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The Valenti Crime Family

Martin_Busato

By Martin_Busato,
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Martinela Experienced

Martinela

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11 hours ago, manslaughter said:

 

Isnt Bobby Kessler your alt 😂

 

good shit Valenti, keep it up

I wouldn’t make Vinny Sharks my alt that’s for sure.

 

4 hours ago, manslaughter said:

 

Relax child, I only stalk your guys thread for the immaculate rp

 

I'll reiterate @Martinela keep holding the fort down buddy, i'm enjoying the rp on both of your characters

I’d thank you if this was you actually complimenting me and not trying to shit on Valenti thread. You really need to check yourself, I don’t remember anyone commenting on your faction back then so please stop commenting other people cause you wouldn’t know actual good RP if it hit you right in the face. 

 

After all, you’re the guy whose faction got closed and it’s members banned since it was such a huge problem to just obey simple rules and not DM everyone lol.

Edited by Martinela
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Michael_Dippolito Proficient

Michael_Dippolito

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Posted (edited)

CRUISE - BY @bill dippolito
 

Spoiler

CRUISE


When I want you, in my arms. When I want you, and all your charms. Whenever I want you, all I have to do is...

Bill never intended on sleeping long. He'd set an alarm just in case he did pass out. His dad was expecting to meet him at 4:15AM at a spot about 15 minutes away. Bill didn't want to take the chance of being late. He had set the radio alarm clock to 3:20AM. He was already dressed and ready to go. The song that woke him on the radio was All I Have To Do Is Dream by the Everly Brothers.

"No guns," his dad had said. They were going to an important meeting where they had to show no hostilities. Bill didn't care. He didn't usually carry a gun anyway.

Bill did a quick check over the living room before leaving. All he carried was his driver's license, some money and the key to the car. All he needed.


The drive was quiet. Bill kept the radio off. The streets were almost empty and the sky was pretending to be night, still. The street lights pretended it was night, too. A dark bluish haze filled the sky as dawn was striking, but the yellow and white orbs still hung dotted along the sides of the street. If that hour of the day had a name, it would be the "walk of shame" hour. When all you wanted was to get home to your own bed.

Bill's desire to sleep wasn't too far off. He was normally prepped and astute for these types of morning situations, but he'd been kept awake by petty engagements the day before, which made him lose a few critical hours of sleep. His girlfriend Genevieve wanted to take a cruise. Then, lo and behold, one of those old infomercial channels was advertising all sorts of cruises all throughout the Caribbean. Bill didn't even want to go on a cruise that bad, and he honestly didn't really care that Genevieve wanted to either. But he had fallen into some sort of a trance while watching the cruise ships. As if subconsciously he thought they'd alleviate today and make it not have to happen.

The likelihood that this meeting today would go south were about 80,000 to 1. But every time you got in a car with a couple of connected guys was reason enough to wonder. The truth was, most of "the life" so far had been very docile. Bill had seen more action in his life hunting in the woods, stalking animals, than he ever did in Lorenzo Valenti's crew. Alfred Hitchcock used to say, what is drama, but life with the dull bits cut out? That is something that resonated with Bill. So far, the Mafia, the life, the mob, whatever it wanted to be called, was nothing more than dull bits. The real mob was only in the movies.

Bill pulled up and parallel parked alongside the construction lot and kept the engine running. He'd fueled up last night. He'd had the tires checked. He'd even taken it to a mechanic and had the spark plugs checked. This is how boring mob life was. He had time do that kind of shit. All while waiting for one boring meeting where the only probable result, was them scheduling a new meeting with someone else who should hear about what they're already talking about. Bill was just the driver, and always kept his mouth shut.

Two guys came out of the apartment building behind Bill. He noticed them in his rear view immediately. In fact, he'd already been staring at the building when they did. It was Alan Camuso and Larry O'Sullivan. The guys his dad had been working on a deal with for weeks. As his dad said, they'd run into some problems and needed to meet with the Brindisi brothers about it. Paul Brindisi and Joseph Brindisi were trusted friends of Bill's father. The type that are so trusted, you almost forget they exist. That is how you know you trust someone. When you don't think about them. This Alan guy was supposed to be connected to Bill's dad through the Brindisis. Larry O'Sullivan was just run-of-the-mill muscle.

