Kept Boy to Made Man - 21. He Ain’t Heavy

Reading wills and working with the bereaved was a common but infrequent part of Walter’s job. It was typically done in his office, scheduled in advance and formal, an uncomfortable and sometimes contentious appointment following a family member’s passing. This was different. Roger Cicero was not family, nor was he expecting a visit from Edward Vitale’s attorney. Walter suspected the man before him hadn’t even known his client had been sick.

“May I come in, Mr. Cicero?” Roger slid sideways to allow Walter to enter.

Moments later, the two men were seated in the office’s reception area looking at each other uncertainly. Walter thought over what he knew of Roger’s complicated relationship with his client, or at least what the man, the predator, had said of his prey-turned-pet-turned-lover.

“I called, Mr. Cicero. I did leave a message this morning.” The man was not sure how to start the conversation with the clearly distressed man before him.

“My assistant is out on a personal leave, and it has been a busy day,” Roger replied, as he struggled to regain control of his thoughts and emotions. “I’m sorry. I haven’t heard from or spoken with Eddie in years. I’m not sure I want to know why he has decided to reach out now.”

Roger’s initial shock morphed into anger and resolve. He was not the man he had been even a week ago, and the power Eddie Vitale held over him was weaker than it had ever been. For years, Eddie had been the closest thing to family Roger had, but that wasn’t true any longer. There were people in his life who loved him in ways the narcissistic and controlling mobster never could.

Walter was not an empathetic or sensitive person, but his client’s words over the past months had told an intriguing and disturbing story. He found it reasonable that the relationship between Mr. Vitale and the man he had held as his emotional prisoner for seventeen years would be complicated. Eddie had talked about Roger as both a boy and a possession, but Walter hadn’t known what to expect from the man in real life. Roger Cicero, only a handful of years older than himself, was obviously a successful and resilient man.

The sound of the office door opening broke the charged tension between the two attorneys. Roger felt an unexpected wave of relief as he saw three familiar faces step through the door; faces he had expected to see when he opened the door minutes earlier.

“Roger?” Thomas Cicero came to sudden stop as he picked up on the heavy emotions in the air. “What’s going on?”

Brendon and Juan nearly collided before they too became aware of the two men sitting awkwardly in the small space they had just entered. The nervous excitement they had been feeling was replaced with cautious concern. Juan’s hand slipped instinctively under his lightweight jacket, finger’s wrapping about the heavy 9mm Beretta hidden alongside his ribs. Brendon reached protectively for his boyfriend as his eye’s weighed the only man in the room he didn’t know.

“Everything is okay, boys.” Roger smiled as his mind processed the reactions of the young detective and teens. “This is Mr. Penhurst. He was just about to tell me why he is here.”

Unlike Walter, Thomas was extremely sensitive to the emotions of others. He did not miss the flicker of fear and anxiety in Roger’s expression, nor the small way in which he sat. The teenager decided Mr. Penhurst was not a friend. Taking Brendon’s hand, Thomas moved to join the most important adult in his life on the small leather couch.

Juan allowed himself to relax, but he remained standing where he was. He was torn by the need to update Roger and his hesitance to further interrupt the conversation they had stepped into.

“I’m afraid much of what I need to say is meant for Mr. Cicero, alone.” Even Walter felt the atmosphere change as the three young men joined them.

“Walter, this is Thomas Cicero and Brendon Mack.” He indicated the teens now sitting next to him but still holding hands. “That is Juan Ramos. I think it is time you told me what Eddie wants from me. These men are family, and I am glad they are here.”

Thomas and Brendon both stiffened at the name. They knew enough about Roger’s complicated and painful past to know Eddie meant trouble for Roger and their small, unconventional family.

Walter’s surprise showed plainly at the naming of another Cicero and the mention of family. The man he had come to speak with wasn’t a family man according to his client. Edward Vitale had been incarcerated for six years before his death, but the teenager identified as Thomas Cicero was far closer to a man than a boy.

“Very well. I won’t pretend to understand the relationship you had with my client, or how you are all related.” Another man might have investigated further, but Walter Penhurst II decided to focus instead on the job he had been paid to do.

“Had?” Thomas was the first to grasp the potential implication of the man’s phrasing.

“Edward Vitale died yesterday in the United States Medical Center for Federal Prisoners in Springfield, Missouri.” Walter revealed.

