Florian was lying on what passed for a cot, clutching a makeshift pillow fashioned from two stolen throw blankets and a t-shirt with the Italian flag on it. His eyes were red. Puffy. The kind of red that says, yes, I did just cry into my own hoodie because I think I'm going to be eaten like a supermarket rotisserie chicken.
He sniffled. "I didn't want to be eaten. Not the non sexy kind, anyway."
Ricco, sitting across the room trying to decipher a report on Eastern European smuggling routes, looked up, half-exasperated. "We are not going to eat you."
Florian didn't move. "You keep saying that, but like... you also say my dads are secret agents. So let's not pretend you're super trustworthy."
Ricco let out a long, dramatic exhale. "I'm telling the truth."
"And *I'm* telling you that's some high-level cannibal propaganda. You're trying to lull me into a false sense of security. But I'm not falling for it. Nope. Not me. I've watched *National Geographic* and *The Silence of the Lambs*."
"Those are not the same thing—"
"I know your plan," Florian continued, eyes narrowed. "You eat me. But guess what. Plot twist: if you eat me, you'll get *my autism*."
Ricco stared. "…What?"
Florian sat up, voice solemn. "You'll get *everything*. The sensory issues. The anxiety spirals. The part of my brain that can name 24 species of sea slugs but still forgets how to do basic multiplication. You want that? Huh? You want to start crying if someone uses the wrong tone of voice or if a sock feels weird?!"
Ricco blinked slowly. "That's not how eating people works."
"You don't *know* that. Maybe I'm patient zero for neurological DNA transmission. You eat me, boom—next thing you know, you're crying at commercials and using a weighted blanket to survive Tuesdays."
Ricco rubbed his temples. "I regret everything."
"I told you," Florian said proudly, like he'd just won a debate. "This is what happens when you don't touch grass. You get deranged. You think you're in some John Wick revenge arc when you're actually just a glorified airport villain."
"I *am* the head of a major criminal organization."
"Oh my god, you need therapy. Maybe Pilates. Something with breathing."
Ricco stood. "Listen, you *insufferable marshmallow*, you were kidnapped because your parents are extremely dangerous former agents of the most elite black-ops organization in the United States. You are not special. You are *bait*. That's it."
There was a pause.
Florian blinked up at him, wide-eyed. "…Okay Hannibal, keep telling yourself that. But the biggest beef my family has ever had is with our neighbors. Because their chihuahua keeps pooping on our lawn. And my father—Alex—tried to fight the neighbor over trash can disputes. You know who won that fight?"
Ricco squinted. "Your father?"
"No. The raccoon that was *also* in the trash can. My father lost a fight to a raccoon. That is not the resume of a black-ops assassin."
Ricco sat down heavily. "Your father *retired*. He went domestic."
"You know who else went domestic? The raccoon. He's still there. We named him Todd."
Ricco buried his face in his hands.
Florian wasn't done. "And my *papa*, Yerik? He's the PTA-est mom of the PTA. The other parents? Terrified of him. He once threatened to sue the school district because I failed a math test that wasn't neurodivergent-friendly. You know what happened?"
Ricco sighed. "What?"
"They passed me *without the retest*. The school board was too scared. My papa walked in with a binder and a highlighted copy of the ADA. I have never seen a grown man cry like our principal did that day."
"Good lord."
"I am not making this up. There is no way these two people are international spies. That's nonsense. My biggest adventure was when I got lost in a Costco once and ended up sobbing in the tire section."
"You're projecting your own chaotic energy onto them."
"No, I'm explaining that your theory is garbage. So let's circle back to the more plausible option: you're in a cult that eats people."
Ricco actually growled. "This is *not* a cult. This is a *business*. Your fathers ruined deals. They exposed suppliers. They dismantled half of our logistics pipeline before they vanished. You are *leverage*."
Florian folded his arms. "You know what else is leverage? Consent. And I do *not* consent to being kidnapped."
Ricco turned to Marco, who'd entered quietly with snacks.
"He's literally arguing with the concept of espionage."
Marco just shrugged. "He told Giuseppe earlier that our air quality was 'a war crime.'"
"I have asthma!" Florian shouted from the cot.
"Can we drug him?" Ricco asked, desperate.
Marco checked the folder in his hand. "Says here he has like seventeen allergies and might sue us in ghost form if he dies."
"Correct," Florian called. "I'm sensitive."
Ricco stood again. "I swear to god, I miss dealing with armed mercenaries."
"Yeah, well, I miss *being at home*, where the only thing trying to eat me is Papa's kale muffins. Do you know how emotionally scarring those are?"
"I don't care about your muffins!" Ricco snapped.
Florian stood too. "Then maybe you should've kidnapped someone else. I have a *condition*!"
Marco whispered, "He really does. He has a medical bracelet and everything."
Ricco turned to leave. "I'm moving him to the quieter room."
"Make sure it has an outlet," Florian called. "And a humidifier. My skin gets weird when I'm stressed."
Marco nodded. "I'll get the stuff."
"Thank you, Marco. You're the only one who respects me."
"I don't," Marco said, but gently.
Florian curled back up on the cot, muttering, "Cannibals. The audacity."