Alan and Larry got into the car. Alan got in the back, and Larry sat up front next to Bill. Neither of them said anything. They weren't a talkative bunch, and knew Bill wasn't. They'd met him enough times to know.

Everyone was just staring off in thought, waiting for Bill's father.

Larry pulled out a cigarette pack and pointed at it, looking for approval from Bill. Bill just nodded.

"So where's Richie?" Larry asked, after lighting the smoke.

"He'll be here," answered Alan, from the back seat. Alan's voice was very unique. Quick paced but distinguished. Hollywood grade. It was a mix between Steve Buscemi and Jeremy Irons, if Jeremy Irons didn't have a British accent. Plus a little Scrooge McDuck in there somewhere.

Richard, Bill's dad, finally showed up. Richard got in the back seat with Alan. The three of them all shook hands and then Richard tapped Bill's shoulder.

"Let's go, Billy. Just get us out of here and then Al will tell you where to go," Richard said, leaning back into his seat.

Bill didn't hesitate, and the four of them were off.

Alan had given crystal clear directions. Bill knew the place he was talking about. A warehouse owned by Paul Brindisi. That was a good sign. In fact, Alan didn't even mention that it was a Brindisi warehouse. He just said the area and address. If for some reason Alan wanted to put them at ease he might have said it was the Brindisi's place. But clearly he didn't need or want to put them at ease. Then again, Bill was just overthinking. Being too careful.

"So what did Paul say about the 30 percent?" Richard asked.

"Nothing. Well, he said we gotta talk about it. I mean we gotta hash it out between us. 15 and 15, right?" Alan replied.

"Right," answered Richard.

"Don't forget the finder's fee," Larry mentioned in a comical way, raising a finger to indicate his point.

Richard and Alan snickered, looking at each other.

"Yeah, there'll be a finder's fee all right. Whoever finds your fucking body's gonna get it," chuckled Alan. Larry rolled his eyes and humored Alan with a hissing laugh.

At this point, the whole car was basically at ease. Bill was glad to see his dad and Alan getting along. Sometimes it can be rough when you partner up with guys on certain jobs. Billknew this one was particularly lucrative. Usually lucrative deals come with added... not necessarily danger, but problems.

"So I heard you're going on a cruise," Alan said, staring at Billin the rear view mirror.

Bill took a second to figure out how Alan Camuso of all people would know that. Then he realized his dad must have told him.

"Well. Looking at it," Bill shrugged.

"Yeah, for you and your girl, huh?" Alan asked.

"Yea-..." Bill started.

"You know, there's a lot of friends of mine down in Mexico. Got guys Paul knows too. They protect properties for a couple of wise, smart guys out in Canada. Those Rinduso brothers or whatever the fuck their names are," laughed Alan, interrupting, "but you know, I could talk to a friend or two. Let them know you're looking for a nice cruise. They know captains personally down there."

Bill nodded. It felt like an empty offer, but he had to show respect to the gesture all the same.

"Thanks," Bill said.

"Don't mention it, Billy. Hey, pull over here. I got to take a fucking leak," Alan said.

They were surrounded by two open, chain-link fenced fields and approaching the industrial sector of town. The roads were still quiet. Especially in this neighborhood. Bill pulled over and had the brief thought pass through his head that these guys should have taken pisses a long time ago.

Crack!

A bright flash lit up the back seat. Alan had just shot Bill's father. Bill noticed Larry drawing his own gun and Bill reacted quickly. Bill bashed Larry's armed hand into the dash where the radio sat, which had been such a quick action that Larry dropped the gun onto the center console.

Crack! Crack!

Alan's gun hissed after being fired two more times at Richard.

By this time, Bill snatched the gun, pulled it up and fired three rounds. 

Thud! Thud! Smash!