Roger’s eyes lost focus and his face lost all expression even as his other muscles went rigid. A small smile slipped onto Brendon’s face as he tightened his grip on his boyfriend’s hand. Thomas’ reaction was the most pronounced. His free arm stretched across Roger’s stiff shoulders, pulling the shocked man tightly to his thin frame.

For several seconds, the three bodies on the couch remained frozen. Both teenagers focused on the man who had done so much for them, waiting to see how Roger would respond to the news.

Tightly held emotions began to leak from Roger Cicero’s eyes. His face came alive, watered by his tears, but his body wilted into Thomas who pulled his hand from Brendon’s to wrap the vulnerable man in a hug.

“It’s okay to cry, Roger.” Thomas returned the permissive words the man had given him so many times throughout the past week before adding a few of Sam's. “You are not unwanted, and you are no longer alone.”

Juan had heard Eddie’s name several times, but didn’t know Roger’s history with the man. He again weighed his need to talk with Roger Cicero against his desire to comfort the man who had become a friend. He stayed where he was as he watched Brendon somewhat awkwardly join the hug.

Memories, most painful and some confusing, flashed through Roger’s mind. Eddie was dead. He didn’t know which emotion to latch onto: relief, sadness, anger, despair, hope, or dread. Edward Vitale had defined and anchored Roger’s entire adult life.

“I’m sorry.” Roger sounded small.

“Why are you sorry, Roger?” Thomas spoke softly.

“I don’t know.” Roger turned to look at the uncomfortable man in the nearby armchair.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, dad. Eddie was a monster. I’m glad he is dead. Honesty, remember.” Thomas kissed the man’s stubbled cheek.

The pride Roger felt for the young man who had just called him dad was immense, as were the many emotions Thomas’ words created.

“Who are you, and what have you done with the terrified boy I met last Friday?” Thoughts of Eddie didn’t seem as important as he gazed into Thomas’ compassionate eyes.

Thomas’ smile was somewhat sad and grim as he turned to look at the stranger gawking at them.

“How did the bastard die, and why should any of us give a fuck?” Walter swallowed, visibly shaken by the jolting shift in the teenager’s countenance and tone.

“Mr. Vitale was diagnosed with late-stage prostate cancer six months ago. He hired me to arrange his affairs.” Roger was listening, but his face was expressionless once more.

“Say what you came to say, Mr. Penhurst. We have an extremely important evening ahead, and Eddie has ruined enough of Roger’s life already.” Thomas tried to emulate what Roger would say or do if their roles were reversed, having no difficulty remembering how the man had confidently carried him through many similarly difficult moments.

“Of course, sir.” Walter placed his briefcase on the coffee table between them, both impressed and intimidated by the teenager’s commanding presence. “Mr. Cicero, ah, Roger I mean… Mr. Vitale has named you as his sole heir and the beneficiary of what remains of his estate.”

Roger’s eyebrows rose at the younger attorney’s words. His fingers moved reflexively over the heavy white-gold watch that was now his not only by right of possession but also by law.

Over the next ten minutes, Roger added his signature to numerous forms as he tried to process one revelation after another. He didn’t want Eddie’s money, property, or possessions, but Roger knew Walter Penhurst II was only doing his job as the executor of Eddie’s will. He would have time in the future to process his feelings and make decisions.

For the lawyers there were protocols and processes that must be observed. Thomas and Brendon found the conversation dizzying as the men spoke to each other in legalese. Juan stood impatiently through the process, silently willing the man to finish his business so they could leave.

Walter handed Roger his card as he checked his own watch.

“You can call me at my office. I believe I have enough time to drop the title documents at the government center before closing today. Otherwise, I will drop them in the mail before leaving town.

“Adding you to the accounts and title before his death means the money and property were yours even before Mr. Vitale died. There will be some tax implications, but you won’t have to wait for the court system to validate the will before taking possession. Given his alleged profession, it seemed prudent to avoid the courts wherever possible.

“You can deliver the account transfer documents to any Indemnity Bank branch. The keys, along with other items I have not catalogued are in the safety deposit box I mentioned.

“One last thing. Mr. Vitale recorded this for you. I was present throughout and suggest you may want to listen to it when you have a moment alone.” Walter took the cassette recorder out of his briefcase and handed it to Roger, deciding it was easier to give him both the tape and device rather than ask if he had access to a player of his own.

“Do you have any questions?” Walter asked rhetorically.

