CHAPTER 80: [80] BROKEN TOOLS ARE NEVER WASTED

The afternoon sun hung like a merciless overlord above Porto Veloce, its scorching rays bearing down on the bleached stone buildings until the very atmosphere seemed to waver and dance with heat mirages. The cobblestones radiated warmth like the surface of a forge, and even the shadows offered little respite from the oppressive Mediterranean climate that turned the port city into a sprawling outdoor furnace.

Pierre felt the heat like a burning fever crawling across his skin. The sensation seeped through his pores, making his clothes cling uncomfortably to his lean frame as he fabricated increasingly elaborate excuses about needing to breathe something other than the stifling air inside Valerio’s establishment.

His voice carried just the right note of casual restlessness as he mentioned wanting to witness the harbor’s true character in the unforgiving clarity of midday light, to see how the locals conducted their business when the sun turned every surface into a potential weapon of discomfort.

After all, what harm could there be in a simple walk through the sun-baked streets of Porto Veloce?

Valerio had responded with that brilliant, unsettling smile of his—the kind that never quite reached his calculating eyes—and promptly assigned him a "companion" in the form of a seemingly pleasant young man named Marco who maintained precisely three steps of distance behind Pierre at all times.

But guides and watchers shared a fatal flaw: they assumed their charges were as helpless as they looked. A mistake Pierre had exploited in and out of the ring for years.

The perfect opportunity presented itself when Marco became thoroughly engrossed in what appeared to be a casual exchange with a local fruit vendor. Pierre’s trained ear caught fragments of their conversation. Delivery quotas. Produce quality. The words were about commerce, but the undertones were pure menace. The words flowed like honey masking poison, and while Marco’s attention was diverted by this thinly veiled extortion session, Pierre slipped away, a shadow melting into the maze of dockside alleys.

After navigating several twisting alleys that smelled of drying salt and fresh-cut pine, Pierre found his target. Leo stood behind an imposing fortress of stacked lumber... methodically sweeping sawdust that puffed into the air like golden dust motes.

The boy couldn’t possibly be older than fourteen, though the weight he carried in his posture suggested someone decades older. His clothes—a faded brown tunic and patched trousers that had seen better years—hung from his slight frame like sails without wind, clearly hand-me-downs from someone with broader shoulders and longer limbs. The fabric bunched awkwardly at his waist where a frayed rope belt attempted to cinch the excess material, and his sleeves had been rolled up multiple times to free his hands for work.

The sawdust clung to his dark hair and the sweat on his brow, testament to hours of labor under the unforgiving sun.

When the boy noticed Pierre’s approach, his grip on the worn broom handle tightened with such intensity that his knuckles blanched, his body tensing like a cornered animal preparing either for flight or a desperate final stand.

"Afternoon," Pierre said, keeping his voice light. He leaned against a nearby post, trying to look casual despite the way his ribs screamed in protest. "Beautiful work they’re doing on that merchant vessel."

The ship in question sat at a nearby berth, her hull gleaming with fresh varnish. Workers moved over her like ants, each focused on their assigned task with the kind of singular devotion usually reserved for religious ceremonies.

Leo glanced up, then immediately back down at his sawdust. "Yes, sir. Master Valerio’s crews do fine work."

"The wood’s interesting." Pierre nodded toward a stack of planks waiting to be fitted. "Beautiful grain, but it looks like it fought the plane every step of the way. See those marks? The way the grain shifts direction?"

The boy’s sweeping slowed. His eyes darted toward the planks, then back to Pierre, as if checking whether this was some kind of test.

"Some wood doesn’t want to be shaped, sir." Leo’s voice was barely above a whisper. "You force it... it splits."

"What happens when a tool breaks?"

Leo stopped sweeping. The silence stretched between them like a held breath, broken only by the distant sounds of hammers and saws, the mechanical rhythm of Porto Veloce’s perfect industry.

"Master Valerio doesn’t like broken tools." Leo’s words came out in a rush, as if speaking them quickly might make them hurt less. "He says anything can be useful, with the right pressure. Even broken things can be... repaired."