The first shot went through Larry's torso. The second went right into his face. The third missed because his head was already cranked back and spidered the glass behind him.

Alan fired a shot towards Bill at the same time Bill fired towards Alan.

Crack! Thud!

Bill wasn't hit. He pulled the trigger again, looking away.

Thud!

When Bill looked, Alan's door was open and he must have bailed out. Bill grabbed the rear view mirror and stared into it. His breathing was heavy. He couldn't see Alan in the mirror. Bill ducked his head a bit, fearing he'd be shot through Alan's window. Then he looked to his left and cracked open his door gently. He stuck out the gun first while sneaking onto the side of the road, crouched.

He heard Alan's footsteps running, but he couldn't see him. He must have snuck down one of the nearby alleyways.

Bill did his best to assess the situation. He looked back in the car, and put another round into Larry O'Sullivan for good measure. Then he reached past Larry and opened the passenger door. He pushed Larry out of the car, who slumped onto the street like a rag doll. A heavy rag doll.

Bill looked back at his father, who was bleeding profusely and not conscious.

The car fled down the street. Bill floored it. Alan's back door slammed itself shut. Bill blinked as a bead of sweat came down and burned his eyeball. All he could smell was blood and gunpowder.

He rolled down his window, trying to keep his eyes on the road. He whipped the pistol out of the car as they passed one of the many warehouses. The gun pattered along the sidewalk and happened to land in some rather tall grass growing beside an iron gate. Not the best place to dispose of a gun. Not a place at all. But Bill was just trying to get rid of it.

Bill didn't look back. He didn't care.

When he did arrive at the hospital, they said his father was still alive. Unfortunately, Richard would die two days later from his injuries.


WARD

 

 

Michael didn’t intend on staying long. His mother had said ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and he believed her. Hospitals weren’t places you stayed in. They were places you passed through, whether you wanted to or not. He’d been dropped off with a paperback he wasn’t reading and instructions to sit still and be polite. He did both.

 

The hallway lights were still on even though it was late. They hummed softly, the way lights only do when there’s nothing else making noise. The floor shined like it had been recently waxed, and Michael made a mental note to walk slower so his sneakers wouldn’t squeak. He hated the sound. It felt like announcing himself when he didn’t want to be noticed.

 

He knew the room number already. He’d memorized it after hearing it once. He didn’t know why that felt important, but it did. He stood outside the door longer than necessary, staring at the name on the plastic placard like it might tell him something useful. It didn’t.

 

When he finally went in, the first thing he noticed was the sound. Not talking. Not crying. Just machines. Steady. Confident. Doing something they’d done a thousand times before.

 

His father was already awake. Or at least his eyes were open. Michael couldn’t tell the difference yet.

 

His dad looked smaller than usual. Not weak. Just… condensed. Like someone had taken the version of him Michael knew and folded it in on itself. The blanket covered most of him, and the bed rails felt unnecessary, like they were there out of habit more than need.

 

Michael stayed by the door at first. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to sit. Nobody had told him what the rules were. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked slightly on his heels, waiting for something to happen.

 

Nothing did.

 

He pulled the chair over anyway. It made a soft scraping sound that felt too loud in the room. He sat down and kept his back straight, the way his father always told him to. He didn’t look directly at his face right away. That felt rude, somehow.

 

“Hey, Dad,” Michael said.

 

His father didn’t answer. The machine answered instead, beeping steadily, like it was marking time for him.

 

Michael nodded to himself. That was fine. His dad wasn’t much of a talker anyway.

 

He looked around the room. The TV was off. The window showed nothing but darkness and a few reflected lights from inside. Someone had put a cup of water on the tray table, but it hadn’t been touched.

 

“They let me stay up late tonight,” Michael said after a while. “Because of this.”

 

He waited. Nothing.

 

“I got picked for shortstop,” he added. “Coach said I got good hands.”

 

The machine kept doing its job.

 

Michael shifted in his seat. His feet didn’t touch the floor, so he crossed his ankles and tried to sit still. He noticed his father’s hands resting on the blanket. They looked the same as always. Big. Familiar. That helped.