“Not at this time,” Roger lied.

“Very well. That concludes our business, Mr. Cicero. I am very sorry for your loss.” Those empty words were as much a part of the scripted process as the parting handshake between Roger and Walter. “I will show myself out.”

“I love you, Roger,” Thomas punctuated the words with another hug once they were finally alone.

“I am sorry you all had to witness that, but I am grateful you all were here.” Roger had been overwhelmed from the moment he met Walter Penhurst II at the door, and he was sure the conversation would have been more difficult without Thomas, Brendon, and Juan by his side.

“I feel awful adding to your stress, Roger, but the truck must be nearing the city by now.” Juan’s words drove Eddie’s death and estate from Roger’s mind.

“Tell me why Daniel decided to use our condo for the surprise party again.” Thomas smiled when Roger referred to the condo as theirs.

“We’re supposedly paying the fuckers thirty grand for entertainment. We needed a location that felt appropriate for that kind of extravagance. No offense.” Juan added with a grin, hoping his budding friendship with the wealthy man allowed for the subtle jab.

Roger sat back on the couch and sighed. Eddie had been in the same business as Charles Miller before and after Roger became the mobster’s favored boy. With Thomas’ freedom secured, Roger’s life had also begun to feel like his own. The rapidly expanding case, his new exploited clients, and his now-dead abuser all seemed determined to keep Roger trapped in the past.

. . .

 

Hank’s head was pounding so hard he could physically hear it. The man moaned before burying his head in the pillow. He didn’t know what time it was, but the offensive light pouring through the large bay window in his front room assaulted him further.

The pounding continued, making it impossible to go back to sleep.

“Open up Hank, or I will bust the door in!” Hank Monroe realized the pounding was not in his head after all.

He opened his eyes and was almost surprised by the slew of food containers and empty liquor bottles that covered his large coffee table. Hank stood, pausing for several seconds to find his balance. He couldn’t remember when he had last gotten off the couch sober. The man pulled his flannel bath robe first from the back of the couch and then over his shoulders.

“Hank! Last chance to save your doorframe, and I’m not paying to fix it old man!” Hank swore under his breath as he realized who was pounding on his door.

“I’m coming Teddy! Give me a fucking minute!” The Police Chief might have been benched, but he couldn’t ignore the Commissioner.

He removed the safety chain and unlatched the dead bolt. A second later, Hank was face-to-face with his long-time friend and current boss, Theodore Jackson. The man’s expression was a combination of anger, worry, and revulsion.

“Did they turn off your water, Hank? Good God, you need a shower.” The large man pushed his way in without an invitation. “I’m serious. Go clean yourself up. You have ten minutes, and then you and I are going to talk.”

Teddy Jackson turned his back on his friend and moved towards the man’s kitchen. Hank knew arguing was pointless and headed to the master suite of his single-story, mid-century home.

When he returned to the main living area clean and clothed, he found the smell of freshly brewed coffee and his friend loading trash into a large plastic garbage bag. Hank grunted at the intrusion into his isolated misery. Teddy looked up and pointed towards the kitchen.

“Coffee. Bring me a mug as well.” Again, it wasn’t a request.

By the time he had returned with two mugs of thick black brew, Teddy had the living room looking almost presentable. The man sat in Hank’s recliner, holding out a hand for the mug he had requested.

“Are you done feeling sorry for yourself yet?” Teddy asked.

“Fuck you, Theodore.” There was no heat in Hank’s words.

In truth, the man was glad his friend was there. He hadn’t felt like himself for a long time, but Teddy had a way of making him feel like he still mattered. They had worked the near North-side streets together and had even been partners for a few years before Hank had taken the detective’s exam and Teddy began perusing politics.

“I’ve never killed anyone, Hank. I won’t pretend to know what it’s like. I read the IA report and watched the video. Joe Gallo was a sick piece of trash hiding behind a badge. Yeah, you killed him, but you didn’t have any other choice.” Teddy’s eyes never left his friends, even as he sipped hot liquid from his mug.

“It’s not just Joe. I’m tired, Teddy. And I’m old.” Hank had to look away from the anger he saw growing in his friend’s eyes.

“That is a steaming pile of horseshit, Hank. Horseshit!” The Commissioner took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you call me? And don’t you dare give me some machoman BS. We’re brothers.”

“I don’t know. I figured life would start making sense again after retirement,” Hank said quietly.

