Useless Talk

"Jaxon Reed, I will only say this once."

The temperature inside the luxurious sedan instantly dropped below freezing. Dante Thorne glared at the man behind the wheel through the rearview mirror. His voice remained entirely calm, yet it carried an oppressive, terrifying weight that made the air in the cabin feel impossibly thin. It felt like a towering mountain was pressing down on Jaxon's chest, suffocating him.

"I, Dante Thorne, have only one home, and that is Riverdale," Dante stated, his dark eyes devoid of any warmth. "I demand to have absolutely nothing to do with the Thorne family in the capital. I want nothing to do with that high-and-mighty Lord Thorne. Am I understood?"

Drenched in a cold sweat of sheer panic, Jaxon swallowed hard. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs. "Y-Yes, sir."

Dante simply nodded, the lethal aura receding as quickly as it had appeared. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the plush leather seat. "Start driving. Wake me when we get to Oakwood Creek Village."

"Understood." Jaxon fearfully corrected his course, turning the steering wheel with trembling hands. He drove them straight toward Eastwood Town.

As the scenery blurred past the tinted windows, Dante opened his eyes again, silently watching the world go by. He reflected on his ten long years serving as a soldier. A decade of endless bloodshed, deafening gunfire, and surviving on the sheer edge of death. Through all those grueling years, the only thing that had kept his humanity intact was the thought of returning to his adoptive family. This cozy little corner of Riverdale was a place he knew by heart, a sanctuary he had visited countless times in his dreams.

But as they neared Oakwood Creek Village, a wave of bittersweet nostalgia hit him. Everything had changed. The vast paddy fields of his youth were gone. He remembered running through those fields, flying kites under the clear blue sky, and catching crickets in the tall grass. He remembered the sprawling sea of apricot blossoms that used to bloom every spring. Now, all of it had been entirely paved over. In their place stood modern factories, rows of suburban bungalows, and paved asphalt roads that swallowed up the vibrant memories of his childhood.

He remembered Arthur Mercer, his adoptive father, handing him a handful of crumpled bills to go buy a gallon of cheap, home-brewed plum blossom wine. Arthur would always let him keep the spare change as a reward. Dante and his adoptive sister, Clara, would run down the dirt paths, using those few coins to buy cheap candy, chocolate bars, and slingshots. That was the raw beauty of his childhood.

A soft, grounded smile touched Dante's lips. "Ten years... I'm finally back."

At an intersection a few blocks away from the Mercer home, Dante tapped the partition. "Stop here. I'll walk the rest of the way."

Jaxon pulled the vehicle over to the curb. Dante dismissed him, knowing the sleek, imposing military sedan would only cause an unwanted spectacle in this quiet suburban neighborhood. He wanted a quiet reunion, not a parade.

The walk took half an hour, his boots treading over paved sidewalks that used to be dirt trails. When Dante finally arrived near the familiar doorstep of the Mercer residence, he paused.

The front gates were wide open. Instead of a quiet afternoon, the front yard was bustling with a massive crowd. Brightly dressed banquet guests mingled under strings of festive lights, holding drinks and laughing loudly. Red banners and floral arrangements decorated the porch. It was incredibly lively, brimming with the unmistakable energy of a celebration.

"Auntie, go on and eat, I need to greet the other relatives!"

"Make sure everyone gets enough wine. Let the drinks flow!"

A forty-year-old woman weaving through the crowd suddenly turned toward the gate. She was positively glowing, radiating joy as she directed the guests. Then, she caught sight of the tall, broad-shouldered man standing silently at the entrance. She froze, squinting at him for a moment before stepping closer.

"Excuse me," she asked hesitantly, looking at his modest, somewhat worn attire. "And who are you?"

Dante felt a lump form in his throat. He looked at the familiar features of the woman who had raised him. "Mom," he called out softly.

Martha Gorman stepped back, her eyes widening in confusion. "Young man, you can't just go around calling people 'Mom.' I don't have a son your age. I only have a daughter."

Dante smiled, though his heart ached a little. He stepped forward and gently took her calloused hands in his. "What? I leave for a few years, and you can no longer recognize your own son?" He looked closely at her face, noting the new, deep wrinkles lining her forehead and the streaks of gray hiding in her hair. She had aged so much.

His gaze dropped to her wrist. "You're still wearing the cheap jade bangle I bought you," he murmured, tracing the green stone with his thumb. "I remember how it took me half a month of hauling heavy goods down at the docks to earn the money for that. I even dislocated my shoulder lifting those crates."

Martha's breath hitched. She stared at him, her mouth falling open in sheer disbelief. Her eyes darted over his strong jaw, his deep eyes, and the familiar slope of his brow. The realization hit her like a physical blow.

"Y-You're Dante?"

Heavy tears instantly welled up in her eyes and streamed down her weathered face. "You damn bastard!" she cried out.