 

He reached out and touched one, just briefly. It was warm. That surprised him more than it should have.

 

“They said you gotta rest,” Michael said. “So I won’t stay long.”

 

That part felt important. Like a promise.

 

A nurse passed by the doorway and glanced in, then kept walking. Michael watched the shadow move across the floor and disappear.

 

“I don’t like this place,” he said quietly. “It’s too clean.”

 

He didn’t know why he said that. It just came out.

 

He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling, the same way his father was. The tiles were arranged in neat squares. Michael counted them until he lost track.

 

After a while, he stood up. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but it felt like enough. He straightened his shirt and rubbed his hands together, then leaned in closer.

 

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “So you gotta wake up.”

 

He waited a second longer than necessary, just in case.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Michael nodded once, like the conversation had ended properly, and turned toward the door. He paused with his hand on the handle and looked back one last time.

 

His father hadn’t moved. The machine hadn’t changed.

 

That was okay. Things didn’t always change right away.

 

Michael stepped back into the hallway and let the door close behind him. The lights kept humming. The floor still shined. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed softly.

 

He walked toward the exit with his book tucked under his arm, already thinking about how he’d tell his dad everything again tomorrow, the same way, in case this time it worked.

 

WARD (P2) 

 

The next day didn’t feel like a next day. It felt like the same one, stretched thin and laid back over itself. The sky outside the hospital was brighter, but the light didn’t seem to reach inside. The hallway lights were still on. They always were.

 

Michael came back with his mother this time. She held his hand tighter than usual, like she was afraid he might wander off even though he never did. She smelled like perfume she only wore for important things. Funerals. Weddings. Hospital visits that weren’t supposed to turn into something else.

 

William was already there.

 

He stood when they arrived, straight-backed, jacket still on even though the room was warm. He nodded once at Michael, then leaned in to kiss their mother on the cheek. Nobody said much. Words felt unnecessary now. Everything that needed saying had already been said the day before, even if nobody realized it yet.

 

Richard looked the same.

 

That was the strange part. Michael expected something to be different. Worse, maybe. Or better. But his father was still there in the same way. Eyes half-open. Chest rising shallowly. The machine still doing the talking for him.

 

Michael took the same chair as before. He noticed it immediately. Same scrape against the floor. Same spot beside the bed. It felt important to sit where he’d sat last time, like moving would change something.

 

His mother sat on the other side and took Richard’s hand with both of hers. She didn’t cry. Not yet. She just watched his face, studying it like she was trying to memorize it without knowing why.

 

William stood at the foot of the bed for a while, arms crossed loosely, eyes fixed on the monitor. He looked calm. Michael knew better. William always looked calm when things were already decided.

 

A nurse came in and checked a few things. Adjusted a dial. Smiled softly at Michael and his mother. The smile didn’t stick around long. It never did.

 

When the nurse left, the room settled again.

 

Michael swung his legs slightly, then stopped. He folded his hands in his lap and waited. That seemed to be the theme of the place. Waiting for machines. Waiting for signs. Waiting for someone else to tell you what was happening even when you already knew.

 

His mother leaned closer to Richard.

 

“I’m here,” she said quietly. “We’re all here.”

 

Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn’t let it break.

 

Michael leaned forward too. He didn’t know why. It just felt like something you did.

 

“Hey, Dad,” he said again.

 

This time felt different. Not heavier. Just final in a way he didn’t have a word for yet.

 

The machine kept beeping. Slower now. Michael noticed it without understanding what it meant.

 

William stepped closer. He rested a hand lightly on the bed rail. He didn’t look at Michael or their mother. He watched Richard instead, like he was waiting for instructions that weren’t coming.

 

The beeping slowed again.

 

Michael felt it before he saw it. The room tightening. The air changing. His mother squeezed Richard’s hand harder, her thumb moving gently over his knuckles.

 

Richard’s chest rose once more. Then again. The second time took longer.

 

Michael held his breath without realizing it.

 

The machine hesitated. Just for a second.

 

Then it made a different sound.

 

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just wrong.