“Is this what retirement looks like?” Teddy pointed at the bulging sack of trash at his feet. “If so, I don’t think retirement is a good idea.”

“What am I supposed to do, Teddy. The shrink won’t clear me even if I wanted to return to the station.” His despair was returning, and he found himself wishing for something stronger than coffee.

“Come work for me on special assignment, Hank. I need someone with your instincts and experience." Hank's eyebrows rose when he realized his friend was serious.

“Doing what?” He asked carefully.

“I am creating a special taskforce partnering with the DA’s office and the FBI. I need someone I can trust to lead it, and there is no one I trust more than you.” The Commissioner held his friend’s gaze.

“I’m a mess,” Hank said simply.

“Not anymore. You took a shower, and I picked up your trash.” Teddy watched Hank’s anger return but continued with anger of his own before the man could explode. “You heard what those dirty detectives were doing with Charles Miller, Hank. Kids! They were selling kids! Charlie Miller gave the Feds his client list. Politicians, business leaders, sports stars.. even cops, and a fucking judge!”

“Shit!” Hank’s anger fizzled.

“Yeah. Shit. The DA and I want to nail every single one of these bastards. That’s why I’m creating the taskforce.” Teddy set his coffee mug on the table between them and looked intently at his friend. “You are not worthless or washed up. You know this city and the force better than anyone else I know. I need your help, brother.”

“What about the shrink? He benched me.” He wouldn’t yet admit it, but Hank wanted to play the role Teddy had cast him in.

“You need to keep talking to someone, Hank. This isn’t you.” Again, Teddy pointed at the bag by his feet. “My new federal friend has a young psychologist working with his team. You’ll have an appointment with him Monday morning. The job is yours regardless, but I expect you to accept the man’s help. Again, no macho shit.”

“Yes sir!” Hank threw a sarcastic and sloppy salute towards his friend. “And Teddy? Thanks for not forgetting about me.”

“Never. Now go pack a bag. You’re staying with Donna and I until further notice. Move it old man. I’m hungry and the wife’s making risotto.” Hank Monroe moved back towards his bedroom, feeling hopeful for the first time in a long time.

. . .

 

Special Agent Thompson jumped down from the UH-60 Black Hawk as two Army Reservists helped Oliver down beside him. The boy had never ridden in a helicopter before, and the large, fast military transport had been an experience he would never forget.

“Thanks for the ride boys!” Jim shouted over the sound of the twin engines.

Oliver’s wide eyes moved from the soldiers to the chopper and finally out over the huge expanse of water surrounding Chicago’s South Pier. Jim smiled as he led the boy quickly towards the waiting SUV.

Riding with lights and sirens was another new experience for the boy. Oliver was overwhelmed by the audible and visual overload of downtown Chicago as they blew through traffic lights heading north along Lakeshore Drive.

. . .

                  

Roger pulled the small BMW into his spot in the underground parking structure before switching off the ignition and turning to look at the teens who had become a huge part of his previously empty life. Honesty.

“Guys, I’m a mess. I don’t think I could have gotten through that without you two, and this party thing is making me feel like throwing up.” Thomas grabbed Roger’s hand from the shifter and Brendon added his own.

“We’ll get through this together. The things Eddie did to you and to other boys were not your fault, just like the things Charlie did are not mine. Brendon keeps telling me we’re both victims, Roger.” Thomas hated thinking of himself as a victim, but when he thought about the all-too-familiar anguish Roger was feeling he knew the label fit. “There are other victims, our brothers, who need our help.”

. . .

 

The three of them entered their typically quiet and calm home to find it anything but. Techs were hiding cameras and mics while several agents coordinated with others in the parking garage and outside the building.

“Roger! Welcome home!” Daniel Janick made his way towards them from the living room. “You have a beautiful view!”

“Daniel, I’m trying very hard not to pass out. Please give me something to do!” Before the SAC could respond, the condo door opened once more.

Roger recognized Agent Thompson, but not the overwhelmed looking boy wearing an oversized army uniform jacket over too-big athletic shorts. The name tape on the boy’s chest read Gomez, but Roger was certain the jacket wasn’t originally the boy's.

“There’s your assignment, Roger. That is Oliver White, your latest client. He was rescued from Uncle Charlie’s farm earlier today.” Daniel looked apologetically at the vile man’s nephew.