She lunged forward, weeping openly as she repeatedly smacked his strong, broad chest. She hit him with a mixture of deep, unconditional love and utter frustration, her fists drumming against muscles that felt as hard as iron. "So you finally know how to come home! Where have you been for ten long years? Not a single word, not a single letter! I missed you so much!"

Dante stood perfectly still, letting her vent her anger and relief. His eyes brimmed with quiet joy. He wrapped his arms around her trembling frame, pulling her into a tight, warm hug. "I'm back now, Mom. I'm so sorry."

Martha cried into his shoulder for a long time before finally pulling back and wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. She sniffled, her face breaking into a radiant, overwhelmed smile.

Dante looked over her shoulder at the crowded yard. "Why is it so lively in here? Is someone getting married?"

Martha beamed, brimming with pride and joy. "Of course! Our Clarie is getting married. Today is her engagement banquet! Having my daughter engaged and my son returning on the exact same day... this is a double happiness! The heavens are truly blessing our family today!"

Dante’s smile widened. Clara was all grown up. He remembered how Arthur used to joke about marrying them off to each other when they were kids, trying to bind their childhood friendship into something permanent. But Dante had always just seen her as a little sister, the shy girl who trailed behind him everywhere. Now, she was old enough to be a bride.

"Come on! Come inside!" Martha grabbed Dante’s wrist, eager to reunite the siblings. She turned toward the bustling crowd and shouted loudly over the noise. "Clarie! Clarie, come out here and see who came back! It’s your brother! He's finally home!"

The lively chatter in the front yard died down as the guests turned their attention toward the gate, murmuring among themselves. The crowd parted.

A young woman stepped out from the center of the gathering. Dante’s breath caught slightly. She was beautiful, dressed in an elegant, tailored gown that accentuated her figure. Her hair was styled perfectly, and her makeup was flawless. But as she walked toward him, Dante realized this fully grown woman was a complete stranger to him. She was no longer the blushing, messy-haired tag-along he fondly remembered.

Stepping forward, Dante offered a warm, nostalgic smile. "Clarie, it's been a while."

Clara Mercer stopped a few feet away. She didn't smile. She coldly looked him up and down, her eyes dragging over his faded jacket, his scuffed boots, and his thoroughly modest attire. Her face remained completely devoid of emotion for a fleeting second before shifting into a sneer of clear, undisguised disdain.

"Mm-hmm," she muttered, her tone dripping with ice.

Dante’s warm smile faltered. The barrage of happy greetings he had prepared died in his throat. The hostility rolling off her was palpable.

Martha noticed the sudden drop in temperature. She frowned, glaring at her daughter. "What is wrong with you, Clarie? Your brother finally comes back after ten years, and you show him this kind of attitude?"

"What do you want me to do, then?" Clara snapped, crossing her arms. She impatiently looked Dante up and down again, letting out a harsh scoff. "He left without saying a single word ten years ago. Now he returns just as abruptly, right in the middle of my engagement banquet, without a single warning. What does he think our house is? A cheap motel where he can just check in and out whenever he pleases? Do you want me to hire a marching band and welcome him home with open arms?"

She shot Dante a withering glare. She was entirely convinced she knew exactly why he had shown up today of all days. If he had returned as a rich, successful man to shower her with gifts and share in her glory, that would be one thing. But looking at his tattered, cheap clothes, it was obvious he was a poor, failed man who had crawled back to leech off their family. He was a loser trying to ruin her big day and embarrass her in front of her wealthy future in-laws.

Without another word, Clara turned on her heel, flipped her hair, and huffed away, marching right back into the center of the affluent crowd.

"Oh, this child!" Martha stomped her foot, her face flushed red with furious indignation.

Dante simply smiled warmly, reaching out to gently catch his mother's weathered hand. He shook his head, refusing to let Clara's venom ruin Martha's joy. "Forget it, Mom," he reassured her softly. "I was completely in the wrong for leaving the way I did. I disappeared for a decade. Clarie has every right to be angry at me."

Martha looked at him, her anger melting into a heavy, defeated sigh. She squeezed his hand, not knowing how to make it right.

Dante turned his gaze back to the courtyard. He watched Clara effortlessly work the crowd of wealthy guests. She laughed, tilted her wine glass, and held multiple conversations with the practiced ease of a confident, arrogant social butterfly. She fit perfectly into this world of status and shallow vanity.

She wasn't his little sister anymore.

Dante sighed heavily, a bitter tang mixing with the sweetness of his homecoming. He realized that the relentless passage of time had truly changed everything.

Just as he absorbed the bittersweet reality of his return, Martha suddenly turned her attention toward the main house. Her eyes narrowed in familiar irritation. Still holding onto Dante's hand, she let out a harsh, abrasive shout that rang loudly across the courtyard, aggressively demanding her husband's presence.

"Are you still drinking that god-awful wine, old man? Come outside!"