Page 6 of Into Hell: Prelude (Holding Cell: Return to the Island)

T hat evening, not a single drop of soup remained in the enormous pots at The Base kitchen.

The rich, savory aroma of the tomato sauce that had filled the pans by dinnertime had vanished, leaving them spotless.

The vast plates and bowls that once held creamy mashed potatoes and crispy chicken nuggets were now bare.

Every morsel of the meal prepared for dinner had been devoured.

Such an occurrence at The Base was as rare as a blue moon, and that evening was one of those extraordinary times.

The Crazy Bunch—who typically enjoyed the leftover feast—found themselves hungry but satisfied, knowing that the children, guards, and other staff members had filled their bellies with the delicious fare.

These young men had homes and parents who lovingly prepared their favorite meals, always welcoming them with food on the table.

However, most of the children at The Base were never afforded such luck, not even before being abducted and subjected to all sorts of horrors by child traffickers and their depraved clients.

They hailed from backgrounds of neglect or abuse, with parents who likely hadn’t even noticed their absence.

The Crazy Bunch cherished their time working in the kitchen and dining hall, where they assisted with cooking and serving food.

They offered their services pro bono because, at the end of the day, the sparkle in the children's eyes and the chorus of grateful voices expressing thanks for the meal were the greatest rewards they could receive.

After shedding their aprons and tossing them into the hamper, the group of kitchen volunteers sank into the chairs in the dining hall, exhausted but content.

In the comfortable silence that enveloped them, Emery posed the all-important question: where would they dine that evening?

After a moment’s pause, Lorcan broke the silence by announcing that Ardan was preparing a hearty Scottish stew that night.

His words were met with infectious enthusiasm, for it was everyone’s favorite dish.

One by one, the young men rose from their seats, leaving behind the warm confines of the dining hall, and made their way towards the gates.

Instead of opting for one of the vans parked in The Base’s lot, they chose to walk the half-mile path that stretched between the sanctuary and Ardan’s house.

As they traversed the dusty road, the young men launched into animated discussions about the day's events.

The most captivating tale involved a frail boy who had been utterly terrified at the sight of the guards, particularly those from the formidable Steel Raiders MC.

His fear was so profound that even Lazarus, with his gentle, soothing voice, could not calm him down.

They speculated about how the boy had ended up there; none of the gate guards had witnessed his arrival, leaving a tantalizing mystery of how he had managed to enter unnoticed.

Each young man offered his own theory, sharing it eagerly with the group of brothers, cousins, and friends.

However, they soon abandoned their amateur detective work, assuming they would learn the truth from the boss himself.

Lorcan, with a mischievous grin, reached his father’s house and swung open the door.

“Do you need guests for dinner, Spitfire?” Lorcan’s singsong voice, reminiscent of his father's, caught the two men off guard, drawing wide smiles from them.

“C’mon in, take a seat, and let’s feed your hungry asses,” Alasdair replied with a warm, affectionate tone, welcoming the unexpected guests from the kitchen doorway.

“There’s a little army of you here.” His eyes swept over Lorcan and the group—his boyfriend Thorvald, Cian, Gavin, Jeroen, also known as Whitey, and his stepbrothers Lochlin and Emery.

The boys returned his gaze with playful grins, waving cheerfully at the redhead.

“Apologies for the last-minute drop-in. We were starving, and your home was the nearest sanctuary, so we figured we’d crash here and indulge in your delectable cooking.

This guy here claims I’m nothing but skin and bones and frets over my inadequate eating habits”—Jeroen gestured toward Gavin—“so I intend to prove him how utterly mistaken he is.”

“I don’t want you overeating either,” the boy in question murmured softly. “You’ll just end up making yourself sick, you weirdo.” Gavin playfully tapped the platinum blond boy on the head with a feathery touch.

“He loves me,” Whitey mouthed silently, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Thank you for taking care of me.” He turned to Gavin, who responded by rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Meds time, I need a glass of water,” Cian announced, making his way to the kitchen. “Pater, when did you come home? Why didn’t you tell us you were back?” He flung himself into his father’s arms, savoring the comforting scent that enveloped him like a warm embrace.

