Rain slipped down the windshield in jagged streaks as the Acura TLX hummed steadily through the long stretch of interstate. With his free hand, Chase loosened the annoying shirt collar that has been bugging him.
It had been years since he’d spent this much time with Vinny.
This wasn’t just catching up with an old high school buddy but more balancing the ledger. Vincenzo had opened doors of opportunity that were meant to be shut for people like him.
A few hours in a car was a small price to keep the ledger balanced.
The voice beside him ignored the rain, the hum, the road.
“God, I love this stretch,” Vincenzo Viento said, drumming his fingers on the dashboard. “It’s honest asphalt. Clean, endless, judgmental. Like a priest that lets you keep the sin.”
Chase smirked. “Still making poetry out of traffic.”
Vincenzo grinned, a grin that could sell knives at a daycare. “Still pretending you’re not impressed.”
“I’m trying to conserve awe. Long night ahead.”
“You sound like my father,” Vincenzo said lightly. He flipped his lighter open–click, flame, snap–letting it flare against the windshield.
Chase let that hang a moment. “It’s a high-school reunion, not the Second Coming.”
“Same difference,” Vincenzo said. “One just has less magical wine.”
He stopped drumming his fingers on the dashboard, tilting his head, remembering a fun fact. “You know who RSVP’d?”
Chase kept his eyes on the wet road. “Don’t start.”
Vincenzo grinned anyway. “Samara Springer.”
The name slid into the car. Chase’s jaw tightened before he realized he’d done it.
“The ‘slay queen’ herself,” Vincenzo continued, savoring it. “Black eyeliner, tragic mixtapes, emotional war crimes. The woman who took young Chase Wright and sanded off the optimism.”
“She didn’t break me,” Chase said.
Vincenzo laughed, delighted. “Of course not. She just taught you that agreeing on the same safe-word would be a good idea.”
Chase exhaled through his nose. “Ever consider not excavating my past like it’s a personal sitcom?”
“History performs better than fiction,” Vincenzo said lightly. “And besides…reunions are about patterns. Seeing what cream rose to the top.”
Cream, Chase thought, watching rainwater race down the windshield. That’s what the Viento family calls us. We were just chaff to be separated. He remembered how that perspective had solidified when Ernesto assigned him to the Harrison Home.
“Don’t look so sour, Chase. It’s a night for nostalgia,” Vincenzo said, shifting his long frame in the passenger seat to look out at the rain. “Though, speaking of the past, I’m still a little hurt. I thought our past would keep you from suggesting a new addition to Father’s collection of heirs.”
Chase tightened his grip on the wheel; eyes fixed on the wet asphalt. “I didn’t ‘find’ Calder for him,” Chase said. “Ernesto parked me at that facility like I was auditing a failing division. I was supposed to file reports on overhead costs and risk assessment. Not… see them. Not the way they saw me. His adoption was a side effect I didn’t see coming.”
“Right, the Harrison Home,” Vincenzo drawled. “A co-ed warehouse for the ‘gifted and the broken.’ Instead of a spreadsheet on overhead costs, you gave him a recommendation for an heir. Bold move for a guy who’s only where he is thanks to my good word.”
“I went in there to find red flags,” Chase said quietly. “But those kids… they weren’t what I expected. You’d walk into the common areas and see things you couldn’t file away – a girl who could coax a dead tablet back to life, a kid in the gym who moved wrong, too fast. The place didn’t feel stagnant. It felt electric. Like something had already started before you arrived.”
“Electric? Please.” Vincenzo rolled his eyes.
“It’s just what I told your dad,” Chase continued, his voice off-hand. “I told him the kid seemed to have been some catalyst. Once he arrived there something sparked up in the other kids.”
“A ‘spark,’” Vincenzo scoffed, making the word sound cheap. “That culty thing the forums love? Same nonsense they blamed for the lights over New Jersey.”
He leaned back, a mocking grin playing on his lips. “You know what that is, Chase? It’s a short circuit called Main Character Syndrome. It’s the collective delusion that everyone is ‘special’ or ‘chosen’ because they have a little bit of personality in a boring world. Father didn’t find a miracle; he found a kid with magic tricks and charm, and you, the self-made legal shark, fell for the branding.”
“Maybe,” Chase said, his voice level. “But those kids changed the way I saw things. They made me realize there’s more to the ‘machine’ than just data points and billable hours. Those kids really brought me back to when we were kids ourselves. Ernesto saw the same thing I did, whether you want to call it a spark or a short circuit.”
Vincenzo groaned and looked back out at the dark treeline. “It’s a glitch, SilverTongue. Trust me. People aren’t ‘electric.’ They’re just meat and data, waiting to be processed. But hey, keep romanticizing the ‘special kid’ ward. It’s a nice layer of paint for a very ugly wall.”
The gas light blinked. Chase caught it in the corner of his eye and sighed. “You still allergic to paying for gas?”
“I pay in charisma.”
“Then you’re broke. Pulling in.”
Vincenzo leaned back, unfazed. “Relax. I’m Viento, remember, we basically own this world.”
Chase didn’t answer. He was thinking about how that had become true in more ways than one.
Vincenzo’s father hadn’t cared if Chase was happy. He’d only cared if Chase was useful. And even now as he chauffeurs the heir of that man, Chase could feel those cold eyes assessing him from the rearview mirror of his memory.
Michael & Cole hadn’t grown because they were brilliant. They’d grown because El Viento Securities needed them to. Ninety percent of the firm’s work flowed from a single client with finite patience and an endless ledger. Being disruptive wouldn’t just be loud…it would be catastrophic.
