of the brooms they kept handy, never getting too close to him since the odor was so bad.

It was only then that Gjarper returned, commanding them to leave him be. “Bastian needs him alive,” he said as Valon lay crumpled on the dirt floor, his blood now mixing with the dirt. “Come, kid. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Despite his words, Gjarper didn’t lead Valon into the house. He led him around to the side where there was a hose and a large metal pan for Valon to stand in.

“Remove your clothes.”

Valon’s face colored as he looked from the pan to Gjarper, shame making him look away just as quickly. It wasn’t as though he had been particularly kind to Valon since he’d arrived—as he had left him in the kennels like an animal—but he didn’t want to make the man think of him as less than a human at the very least.

“You want fresh clothes? Move it.”

Valon thought he detected a note of compassion in the man’s voice, but he dismissed that as wishful thinking on his part. As Valon began the slow process of removing his clothes, tossing the soiled and dirty garments into a pile a few feet away, he covered himself as best he could, climbing into the pan.

With his back turned to him during this, Gjarper twisted the knob to the hose, water spraying out. His expression never changing, he sprayed Valon with the hose, making him turn in circles as he did so. Then he tossed Valon a bar of soap and ordered him to bathe.

Though it didn’t smell nearly as good as the soaps his mother had used, Valon was glad for it, cleaning himself as best as he could in the limited space and with his audience of one. Once he rinsed off again, a towel was thrown at him, the rough material harsh on his skin.

Finished with that as well, he was given a shirt, about a size or two too big for his lanky frame, and a pair of pants that he rolled a few times at the ankles.

“Dump the water.”

Valon did as he was told, walking back to Gjarper and waiting for his next order. This time, he was handed a gold-colored lighter, one that was engraved with a name. He silently pondered over that, knowing that despite any question he thought to ask, they would go unanswered.

“Burn the clothes.” Seeing his hesitation, though not knowing the true reason for it, Gjarper said, “Do you wish to put them back on? Get this done and come to the back door. I’ll be waiting.”

When he disappeared out of sight, Valon continued to stare at him, waiting for him to come back. When he didn’t, he dropped to his knees, rifling through the pockets until he uncovered the very thing he’d almost forgotten about.

Valon uncovered the combs slowly, afraid that they might have been broken, but fortunately, they were still intact. Wrapping them back up, he stuffed them in his pocket, picking up his old clothes with one hand and walking several feet into the dense woods.

It was a bit unnecessary, having to burn the clothes instead of just throwing them away, but as he watched them go up in smoke and saw the last bit of connection to his life back with his mother, a part of him understood the need for it.