 

A nurse came in quickly this time. Then another. They spoke in low voices. Calm voices. Professional voices. Hands moved. Dials turned. Someone said his father’s name like it might still matter.

 

Michael watched Richard’s face the whole time.

 

It didn’t change.

 

At some point, the nurse stopped moving. She looked at the clock on the wall and said a time. Michael didn’t remember it later. Numbers didn’t stick when they didn’t mean anything yet.

 

The machine was quiet now.

 

His mother leaned down and pressed her forehead gently against Richard’s hand. That was when she cried. Not loudly. Just enough to make it real.

 

William closed his eyes once. Just once. Then he opened them again.

 

Michael stayed seated.

 

He waited for something to happen. For his father to move. To cough. To open his eyes wider and look at them like this was all a mistake.

 

Nothing did.

 

Eventually, a nurse put a hand on Michael’s shoulder and told him they were sorry. He nodded, because nodding seemed like the right thing to do. He stood when his mother stood. He followed when William turned toward the door.

 

Before they left, Michael looked back one last time.

 

Richard looked peaceful now. Smaller still. Like he’d finally stopped holding himself together.

 

Michael didn’t cry in the hallway. He didn’t cry in the elevator. He didn’t cry in the car.

 

He held his book tight against his chest and stared out the window as the hospital got smaller behind them.

 

Somewhere deep down, in a place he wouldn’t understand for years, something settled into him quietly.

 

Things didn’t always change right away.

 

Sometimes they just stopped.

 

WARD (P3)

 

Two years later, Michael learned how to walk without making noise.

 

It wasn’t something anyone taught him. It just happened. His footsteps softened on their own. He learned where floors creaked and where they didn’t. He learned how to stand still long enough that people forgot he was there. Grief did that. It made you smaller. Quieter. Easier to miss.

 

The house felt different now. Not emptier. Just unfinished. Like a room where someone stopped painting halfway through and never came back. His mother kept things clean. Too clean. She filled the silence with routine. Dishes. Laundry. Television left on for company. William came by when he could, but William was always somewhere else even when he was there.

 

Michael spent a lot of time outside.

 

He walked. A lot. Not aimlessly. Just… forward. He liked the feeling of motion without destination. It made the days easier to stack together.

 

He knew the name by heart.

 

Alan Camuso.

 

It lived in his head the same way his father’s voice used to. Not loud. Not constant. Just present. A shape you didn’t see until you turned the light off.

 

Michael didn’t know why he started looking. Only that one day he did.

 

Addresses weren’t hard if you listened. Adults talked more than they thought. Names floated through rooms. Numbers got written down and forgotten. Michael paid attention. He always had.

 

The house was nicer than he expected. Not big. Just confident. Tucked into a quiet neighborhood where nothing ever seemed to happen. The kind of place where people left porch lights on and trusted they’d still be there in the morning.

 

Michael stayed across the street.

 

There was a low wall he could sit on without being seen. He rested his elbows on his knees and waited. Waiting was something he understood now. Hospitals taught you that. So did funerals. So did growing up around adults who never told you the whole truth.

 

The sun was already low. The sky was doing that thing where it pretended everything was fine right before it went dark.

 

The sliding door opened.

 

Alan Camuso stepped out onto the patio like he owned the air around him. Older than Michael remembered, or maybe just more real now that Michael knew what he was looking at. He wore a collared shirt, sleeves rolled up. Comfortable. At home.

 

Michael didn’t move.

 

For a second, nothing happened. Alan looked out into his yard, one hand on the doorframe. He inhaled, slow, like someone who thought they were alone.

 

Then the shadow behind him shifted.

 

It was subtle. Just a shape where there hadn’t been one before. A person stepping forward without sound. Close enough that it felt impossible Michael hadn’t noticed them sooner.

 

The wire came up quick.

 

There was no speech. No warning. Just the sudden change in the air when something irreversible begins.

 

Alan’s hands went to his throat immediately. Instinct. His feet scraped against the concrete as he tried to turn, tried to see who was there. The wire tightened. Clean. Efficient. Personal without being emotional.

