CHAPTER 145: CHAPTER 140: UNWELCOME VISITORS I

Monday, September 9th, 2022

Demien’s Apartment, Bergamo

3:52 PM

The knock came exactly fifty-two minutes after Marco’s call ended.

Demien set his coffee mug down and walked toward the door, his mind already running through where he’d sign—kitchen counter probably, good light there, flat surface for the paperwork—and when he pulled the handle open expecting Marco’s professional smile and leather briefcase, his body froze.

Five people stood in the hallway.

Three women, two men, all in their forties or fifties, all wearing clothes that tried too hard to look expensive but missed by just enough to be obvious, and the smell hit him first—cheap perfume mixing with cigarette smoke and something else, something sour that came from people who’d traveled far without showering.

His jaw tightened.

Not a conscious decision. Just happened.

His right hand gripped the doorframe hard enough that his knuckles went white, and somewhere deep in Demien Walter’s memories something surged—not words exactly, more like a feeling, dark and heavy and wrong—though he couldn’t place faces to names yet because the sensation was pure instinct screaming get them out get them away you don’t want them here.

David Drinkwater’s consciousness watched his own body react with detached curiosity.

Interesting. Didn’t know we hated anyone this much.

The oldest man stepped forward first, his smile wide and warm and completely hollow. Mid-fifties maybe, thinning hair slicked back with too much gel, gold chain visible under his collar.

"Demien! Look how you’ve grown!" His voice carried that false enthusiasm people use when they’re performing. "We saw you on TV, the match against Cremonese, incredible, truly incredible! Five goals involved, the commentators couldn’t stop talking about you!"

Demien didn’t move from the doorway.

Didn’t smile back.

His throat felt tight.

"How did you know where I live?"

The question came out flat. No warmth. Just facts.

One of the women—short, round face, wearing a floral dress that had seen better years—laughed like he’d made a joke. "Why are you asking such questions? You didn’t even greet us properly! Aren’t you going to welcome your family inside?"

Family.

The word landed wrong. Demien’s stomach turned over.

They pushed forward anyway, didn’t wait for permission, just moved past him into the apartment like they had every right to be there, and the oldest man clapped him on the shoulder as he passed—too familiar, too comfortable, hand lingering a second too long.

The apartment suddenly felt smaller.

Five people filled the space with their presence and their noise and their smell, and they spread out immediately, looking around with eyes that assessed value, that cataloged everything worth taking.

"Nice place," one of the younger women said, her fingers trailing across the kitchen counter. Late thirties, dark hair with blonde highlights, makeup applied heavy. "Must be expensive in this area. You’re doing well for yourself, clearly."

"Very well," the oldest man agreed, settling onto Demien’s couch without being invited. "We’ve been following your career, you know. Ever since you signed with Atalanta. We told everyone back home—that’s our Demien, we always knew he’d make it."

The second man—shorter, stocky, beard that needed trimming—nodded enthusiastically. "Family talent, runs in the blood. We’re all so proud."

Demien stood by the door.

His hand still on the handle.

Every muscle in his body coiled tight.

David’s seventeen-club experience recognized the play instantly. He’d seen it before—teammates’ relatives showing up after a good contract, distant cousins appearing when signing bonuses cleared, people who’d never answered calls suddenly remembering birthdays.

But this was different.

This was visceral.

"Does my mom know you’re here?"

The question cut through their chatter. Sharp. Direct.

The round-faced woman in the floral dress waved her hand dismissively. "No, we didn’t tell Isabella. Why would we tell your mother? We came to see our favorite nephew, it’s perfectly—"

"Stop."

One word.

Demien’s voice didn’t rise. Didn’t need to.

The room went quiet.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, then turned to face them fully, and something in his posture made the oldest man’s smile falter.

"2012."

Silence.

"2013. 2014. 2015. 2016. 2017. 2018. 2019. 2020. 2021."

"Demien, listen, we can explain—"

"You didn’t come to mom’s hospital visit in 2014." His voice stayed level. Factual. Each word precise. "She was there for three days. Pneumonia. I was twelve. We called everyone in the family. You didn’t show up."

The floral-dress woman opened her mouth, but Demien kept going.