“Charles Miller is no longer my uncle, sir. I have a new name and new family.” Thomas didn’t see Daniel’s smile as he stepped in front of the men and went down to one knee.

“What do we know about him?” Roger asked as they followed the boy’s large eyes around the expensive and unusually crowded living space.

“He told Thompson he was taken from Colorado over a year ago. After several months of some pretty awful abuse, he ended up at the farm. Charlie’s crew has been using him to break in new boys.” Oliver’s eyes finally landed on the kneeling teenager.

“What about his family?” Roger asked while trying not to think about what the boy, who was now staring at Thomas, must have endured.

“The team managing our missing persons investigations is on it. We haven’t received anything from Colorado yet, but Oliver’s story should motivate the agencies there to cooperate a little faster.” Oliver looked questioningly at the man who had saved him; Jim nodded encouragingly, having heard from Melissa Motts about the teenager he was seeing in person for the first time.

“What happens if you find his family?” Brendon smiled as the boy moved slowly towards them, eyes fixed on Thomas.

“I’m not sure to be honest. I’m hoping for some advice from Oliver’s legal team and our resident psychologist. Oliver isn’t the innocent kid his parents would remember.” Daniel noted that there was no physical contact as Thomas introduced himself to the nervous boy.

“Hey, I’m Tommy and this big guy is Bren. I hear we are brothers, and I am excited to get to know you.” Oliver had a lot of brothers, and the word was one that he attached a lot of meaning to.

“Did you get taken too?” Oliver asked almost hopefully.

“No, but I was raped by my uncle and abused by my father for years. Then my father tried to kill me and Bren.” Thomas recognized a maturity in Oliver that the younger Micah hadn’t yet developed; His approach naturally shifted as he spoke to Oliver like he would another teenager or adult.

“Jim promised he would help me save my other brothers. He said they are coming here.” Oliver accepted Thomas into his family, sensing the familiar pain behind the teenager's honest and blunt words.

“That’s what I was told too, bro. This is my house. Can my boyfriend and I show you around?” Oliver’s eyes grew large as he looked between Thomas and Brendon.

“He’s your boyfriend?” Oliver hadn’t given boyfriends and girlfriends much thought before that moment, but the idea that this older boy could choose who to share his body with almost made him cry.

“Come on bro, I’ll show around and then we can hang out in my room while we wait.” Jim Thompson was smiling tiredly as he approached his boss.

“So that’s the famous Thomas Miller,” he said.

“Thomas Cicero, as of this afternoon,” Roger corrected him proudly. “He wants nothing more to do with his father or his uncle.”

“So, does that make you dad? Brother? Or something else?” Daniel asked curiously.

“Yes?” Roger’s response reflected his own confusion about how to describe the relationship he had with Thomas. “I think of him as my son most of the time, but then there are moments where he is the one carrying me.”

Roger briefly explained the visit from Walter Penhurst II and how Thomas had naturally taken over when Roger could not find his emotional footing. All three men found it surprising how freely Roger shared his previously secret past.

“Hey boss, HRT just checked in. The truck is stopped at a fast-food place near Columbus Park,” one of the radio operators reported.

“That’s about twenty minutes from here if traffic cooperates.” The park wasn’t far from the FBI Field Office; Daniel’s comment set the team’s timeline as they prepared to intercept nine boys from their armed escort.

. . .

 

Lips exited the Kennedy Expressway onto West Ohio Street, driving the truck across the Chicago River towards Navy Pier. He had been driving for almost two hours, much of that time spent thinking beyond the upcoming evening and into the future.

Willis was dead. Lips wondered if Red would need to die as well, or if the man might decide to work for the boys’ new owner. The thought made him smile. He was the boss now, and the boys in the back of the truck belonged to him. He would take Red somewhere quiet to explain things while the boys fulfilled the current contract. Red’s reaction would determine whether he would join Lips to collect the boys in the morning or join Willis in hell.

Eleven minutes later, Lips pulled into the underground parking structure as instructed in the message Willis had received. He turned on his flashers and parked the truck in the loading zone near the building's freight elevator. A man, dressed much like Lips himself, waved before approaching the driver's-side window which Lips rolled down. The man couldn’t see the gun in Lips’ lap, but if he was smart, he would suspect it was there.

“Glad you’re here. Our client is not a patient man. Let’s get everyone upstairs.” the man spoke quickly.

“Who the fuck are you?” Lips didn’t recognize the man, not that he was expecting to, but he felt like exercising his newly claimed authority.