 

Michael watched.

 

He didn’t cover his eyes. He didn’t look away. He noticed small things instead. The way Alan’s heels dragged. The way the patio chair tipped over and didn’t make as much noise as it should have. The sliding door rattling softly in its frame.

 

The figure stayed close. Calm. Patient. Like this was something they’d done before. Like this was something that needed doing.

 

Alan’s movements slowed. His hands fumbled, then dropped. His body sagged forward, held up only by the person behind him until it wasn’t anymore.

 

When it was over, the figure lowered him to the ground instead of letting him fall. That part stuck with Michael. The care of it. The decision.

 

The shadow retreated the same way it came. Quiet. Unremarkable. The sliding door stayed open, letting warm light spill out onto the patio like nothing had happened.

 

Michael stayed where he was.

 

His heart didn’t race. That surprised him. He thought it might. Instead, it felt steady. Heavy, but steady. Like it had finally found a rhythm it recognized.

 

After a while, he stood.

 

He didn’t cross the street. He didn’t go closer. He didn’t need to. He’d seen enough. He turned and walked the way he’d come, hands in his pockets, steps soft against the pavement.

 

The neighborhood stayed quiet.

 

Somewhere behind him, a porch light flicked on automatically as the sky finished going dark.

 

Michael kept walking.

 

That night, when he got home, the house was still clean. Still unfinished. His mother asked him how his day was. He said “fine” and meant something close to it.

 

In his room, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

 

Things didn’t always change right away.

 

Sometimes they caught up to you years later, stepped out of the dark, and wrapped themselves tight around what you’d been carrying all along.

 

Michael closed his eyes.

 

For the first time in a long while, the quiet didn’t feel empty.

 

WARD (P4)

 

A month passed before anyone said Michael’s name out loud.

 

By then, the neighborhood had learned how to talk about Alan Camuso without really talking about him. People lowered their voices. They said things like such a shame and you never know these days. Police cars came and went. Tape went up, came down. Life practiced moving on.

 

Michael noticed who stopped making eye contact.

 

He noticed who watched him walk past a little too closely.

 

He noticed the woman two houses down who had curtains that twitched when he passed, even though she pretended to be folding laundry every time.

 

That was how it started.

 

They came for him on a Wednesday. Late afternoon. The sun still out, but tired. Two men in plain clothes this time. Polite. Careful. They spoke to his mother in soft voices, like volume alone could soften what they were about to do.

 

“Just a few questions.”

 

Michael put on his jacket without being told.

 

The station smelled like old coffee and disinfectant. It wasn’t dramatic. No bright lights. No slammed doors. Just a small room with a table that had been wiped too many times and chairs that didn’t quite match.

 

They didn’t handcuff him.

 

That was intentional.

 

One of the detectives sat across from him. Mid-forties. Tired eyes. The kind of face that had learned how to look sympathetic without feeling it. The other leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending not to watch.

 

They started easy.

 

Name. Age. Where he lived. School.

 

Michael answered without hesitation. He’d learned that pauses invited interest.

 

“You like to walk,” the detective said eventually. Not a question.

 

Michael nodded. “Sometimes.”

 

“Neighbors say they’ve seen you around. That night. Near Mr. Camuso’s house.”

 

Michael shrugged. Small. Controlled. “I walk a lot.”

 

The detective slid a photo across the table. Grainy. A still from a security camera down the block. A figure in a jacket. Head down. Passing through the frame.

 

“That you?”

 

Michael looked at it. Really looked. Then nodded. “Probably.”

 

“Where were you going?”

 

“Nowhere.”

 

The second detective shifted his weight. The room creaked slightly. Michael clocked it. File cabinets settled like old bones.

 

“You see anything strange that night?” the first detective asked. His voice stayed gentle, like the answer didn’t matter. Like this was just routine.

 

Michael shook his head.

 

“No voices? No arguments? No one coming or going?”

 

“No.”

 

They waited.

 

Silence was a tool. Michael understood that now. He’d lived in it long enough to know when to let it sit.