“And miss all the excitement from earlier? Not a chance.” Ardan winked, enveloping Cian’s slim frame in a warm hug and pressing a tender kiss on his forehead. “Is it just me, or do you look much healthier than you did a week ago when I left for Detroit?”

“He definitely looks much better. I told him that as well.” Whitey appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his face illuminated by a wide grin.

“Spending time with Don Joaquin has worked wonders for him,” the platinum-blond boy continued, prompting yet another eye roll from Gavin. “Um...hi, Uncle Ardan.”

“With this chatterbox around, our enemies don’t even need to bother planting spies inside The Base. All they would need to do is capture him, and he’d spill all the secrets in no time.” Lochlin shook his head in mock despair.

“No, he wouldn’t.” Gavin’s voice was deadly serious, void of any humor. “I think Whitey here would rather endure the agony of torture than betray us. He’s loyal like that. The greatest weirdo on the planet, yet also one of the most faithful people on the face of the Earth.”

“There’s an army of you to feed this evening, so I need some volunteers to babysit Paisley and Axel.

” Alasdair's voice, laced with a playful authority, sliced through the comfortable silence that threatened to settle over the kitchen after Gavin's fervent speech.

The air was thick with the aroma of spices and simmering sauces, mingling with the warmth of camaraderie.

“I’m offering as a tribute for babysitting”—Whitey flashed a mischievous grin—“and I’m taking my brave defender with me.” His finger swung confidently in Gavin’s direction, as though sealing a pact. “We make a good team in the wild.”

“Pater, Spitfire,” Lorcan chimed in, gesturing toward himself, Thorvald, and Cian. “The three of us will help you feed them, since they may become dangerous when hungry,” he quipped, causing Ardan to erupt into hearty laughter that echoed off the kitchen walls.

An hour later, Whitey rubbed his flat belly with a small moan of appreciation and sighed contentedly, “That was divine.” The kitchen was now filled with the scent of baked bread and roasted meats. “Spitfire, you are almost as good at this cooking thing as Uncle Lance.”

“Whoa, you must have been desperately hungry to say that.” Lochlin shot his stepbrother an incredulous look, his eyebrows arching in disbelief.

“Don’t get me wrong, Spitfire is a great cook, but to compare him with Uncle Lance, who is like a culinary god.

..” The blond shook his head, a teasing smirk playing on his lips.

“This father of yours is very curious, son.” Ardan turned to Cian, his gentle smile softening the sharpness of his features.

“What’s your first impression of Don Joaquin Montemayor-Fenelli?

I’d like to know what the rest of you think of him, too.

” His gaze swept over the group of young men, inviting their thoughts with a silent nod.

“Well, he’s a very educated, well-mannered guy; loves to spend time with children, especially the younger ones; and has a way of making everyone comfortable in his presence.

” Cian started, his voice thoughtful. “Joaquin always speaks with respect and admiration about his grandfather and uncle, and he wants to find a way to gain the support of both the traditionalist and reformist mafiosi.”

“He does indeed sound like a remarkable young man,” Ardan mused, his turquoise eyes shining with a blend of affection and pride as they lingered on Cian.

“Do any of you have something to add to what my son here said?” His gaze lingered expectantly over the group of boys, awaiting their responses, the room buzzing with unspoken thoughts.

“Actually, yes.” Lorcan gave his twin a reassuring smile, his eyes warm and confident, then turned towards his father and Alasdair.

“Every time Joaquin is in my brother's company, he watches Cian's every gesture and move with the attentiveness of a hawk, trying to decipher his intentions and needs. Joaquin is incredibly sweet, tender, and an excellent listener, which, in my opinion, makes him perfect boyfriend material.”

“Look, Pater, Spitfire, what Lorcan said...” Cian blushed furiously, his cheeks turning a deep shade of crimson as he lowered his gaze to the floor.

“I'm not interested in having a relationship with Joaquin.

.. or anyone else, for that matter. Being stuck with someone suffering from a severe heart condition would be terribly unfair for the other guy, and I don't want to put anyone through something like this.”