“Name’s Benny.” The anxious man turned towards the back of the truck.

“Hold up, unless you want to get shot.” Lips slammed his fist on the door leading to the back of the truck four times before climbing out of the cab.

“Hurry up man. Let’s get them upstairs. Guests arrive at seven, and I’m guessing we still need to clean them out and get them dressed?” Lips didn’t know Benny, but it was clear the man knew the business.

“No sense doing it before a two-hour drive, so yeah. They just ate, and we gave them some caffeine. The timing should be perfect,” Lips said, taking his time as he walked around the large vehicle.

Lips pounded twice more before opening the rear door. Red was already unlocking the padlocks and removing the chains which secured the boys to the long benches running longways along the truck’s box.

“Any misbehaving and you will be punished. Silence in the elevator and hallways. Follow instructions once we get upstairs.” Lips didn’t need to remind any of the boys what would happen if they broke the rules. “Watch the truck, Red. I’ll get the boys settled in for the night.”

Lips was anxious to get his hands on the cash that would kick start his new business. He felt like whistling as he and the man named Benny loaded the boys and bags onto the elevator.

. . .

 

Ben Fisher squeezed in with the last of the duffle bags, presumably containing clothes, toys, and anything else Charlie Miller was known to provide his clients and their guests.

The man was tempted to take the man then and there, but the boss had decided to follow a different plan. At first, Ben had argued against putting any more boys in danger, but he eventually had to admit that the others were likely right. Besides, Oliver had insisted it was his responsibility to save his brothers.

The freight elevator was designed to move uninterrupted to the selected floor, so the group was quickly stepping out onto the building's twelfth floor only one-hundred feet from Roger Cicero’s condo door.

The adults grabbed two bags each. Ben stepped out first and led the way. He set one of the bags down and fished a key ring from his pocket. After turning the lock, he pushed the door open and waved the boys’ captor forward.

. . .

 

Daniel Janick stood in Roger Cicero’s kitchen, out of sight from the condo’s small entryway. He looked at the twelve-year-old boy and two teenagers wearing FBI emblazoned tactical vests in the large living room in front of him. He couldn’t believe he had agreed to this plan.

Thomas and Oliver had been insistent. Thompson and Roger were supportive. He had made a call, hoping for some support, but Dr. Fenton went so far as to suggest the plan would be good for every one of the boys. He looked to Jim standing next to the boys, gun drawn and looking angry.

Thomas Cicero whispered something into Oliver’s ear. The boy smiled and nodded his head. Daniel almost laughed out loud as two teens and a tween each raised their right hands, forefingers extended and thumbs in the air. They too had guns pointed forward; their expressions grew as hard as Jim’s.

Daniel’s gun rose as he heard a key enter the front door’s lock. His own expression hardened as he cleared his mind.

. . .

 

Oliver White was scared, but he was also angry. He thought back to the early morning moment on his mattress with Mark’s small body held tightly to his own. The resolve he had found then had created a foundation for the person he would become. He hadn’t known how, but he had committed himself to his brothers’ survival no matter the personal cost.

He hadn't known the FBI was watching the farm at the time. Jim and Billy’s rescue had been both unexpected and distressing as he fought to keep the promise he had so recently made. Never could the boy have imagined standing with new friends and truly good men waiting to confront the people who had caused him and his brothers so much pain.

He wished for a moment that he had a real gun in his hand. He hated the men from the farm. The boy felt two hands grip his shoulders. He wasn’t alone, and he realized he never wanted to feel alone again. Oliver didn’t want to kill anyone, and his lack of a real weapon suddenly felt freeing.

“We got you bro. It’s time to rescue your brothers.” Tommy’s whispered words unlocked the emotions Oliver had been holding back; There were tears in his eyes by the time Lips stepped into view.

. . .

 

Lips greedily moved forward, imaging how it would feel to hold almost thirty grand in cash. He moved through the entryway to the condominium and turned into the main living space.

“What the fuck?” Lips dropped the bags he was carrying and reached for his gun.

“Give me a reason, asshole.” Lips froze at the ice-cold words whispered behind him.

“Hi Lips.” The man didn’t understand how Willis’ boy could possibly be standing before him, but he was. “Where are my brothers?”

Lips winced as his wrists were roughly cuffed behind his back. He stood in stunned silence as guns, both real and imaginary were lowered.

