Page 1 of Fractured Loyalties

Prologue – Elias Age 12 - A Lesson in Control

The smell of gun oil clings to the carpet. It lives here, in the fibers, in the air, buried beneath the sour musk of spilled liquor and the stale rot of long-decayed ambition. It smells like what my father calls power. I sit cross-legged at the back of the hallway closet, knees pressed to my chest, spine flush against the cheap paneling. It’s pitch black inside, save for a thin sliver of orange light bleeding through the warped doorframe.

From this angle, I can see a small cutout of the living room—the corner of the coffee table, the leg of the recliner, and part of the wall-mounted kitchen clock. I can’t see my father, but I hear him pacing. Each footfall is heavy, clipped. The carpet muffles the worst of it, but I know the rhythm of his unrest.

He hasn’t drunk anything tonight. That makes it worse.

Outside, rain taps against the windows like impatient fingers. The neighborhood—Ashgrove Flats—is quiet, unusually so. That kind of hush only settles here when something mean is about to happen.

Then the knock comes. Three beats. Unhurried. Too soft for cops. Too polite for neighbors. Too sure of itself.

"Open the door."

The voice carries like a wire pulled taut. It doesn’t raise itself. It doesn’t have to.

I wedge deeper into the corner of the closet. I’m small for twelve, but I’ve learned how to vanish into walls. I learned how to slow my breathing until it doesn’t make a sound. My father doesn’t know I’ve been watching him these last few months—memorizing patterns, the drawer he always locks, the people he pays not to be paid back.

The door opens with a slow creak. Leather soles on linoleum.

"I paid you," my father says. His voice is dry, tight. He’s stopped pacing now—I can just make out the toe of his boot past the frame. He must be by the window.

"Not enough," the man replies. "And not on time."

More footsteps enter. Three in total. I count the spacing, the stagger of sound. Two peel off toward the back—checking doors, corners. The third stays close. Black slacks. Polished boots. A long overcoat that drips quietly onto the carpet.

My father’s voice wavers. "I can get it. Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow’s not on the calendar anymore."

The first hit lands with the dull finality of a hammer. A grunt. Something knocks over. I hear my father fall—his breath knocked from him, a gasp swallowed too fast.

"Please," he mutters. I’ve never heard him say that word before.

"You know what the worst part is, Vince? You had time. You had so much time. But you used it like a coward."

Silence, then the scrape of fabric. Metal clicks.

My father begins to cry.

"He doesn’t know," he says, voice cracking. "My son. He’s just a kid. Doesn’t know anything."

"He will."

I shut my eyes. Clamp my hands over my ears. Count to four. Then eight. Then sixteen.

The shot cracks the air in half.

The walls don’t muffle it.

They find me hours later.

The neighbors say they heard something. Voices. A bang. No one called. Not until dawn, when someone realized the front door was still open.

The cops arrive like they’re checking off a chore. Two uniforms. Tired faces. I hear one mutter something about "another deadbeat with enemies."

They find the body first. Then they find me.

Still in the closet. Knees to my chest. Fingers cold.