“Speaking of boyfriends, where is Lazarus? I didn't see much of him today, which is odd because the two of you are usually inseparable, like a stamp and letter,” Whitey interjected, trying to steer the conversation away from what was clearly becoming too painful for Cian.

“He stayed behind to calm a boy down. Poor thing started to hyperventilate at the sight of Digger. Lazarus tried to reassure the kid that the hulking guard was a marshmallow on the inside, but the boy couldn’t stop crying and shaking.

” Lochlin, catching his stepbrother's intention, responded without his usual eye roll or head shake, his voice steady and understanding.

Gavin's eyes widened in surprise, his brow lifting as he stared incredulously at the blond, curly-haired boy. “Whoa, that kid must have been really scared if even Lazarus couldn’t calm him down. Who knows what the poor thing went through before he was brought to The Base!”

From his seat, Fabian, who had been at Ardan’s when the ravenous Crazy Bunch had stormed the house demanding food, observed the group of young men in silence.

His sapphire blue eyes glinted with paternal affection, taking in the sight of the group just moments earlier, all of them devouring their meals with the fervor of those who feared there would be no tomorrow, nodding and moaning softly in appreciation of the feast laid before them.

Lochlin’s offhand praise of Lance as the clan’s finest cook sent a slow warmth spreading across Fabian’s face, softening the stern lines that usually framed his mouth.

The low murmur of conversation, the tinkling of cutlery against wooden bowls, and the rich scent of spiced stew drifting from the long table all seemed to pause as Fabian allowed himself that small, radiant smile.

He was fifty-nine when he married—old enough to need no one’s approval—yet Lochlin’s half-teasing tribute touched him more deeply than he cared to admit.

Turning back to the long oaken table, Fabian’s grin grew more radiant.

Flickering candles ignited hope in his heart as he studied each young man seated before him.

Their broad shoulders, the confident set of their chins, the way they passed bowls of steaming vegetables—every detail spoke of fathers who had taught them honor and resilience.

Gratitude swelled in him for those men who had let him share in guiding their sons from boisterous boys into responsible men.

They’d all been forced to grow up too quickly, he reflected, recalling the burdens each had borne.

Gavin, eyes shadowed by years of fearing his own grandfather’s wrath; Cian, whose body had betrayed him with a fragile heart too soon; Lorcan, who’d learned to stand alone in the echoing halls of an orphanage; and poor Jeroen…

The memory of that small face, clouded with fear, pressed heavily against his chest.

An almost imperceptible shake of his head brushed the glow of the candles as guilt washed over Fabian.

He had kept Jeroen hidden from Alexander’s predatory reach, yes—but in doing so, he’d been more jailer than uncle.

He saw still the hollow look in the child’s eyes when days passed with only a single hour spent outdoors, the world beyond those walls ticking by without him.

Since reuniting with Daniel, his birth father, and learning the bitter truths of his origins, the boy had shown gratitude in abundance.

Yet nothing erased the wind-whipped afternoons spent pressed to a barred window, the ache of a hug withheld for safety’s sake.

Childhood, he reminded himself, was meant for sunshine and laughter, for scraped knees and secret forts, not for watchful eyes and iron gates.

Fabian’s thoughts drifted to Clint, the gruff cowboy whose steady hand had taught them all the value of loyalty; to the Egyptian who had risked everything to shield Jeroen; to the rest of their makeshift family, bound by a shared rage at the world’s cruelty.

They remembered too well the helpless fury that followed on the heels of witnessing innocent suffering—just as Ardan had when he stormed those twisted chambers of trafficking, freeing children from horror.

No matter how ruthless their enemies, Fabian knew, the monsters they hunted would never be called men.

They deserved every fracture of bone, every searing blow, for the evil they had wrought.

And one day—he let his gaze drift across the chuckling faces around the table—these young men would step into their fathers’ boots at The Base.

When that day came, they would need allies whose steel was matched only by their compassion—and in Clint, the Egyptian, and their steadfast crew, they had exactly the allies they needed.