“You’re under arrest, Lips. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law…”

. . .

 

Oliver was shaking by the time his brothers were allowed to enter Tommy’s home. The last boy through the door was almost paralyzed by fear.

“Mark!” Oliver's own fear was forgotten as he ran forward to embrace the seven-year-old boy who had spent the last several hours anticipating unspeakable horrors that Oliver himself had taught the young boy to endure.

“Oli?” The boy sounded much smaller than he was.

The next several minutes were pure pandemonium, as nine boys began to realize and accept that Oliver had somehow saved them. Thomas and Brendon stood on the fringes of the emotional group of boys, uncertain where they fit.

Jim was not ashamed of the tears streaking down his face, and none of his peers said anything beyond heartfelt praise and congratulations. The exhausted man knew there was more work to be done, but he was content in that moment to simply observe the ten boys from the farm discover that they were finally safe and free.

“Great work, Thompson.” Daniel Janick moved beside the tearful but happy man.

“This is the hardest case I’ve ever worked,” Jim said in a far-off voice. “But this, right now, makes it all worthwhile.”

“We won a big victory today. We won’t win them all, but we beat the bastards this round, in large part because of you.” Daniel tore his eyes away from the mass of young limbs to look at his agent. “Take the weekend off, Jim. You’ve earned some rest.”

“Thanks boss, but no thanks.” Jim looked at the small man he had grown to respect immensely. “These boys are safe, but they are still lost. I’ve spent a lot of the day with Oliver. He’s broken, boss. I imagine they all are. I’ll rest when they are truly free.”

. . .

 

Qian sat on Rosa Ramos' couch watching Mary read to Micah. The man didn’t think the boy was hearing much of the story as he stared at the strange creature next to him on the floor. Mary seemed to ignore the things everyone else saw and approached Micah as she would her brother.

The girl wasn’t worried about why the boy in Rosa’s apartment was sad. She saw Micah as a boy who needed a friend, just like she did. As she grew older, she would mature and change, but Qian was struck by her childlike approach to pain and fear.

Micah and Boy had warred for control all day, but Mary refused to entertain the reclusive side of the boy’s personality. She wasn’t mean or insensitive. She just continued to approach him the same no matter which personality was in control. Both were a part of her new friend, but she saw no reason to treat him differently even when he seemed to withdraw.

“It’s remarkable,” Robert said, reminding the agent that the psychologist was still there. “There are a few peers I’d like to witness this. Maybe they would realize logic and a stoic maturity aren’t all that important for some types of therapy.”

“Is he going to be okay, Doc?” Qian no longer questioned the skill or credentials of the young psychologist.

“Maybe we’d be better off approaching the boy like Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary.” Robert smiled at his own joke. “She seems to think Micah is okay already. She is approaching him in the moment, rather than working towards an end game where all of the boy’s wounds are finally healed. You and I see a broken child, but to Mary, Micah is simply Micah.”

Qian found himself getting upset by the doctor’s apparent dismissal of the significant trauma and abuse Micah had endured. Robert noticed his agitation.

“Do you remember when we first talked. You told me you had been trying to get rid of your pain.” Qian did remember; He had thought about their conversation non-stop until Daniel had assigned him big-brother duty. “You told me then that Micah needed happy memories to balance, and perhaps outweigh the bad. That’s exactly what Mary has been doing Qian. She isn’t thinking about all the awful things in Micah’s past. It’s very profound and inspiring.

“There will be time to talk about his past, but not now. The best medicine is experiencing the brighter side of life. New, happier memories will give him the strength and grounding he will need to deal with his trauma in the future.” Robert returned his attention to the children on the floor.

Daniel’s words came back to Qian as he thought about his unexpected assignment.

“I believe your past means those boys will feel safer around you than anyone else. You understand them in a way others never will.” Daniel had asked him to be a big-brother and a superhero, rather than a therapist.

“I think I get it, Doc. It’s easier with the twins because I don’t see my own trauma every time I look at them.” Robert nodded as he considered Qian’s words.

“That makes sense. You wish, more than anything, that someone would take away your pain. So that has become your definition of help in the presence of abuse.” Robert turned to hold Qian’s eyes with his own. “No one can change your past and you can’t change his. In time, you may both be able to re-process your pasts, changing your sub-conscious response to your painful memories, but that isn’t the job right now. Micah needs a brother much more than he needs a warrior or a shrink.”