 

“You didn’t hear anything from the patio?” the detective pressed. “Didn’t see anyone else around?”

 

Michael met his eyes.

 

“No.”

 

The detective studied him for a moment. Not suspicious. Curious. Like Michael was a puzzle piece that didn’t quite belong to this box.

 

“You’re sure?”

 

Michael nodded again. Same motion. Same size. He kept his hands folded in his lap. Still.

 

“I didn’t see anything about how Alan Camuso died,” he said. The words were careful. Accurate.

 

They let him go not long after that.

 

No threats. No warnings. Just a reminder to come back if he remembered anything.

 

Michael walked home alone.

 

The sky was the same color it had been that night. That false calm blue. He paid attention to his steps. Made sure they didn’t echo. Made sure they didn’t matter.

 

He didn’t tell William about the station.

 

Not right away.

 

WARD (P5)

 

The woods were different.

 

They always were.

 

The trees didn’t ask questions. They didn’t lean in when you spoke. They stood where they stood and expected you to do the same. Michael liked that.

 

Hunting had been their thing since before everything else broke. Before hospitals. Before funerals. Before names like Camuso meant anything at all. It was routine, but not empty. Something inherited. Something earned.

 

William walked ahead of him, rifle slung easy over his shoulder. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his feet were going to land before they did. Michael followed, quieter now than he’d ever been before.

 

They didn’t talk at first.

 

They never did.

 

The woods filled the space for them. Leaves under boots. Wind through branches. Somewhere far off, a bird startled and corrected itself.

 

They stopped near a clearing. William crouched, checking the ground. Tracks. Signs. Things Michael was still learning to see without being shown.

 

After a while, William spoke.

 

“You been walking more,” he said. Not looking back.

 

Michael nodded. “Yeah.”

 

William straightened slowly. Took his time. “Cops come by?”

 

Michael hesitated. Just a second.

 

“Yes.”

 

William didn’t react right away. He just adjusted the strap on his rifle, eyes scanning the tree line like the answer had changed the shape of the woods.

 

“What’d you say?” William asked.

 

Michael watched a leaf spiral down from above, catching the light before it hit the ground.

 

“Nothing.”

 

William finally turned to look at him.

 

Not angry. Not relieved. Just steady.

 

“Good,” he said.

 

They walked again. Deeper this time. Far enough that the road noise disappeared completely. Far enough that the world felt old again.

 

They stopped near a fallen log. Sat. Ate in silence. Michael chewed slowly, listening to the way sound died out here.

 

William broke the quiet again.

 

“People think talking makes things lighter,” he said. “Like if you give something away, it weighs less.”

 

Michael didn’t look at him.

 

“But that ain’t how it works,” William continued. “You talk, it don’t disappear. It just moves. Lands somewhere else. On someone who didn’t ask for it.”

 

Michael nodded once.

 

William picked up a stick, snapped it clean in half. The sound was sharp. Final.

 

“There’s a difference between surviving and living,” William said. “And rats don’t do either. They just last. And not long.”

 

Michael swallowed.

 

“You see something you weren’t supposed to,” William went on. “You carry it. Quiet. That’s the price. You don’t put it on the table for people who don’t care what it costs you.”

 

Michael finally looked at him.

 

William met his eyes. The bond between them didn’t need words, but William used them anyway. Carefully. Like placing rounds in a magazine.

 

“Family first,” William said. “Always. Even when nobody tells you that’s what you’re choosing.”

 

The woods pressed in around them. Protective. Patient.

 

Michael exhaled slowly.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” he said.

 

William nodded. Once. Satisfied.

 

“Good,” he repeated.

 

They sat there a while longer. No rush. No need to fill the space.

 

When they stood to leave, Michael noticed something else.

 

His footsteps didn’t make a sound at all now.

 

And for the first time, he understood that silence wasn’t just something you endured.

 

It was something you learned to carry.

 

Edited by Michael_Dippolito
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Los Santos Roleplay is a text-based heavy roleplay community on GTA, providing gamers a creative space to play since 2007

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