"You didn’t answer when the electricity got cut off in 2016. We lived in the dark for a week waiting for mom’s paycheck. I called your number seventeen times." He looked directly at the oldest man. "You answered once. Said you’d help. Never called back."

"We were going through tough times ourselves—"

"And when dad left us in 2007 and we asked if you knew where he was, if you could help us find him, you hung up the phone." Demien’s jaw worked. "Mom was crying in the kitchen. I heard her ask you to please, just please help us find him. You said you’d call back."

He paused.

"That was years ago."

The room felt smaller now. Airless.

The bearded man tried to recover. "Look, we were broke too, we didn’t have the means—"

"You drove here from Florence. That’s a three-hour drive. Gas isn’t cheap." Demien’s voice cut through the excuse clean. "You’re wearing a watch that costs more than our electricity bill was. Your sister there has a designer purse."

"It’s a knockoff—"

"And you found my address somehow, which means you’ve been paying attention recently, which means you weren’t too broke to follow Serie A, to watch my matches, to track where I live." He took a step forward. "So don’t tell me you were too broke to answer a phone call from a seven -year-old kid asking why his dad left."

Silence.

Heavy and Uncomfortable.

The youngest woman—blonde highlights, heavy makeup—tried a different approach. Her voice softened. "Demien, we know we made mistakes. We’re trying to reconnect now. Family is important, and we’ve always been proud of you, always followed your career—"

"What position do I play?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Simple question, since you said you followed my career. What position do I play?"

"You’re... a midfielder?"

"What kind of midfielder?"

She looked at the oldest man for help, He cleared his throat. "Attacking midfielder, obviously, you create chances—"

"What number do I wear?"

"I don’t... we don’t memorize—"

"Twenty-eight. I wear twenty-eight." Demien’s voice stayed calm, Dead calm. "Who’s my coach?"

"Gasperini," the bearded man said quickly, confident now.

"What formation does he use?"

Silence.

"You said you followed my career. You watched the Cremonese match. Gasperini’s formation is famous across Italy, im pretty sure Everyone knows it." Demien waited. "So what is it?"

The oldest man’s smile was gone completely. "We don’t need to prove—"

"Four - two - three- one. He uses a Four - two - three- one. Sometimes a Four - two - one- three." Demien’s hands stayed loose at his sides, but his voice carried weight that made the small apartment feel like a courtroom. "If you’d actually followed my career, you’d know that. You’d also know I almost quit football last year. You’d know Fiorentina rejected me. You’d know I attempted suicide in may."

The round-faced woman gasped. "We didn’t—"

"Because you weren’t following up with your family. You were following the TV highlights. You saw me on the news after the Cremonese match and you thought—" He stopped. Breathed. "You thought you could get money."

"That’s not—"

"Just say it." His voice rose slightly, it’s not the first time. "Stop pretending this is about family. Stop pretending you care and just say you want money. Just say it."

The oldest man stood up from the couch. His face hardened. "You think you’re better than us now? You get one big contract and suddenly—"

"I think," Demien said quietly, "that family doesn’t disappear for years and show up suddeenly after someone signs a professional contract."

"We’re still your family—"

"Family answers phone calls, Family shows up when a kid’s mom is in the hospital. The family doesn’t let a twelve-year-old sit in the dark wondering if his dad’s coming back." Demien pulled out his phone. "Let’s call mom together right now. She’d love to see you. I’m sure she has so much to catch up on."

He unlocked the screen. Pulled up Isabella’s contact.

Thumb hovering over the call button.

"Well?"

The women looked at each other. The oldest man’s jaw worked.

Nobody moved.

"That’s what I thought."

Demien’s thumb moved away from the call button, but before he could say anything else, his body tensed, and the words came out louder than he intended, sharp enough to crack:

"Get out."

The blonde woman with heavy makeup tried one more time, voice turning desperate. "Demien, please, we just wanted—"

"GET OUT!"

His voice echoed off the apartment walls.

3:58 PM

Marco heard the shouting from the hallway.

He’d parked his car three minutes ago, grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, and was halfway to Demien’s apartment when the sound reached him—young voice, male, angry, and