Page 64 of Infamous
And somehow, that feels more like family than anything I’ve ever known.
It still feels wrong to call them that. Family. I buried that word with Billie. But here I am, riding through the night with two men who’d kill and die without asking why. Brando’s behind the wheel, his eyes fixed on the endless black ribbon of road. Mason’s in the passenger seat, smoke curling out the cracked window. I sit in the back, listening to the rhythmic thump from the trunk - the sound of the bastard we’ve brought along for the ride.
Nadia’s ex, Michael.
He’s still breathing, but that’s only temporary.
No one says much on the ride.
We’ve been driving for hours, the hum of the engine our only soundtrack. The further we go, the more the city falls away, replaced by trees and silence. It’s the kind of road where no one asks where you’re headed, and if they did, you wouldn’t have the answer.
After the first hour, I start wondering.
Is this what it feels like to be taken out?
It’s not paranoia - it’s calculation. The men in this world don’t waste gas on courtesy calls. When the Gattis need you gone, you disappear so efficiently even your shadow forgets your name. For a moment, I wonder if Scar finally decided I was more liability than asset. If this is the end of the road, and I just haven’t caught up to it yet.
But then I look at Mason through the rearview mirror. He meets my eyes. There’s no malice there. No warning. Just steady, quiet understanding.
If they wanted me dead, I’d already be gone. So I lean back, stretch my legs, and let the tension slide off like a second skin. They’ve come too far with me to toss me into a ditch.
Whatever waits at the end of this road - it’s not death. At least, notmine.
The trees thicken as we drive. The asphalt turns to gravel, then dirt. The headlights cut through a fog that settles ominously over the night. And then, through the mist, a sign appears:
PRIVATE PROPERTY – TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT
I arch a brow. “You think they mean that literally?”
Brando smirks without slowing down. “Depends who’s trespassing.”
The gate comes into view - a high, rusted thing with barbed wire coiled across the top. A single guard steps out of a smallbooth, flashlight in hand. He squints into the car until the beam lands on Mason’s face.
Recognition. Then, immediate obedience.
He lowers the light, nodding sharply. “Evening, sirs.” The gate creaks open.
We drive through, the metal groaning shut behind us.
Inside, the air changes. Dense. Wet. Animalistic. The headlights sweep over thick jungle brush and the glint of still water. Somewhere in the distance, something moves - heavy, deliberate, alive.
“Welcome to the zoo,” Brando mutters with a grin.
It’s not a joke.
We stop at a small stone bridge arched over a dark pool. The surface is slick and silent, like it’s waiting. Brando cuts the engine.
“Out,” Mason says.
I follow them into the night air. It’s colder here, damp with the scent of death and decay. Crickets hum, frogs croak, and beneath it all, there’s another sound - something shifting under the surface of the water.
Brando leans on the railing, peering into the murk. Mason lights another cigarette.
Behind us, the trunk rattles. A dull thump, then another. Michael’s awake.
“Looks like our guest is restless,” Mason says, smoke curling from his lips.
Brando chuckles, eyes glinting. “Showtime.”