The conversation was interrupted by the Bureau’s cellular phone ringing once again. Robert moved quickly to answer it.

“Do we have them? Are they safe?” he asked without saying hello.

“Yes, Robert. Everyone here is safe, although there are two in custody who are likely wondering what horrors their futures now hold.” Daniel laughed, partly in response to Robert’s happy sigh but also in relief as his mind also began to accept that the boys from the farm were truly safe. “We could use you over here if you’re willing.”

“On my way, boss!” The young psychologist's uncharacteristic exuberance made the agents on both ends of the call smile.

. . .

 

“Hey, mom.” Brendon was almost giddy as the stress of the day continued to fade. “Yeah, I’m good. It has been a crazy day, though.”

Brendon smiled as his mother bombarded him with questions. Several days ago, he wondered if either of his parents could ever love him like they had before they found out he was in love with his best friend. There was no longer any doubt that the woman on the phone loved him, and the realization was a salve for some of his deepest wounds.

“Mom… Mom, seriously. Let me talk.” He saw Thomas smirk several feet away while he answered questions from several nervous boys. “So… we found out Thomas is rich, and that was before he changed his last name to Cicero. Roger inherited a bunch of money and stuff from the man who ruined his life, and I just held a finger gun on an armed man who delivered a pile of new brothers to Roger’s condo for Thomas and me. How was your day?”

Several heads turned towards him as Sandra exuberantly responded to her precocious teenage son through the phone. Brendon returned the handset to his ear once the volume of her words returned to normal.

“Juan offered to pick you up before heading back to his mom’s place or you can take a cab to Roger's. Thomas says he’ll pay the fair when you get here since he is rich now.” Brendon winked at his boyfriend who discreetly gave him a middle-finger salute while nodding. “I was serious about my new brothers. We could all use a mom tonight.”

. . .

 

Over five hours later, Sandra Mack lay in yet another man’s bed staring at another unfamiliar ceiling. She was overwhelmed and emotionally drained.

“What’s going to happen to them all?” she asked the man in the bed next to her.

Roger had offered to sleep on the floor, but Sandra had refused to allow him to give up the entirety of his king-sized bed for her. She had never spent the night with any man other than her husband, Alan. She had also never imagined sleeping with a gay man. Despite her deep worry and sorrow, the woman found herself smiling.

“We are going to protect them and fight for their best interests like we would for any of our boys.” Roger smiled as well, having never thought about having a family with a woman, especially one who was married to another man.

. . .

 

“Are they doing what I think they're doing?” Ben’s whispered question made Robert smirk and Jim laugh.

“If you think they are comforting each other, then yes, that’s what they are doing,” the psychologist replied.

“And that’s okay?” Ben asked, more out of concern than disapproval.

Several days before, Jim would have been appalled by the boys discreetly copulating on the floor in front of the large glass wall, but his time spent working the case had forced him to weigh what was truly important to him. The boys were safe, and no one was getting hurt. The man realized that was all he really cared about.

“These boys have been living as sex slaves, Ben. I’m guessing their actions are more about soothing and comforting than about pleasure, and we can’t pretend they will suddenly start behaving like other boys their age.” The three men fell silent trying to focus on anything other than the two boys across the room.

. . .

 

Thomas Cicero snuggled into Brendon’s side. For the first time, the teenager thought his new, large bed was far too small. He felt Oliver moving nearby. Suddenly, Mark was giggling. Thomas decided the boys should be free to celebrate their freedom in any way they chose.

“I love you, Brendon Mack.” The lanky arms around him tightened their hold. “Today was a good day.”

“It was,” Brendon whispered into Thomas’ ear. “But those two are making me horny.”

Thomas giggled himself as Brendon nibbled his earlobe.

“Not tonight, honey. I’m too tired.” Brendon laughed at Thomas’ quick wit before growing serious once more.

“We’ve got to help all our new brothers, Tommy. I don’t know how, but I am serious.” Brendon and Thomas lay listening to sounds of sleep and play for several minutes as they pondered Brendon’s words.

“Roger’s been working on something. Let’s ask him how we can help in the morning.” Tears were once more falling down Thomas’ face as he thought about how much had changed in the past week.

“I love you, Thomas Cicero.” As if he could read his boyfriend's thoughts, Brendon shifted Thomas’ mind away from the dark days in the past towards future possibilities. “Tomorrow will be even better, Tommy. Sleep well.”