“You’re doing it again,” Vincenzo said, glancing over.
Chase blinked. “Doing what?”
“Thinking like the other shoe is gonna drop,” Vincenzo said. Then a smile. “It doesn’t. Not till I give the word.”
Chase frowned. “That’s not comforting.”
“It is as long as you stay on our family’s good side,” Vincenzo replied. “My father likes you. So do your partners. Everybody wins.”
The station appeared ahead. One flickering sign, one dented pump and a fluorescent light buzzing, washing the lot in an unflattering white.
“I’ll pump,” Chase said, already reaching for the door.
“I’ll socialize,” Vincenzo said, and was gone before Chase could argue.
***
Chase watched him stride toward the storefront, jacket glowing under the lights. He shook his head. “Jesus, help the clerk.”
Inside, Vincenzo theatrically moved.
The lone attendant, a kid whose name tag said ‘Warren’ and whose posture preferred sleep, didn’t look up from his phone.
Vincenzo smiled anyway. Warm and practiced. A smile that rated well in surveys.
“Evening,” Vincenzo said. “Quick question for you, Warren.”
The kid sighed, eyes still on the screen. “If this is about the bathroom, it’s out of order. If it’s about the price of jerky, blame tariffs. If it’s about the leaking propane tanks, that’s probably just snakes.”
Vincenzo blinked. Once.
“Snakes…No,” he said pleasantly. “This is more… philosophical.”
That earned him half a glance. “Cool. Sold out of philosophy books, might wanna check the college bookstore.”
Vincenzo leaned on the counter, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence with the universe.
“Do you ever think about what separates this place from a headline?”
The kid finally looked up. Not scared. Just tired. “You mean the roof leak near the breaker or the fact we still have an actual Street Fighter IV machine?”
Vincenzo’s smile tightened. “Three feet of concrete,” he said, tapping the counter, “and one careless spark.”
He produced the lighter, casually, flicking it once.
“A small, obedient thing.”
He watched the kid’s face carefully.
Nothing.
The flame went out.
“That’s it?” Vincenzo asked, genuinely curious. “No reaction?”
The kid shrugged. “If you’re gonna burn it down, man, just do it. I don’t get paid enough to stop metaphors.”
Vincenzo blinked again. Slower this time.
“You see,” he said gently, “that’s the problem with human resources who don’t understand leverage. You think danger is about fire.” He smiled, slower now. “Fire’s the cover. Control is the point.”
He flicked the lighter, closer this time. Not threatening. Demonstrative.
“It’s control that matters. Value. Knowing which cast members and extras you can lose.”
The kid swallowed. Not panic, but recognition. “Sir… please don’t do that.”
The bell above the door jingled.
Chase stepped in, rain-soaked and already tired, carrying the practiced calm of someone who had de-escalated worse before breakfast.
“Okay,” Chase said, taking in the scene. “Anton Chigurh, field trip’s over.”
Vincenzo turned, mock-offended. “We were having a philosophical discussion.”
“You were monologuing at a minimum-wage employee,” Chase said, sliding a twenty across the counter. “Pump three. And maybe a coffee, if it hasn’t solidified yet.”
The clerk grabbed the bill like a transfer portal. “This guy your friend?”
“Public defender,” Chase said. “Currently out on probation for arson.”
Vincenzo flicked the lighter one last time, a tiny bloom, a quick death.
“Relax,” he told the kid. “You were never part of our cast.”
Chase clapped a hand on Vincenzo’s shoulder. “And we’re late for that ‘Backdraft’ remake audition.”
As they walked out the kid exhaled relief, typing something into his phone.
***
Outside, the rain had gone thin and slanted. Chase filled the tank while Vincenzo leaned against the hood, watching the mist roll across the lot.
“One day you’ll pull that routine on the wrong person,” Chase said.
“There are no wrong people,” Vincenzo replied smoothly. “Only unprepared ones.”
Chase capped the tank, slid back into the driver’s seat. “Next stop, I’m locking the doors.”
Vincenzo laughed, sharp and delighted. “You love the show.”
“Sure,” Chase said, easing back onto the highway. “Just waiting for the encore to be subpoenaed.”
Vincenzo lit a cigarette, window cracked, lighter clicking in rhythm.
“Imagine,” he said, staring out at the blur of passing signs, “if everyone just played their role in our world. The one they were born to do.”
“Pretty sure most people are born to nap,” Chase said.
Vincenzo chuckled. “That’s because they don’t have bloodlines like mine. Ernesto taught me ambition with a smile and fear with a ledger.”
Chase’s grip tightened on the wheel. Ernesto Viento.
That name again. He’d only met the man twice, but the memory was intrusive.
The way Ernesto had looked at him. Not like a man. Like an asset. A variable in an equation.
The rain slowed to a drizzle by the time they reached the edge of downtown. The school’s old district had been gutted and rebuilt into a “multi-purpose event space,” which was civic-speak for ‘beer hall’ with nicer lighting.
Chase parked under a streetlamp that buzzed and stuttered, light pulsing against the wet hood.
“You really don’t have to come in,” he said jokingly.
“I’m your social escalator and your wingman,” Vincenzo said, fixing his hair in the reflection of the rearview. “Besides, where would you be without me?”
“At home watching stuff or taking a nap, like most people.”
“Most people have limits, and with me you don’t.” Vincenzo smiled, snapping the lighter shut like punctuation. “Let’s make ’em worship Silver and Gold again.”
Chase took a slow breath. “You know, the last time I saw half these people, they were more acne than personality.”
“Good,” Vincenzo said, stepping out into the wet air. “Let’s see what they’ve evolved into.”