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A man Caesar hasn’t seen in a decade walks into a room he does not belong. Dressed in a shabby suit, his posture anything but confident, he seems like a fish out of water. Curious enough, next to him walks a black-haired boy in a green shirt with some childish print and jeans, bandaged knees showing through. He can’t be older than ten, the contrast between his outfit, his age, and his appearance striking enough. Unlike his guardian, the boy doesn’t look nervous at all. Hungry exhaustion clings to his small frame, but instead of making him look frail, desperation lingered like a waiting beast.
The boy scans the room, clearly searching for someone. To Caesar’s surprise, his search seems to have come to an end the moment his eyes land on him. The boy tugs at his guardian’s hand and leads him straight to Caesar.
His men react, but Caesar signals them to stay on standby, much more intrigued by this odd occurrence at an otherwise boring party.
“—don’t worry, Mr. Nikolai.” Caesar catches these words shortly before the boy and his guardian – Nikolai, close to retirement now, his factory still working smoothly – come to stand in front of him.
“You are the Tsar?” the boy asks, showing not a hint of fear. His Russian is almost accent-free, but the foreign notes he does possess sound off, not clearly placeable on a map.
Caesar is not particularly fond of children. They’re too sticky, too weak, a liability few can afford. Thankfully, usually, the dislike is mutual and they shrink away from his posture, knowing better than to cross paths with him.
The boy’s icy blue eyes pierce his own.
“And if I am?”
“Then I have a message for you,” the boy answers and pulls one of his gloves from his hand, only for the hand to immediately disappear down his throat.
On reflex, the boy leans forward and throws up all over his own sneakers and Caesar’s expensive shoes.
Nikolai takes a step back, one hand still on the boy’s shoulder as if he’d be capable of pulling the lamb sent for slaughter away from the butcher’s knife. Yet, unaware, or perhaps unbothered by the guillotine over his neck, the boy kneels down to examine his own vomit. With his left hand, still gloved, he searches through it until he revives a small piece of metal. He wipes it clean of vomit on his jeans to offer it up to Caesar.
“Here.”
Curious.
“What is that?”
“Child support,” the boy answers, his face falling for the first time, the previous control breaking away. “Appa said to bring it to you. You’d know what to do then. It’s evidence against the Italians.”
Under different circumstances, Caesar would be more suspicious, but a decade chasing a ghost leaves its marks. Caesar sees what he desires in every place, memorized photos to the point he can repaint them from memory.
Whose child would be so bold to walk into a mafia party with an old man as his only protection if not that of Caesar’s adoration?
The USB is something to look at later, but right now, Caesar’s interest belongs to sight much more captivating.
“What’s your name?” Caesar asks, certain he already knows everything else that matters about this child. Artic eyes, messy black curls, and utterly fearless to the point of detriment.
Already Caesar wants to own him, lock him up in a room so he won’t leave him. A prison is also a safe and Caesar has become exceptional at building bird cages.
“Alexei,” the boy answers. “Alexei Jung.”
Caesar expected a Korean first name, but maybe that would have only drawn even more attention with as little he inherited from his grandmother. Still, running away and giving their son a Russian name? Maybe Jung Leewon is more like his mother than he wanted to admit to himself.
Ignoring the vomit on Alexei’s shoes, Caesar steps forward, catching the boy by surprise as he lifts him into his arms. Alexei freezes up, but relaxes immediately after, just like a stray kitten picked up by their mother.
Caesar leans his forehead against his son’s.
“Where is your father, Alexei?”
The boy’s fingers dig into Caesar’s shoulder despite the thick fabric of his suit.
“I don’t know. He put me on the plane and told me to bring this to you. We—we move a lot. Appa doesn’t like staying in one place.”
Caesar hums and thinks back to the last exchange he had with Leewon, a hotel room in Rome, the alcohol untouched on the table. Their words weren’t kind, more violent confrontation than assuring conversation. Hesitant questions, resigned answers, sleepless nights.
He will leave you too, Dimitri said and that is true, but is it truly leaving when Caesar is sent such a gift now? The problem wasn’t Caesar, the threats had shaken Leewon, a shot grazing his right side near his hips.
A shot, Caesar now knows, could have lost them a lot more if the sniper had aimed even a little further to the left.
“We will find your father,” Caesar decides. “I will bring him home.”
And everything will be as it should.
Alexei blinks at him, then nods. “Are you going to let me down now?”
“Children should be carried by their parents,” Caesar tells him and starts to move towards the exit. This party has become irrelevant and he has to secure this little kitten before the rumors spread too far.
His son doesn’t react to Caesar calling himself Alexei’s parent, so he supposes Leewon is not entirely his mother’s son.