"And if something can’t be repaired?"

Leo’s hands trembled on the broom handle. His eyes darted around the alley like a trapped animal looking for escape routes that didn’t exist. "Then it gets... recycled. Nothing goes to waste in Porto Veloce, sir. Master Valerio is very particular."

"Leo." Pierre kept his voice gentle, the way he might speak to a wounded animal. "How long have you worked here?"

"Six years, sir. Since I was eleven." Leo’s voice cracked slightly on the numbers. "My father owed money to Master Valerio. For medical bills, when my mother got sick. The debt... it transferred when he died."

Six years. Eleven years old when it started. Something hot and ugly coiled in Pierre’s gut. His hands, hidden at his sides, curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. The urge to break something—to break someone—was a familiar, bitter taste in the back of his throat.

"That’s a long time to be learning the trade."

"Master Valerio says I’m a slow learner. But he’s patient with his people. Very patient." A hollow little laugh escaped him, the sound a ghost might make. "He says everyone has their place in the family. Everyone contributes."

"What about the others? The workers on my ship?"

Leo’s face went pale as sailcloth. His eyes darted around the alley again, checking shadows for listeners.

"They’re good men, sir. They do what they’re told. Master Valerio takes care of his people, as long as they remember their place." Leo’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. "But sometimes... sometimes people forget. Sometimes they think they can leave, or complain, or..."

He trailed off, his gaze fixed on something Pierre couldn’t see. Something that lived in memory and visited him in dreams.

"What happens then?"

"They remember." Leo’s words were flat, empty of everything except resignation. "Master Valerio is very good at helping people remember their obligations. Their debts. Their place in the family."

A shadow fell across them like a cloud passing over the sun. He looked up to see a man standing at the mouth of the alley. The man wore clothes that marked him as one of Valerio’s people. His face was pleasant enough, the kind of open, honest features that belonged on a shopkeeper or a priest, with laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and a smile that showed just the right number of teeth. But his eyes—those eyes held the same cold intelligence Pierre had seen in Saxe Webb’s gaze.

"Captain Pierre! Master Valerio was wondering where you’d wandered off to. He was quite concerned when Marco lost track of you. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to our honored guest, especially in your... delicate condition."

Leo flinched like he’d been slapped, his body seeming to fold in on itself.

"I was just getting some air," Pierre said, pushing himself away from the post despite the protest from his ribs. "The town is beautiful, but a sailor needs to see the water."

"Of course! Master Valerio understands completely! He sent me to escort you back—wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself in your condition." The man’s smile never wavered, but his position blocked the only exit from the alley. "Doctor Reyes was very specific about the dangers of too much activity too soon."

"Naturally. Wouldn’t want to worry our host."

"Master Valerio cares deeply about his guests’ wellbeing. It’s what makes Porto Veloce special—we take care of our own." The man gestured toward the alley mouth with practiced courtesy. "Shall we?"

Pierre nodded and walked toward the exit, feeling the man’s presence behind him like a weight on his shoulders. As they emerged into the broader street, he caught a glimpse of Leo through a gap in the lumber stacks. The boy was sweeping again, his movements mechanical and desperate, as if he could somehow sweep away the conversation that had just taken place.

Their eyes met for just a moment across the distance. Leo’s face was blank, empty of everything except the kind of careful neutrality that came from learning not to show emotion in front of the wrong people.

Then the gap closed, and he was gone.

"Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?" the man said conversationally as they walked back toward Valerio’s compound. "Master Valerio always says Porto Veloce is blessed with the finest weather in the Dawn Sea. Perfect conditions for recovery."

Pierre nodded and made the right noises, but his mind was a storm. Leo’s words echoed, mixing with the guard’s saccharine threats. Anything can be useful, with the right pressure. Nothing goes to waste. We take care of our own.

It wasn’t a business. It wasn’t a family. It was a collection.

And Valerio had just acquired three new pieces.