Chapter 1: The Comeback
Durham Foster woke to the low hum of rain against the window and the bitter taste of stale tequila still clinging to the back of his throat. Morning light crept through the half-drawn blinds of his apartment, painting pale gray stripes across the cluttered room. Empty bottles stood like glass monoliths on the kitchen counter. A jacket lay crumpled across a chair. The place smelled faintly of coffee grounds and last night’s regrets.
His eyes never met the clock as he walked past.
It didn’t matter, not since he retired. Day and night meant nothing now; all that mattered was whether or not he was conscious.
The phone’s headache-inducing chime broke the silence.
Durham stared at it for a long moment before moving. The number on the screen was unfamiliar, international. Most people who had known him during his years with Intertel had stopped calling long ago.
The phone rang again.
“Christ,” He muttered under his breath before answering.
“Yo”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
Then a voice he hadn’t heard in years spoke calmly into the receiver.
“Good morning, Durham.”
The voice was unmistakable.
Esmerelda de la Cruz
Durham straightened in his chair, his tone skeptical. “It’s been a while, Esme, or should I say, Director De la Cruz. I didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“You didn’t expect to hear from anyone.” She replied evenly.
That was true enough.
Durham rubbed a hand over his face. “What do you want, Esmerelda?”
“Well, first I want you to open your door.”
Durham frowned as he turned towards the door.
Knock… Knock…. Knock…
“I can’t believe you.” Durham stomped towards the door and threw it open wildly.
Esmerelda de la Cruz carried herself with the kind of effortless authority that made introductions unnecessary. At nearly six feet tall, she cut a striking figure, her thick dark curls worn naturally and unapologetic against the clean lines of a perfectly tailored pantsuit crafted by Wendell, her longtime designer. Her features were striking, quietly warm Colombian and Cuban heritage etched into high cheekbones and observant dark eyes—but beauty had never been the thing people remembered most about her. What they remembered was the way a room changed when she walked into it.
Before he could speak, she invited herself into his home.
“I brought you a gift.” She handed Durham a large tin plate covered in foil; it was still warm. “ Some arepas and bunelos I made. From the look of this place, I should have made you some more.” She looked around with blatant disgust on her face.
“What are you doing here?” Durham placed the food down, a permanent scowl plastered on his face.
“We’ve had a development,” she said. “One I think you’ll find… relevant.”
He leaned back in the chair, already feeling the old tension creeping into his shoulders.
“I’m retired.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then find someone who isn’t.”
“I would,” she said calmly, “if anyone else knew him the way you do.”
Durham felt the pit of his stomach sink. He sat there silently, his jaw tense.
He didn’t ask the question right away.
He didn’t need to.
The silence around them thickened like fog after a storm.
A single name hung in the air unspoken, but well understood.
Finally, Esmerelda met his gaze and nodded sympathetically. “We think we have found Luca, after nearly a decade.”
The room seems to grow smaller, and his legs grow weaker. He takes a seat, trying to find the words to say. “How… Where?” He paused before shaking his head. “No! This is ridiculous. I’m retired.”
“Durham, I wouldn’t be here if I had any other choice. You know his training. You know just how hard he is to track down.” Her stance was firm, but her eyes were soft.
He held his head and stared blankly at the floor. For years, he had trained himself not to think about that name. Not about Naples. Not about the academy. Not about the boy with the reckless smile who had once convinced him the world could be changed.
Not about the man who stabbed him in the back.
“Where is he?” Durham finally spoke quietly.
“Last intel we got, he is in Mykonos.”
“Always so dramatic!” Durham laughed dryly. “ Of course he’d be there.”
“Last confirmed sighting was three days ago,” Esmerelda continued. “He was observed meeting with a known leader of the Democratic People’s Militia. If our information is true, there is a meeting happening soon.”
“So, what does Intertel want with me. As far as I was aware, I’m “Persona non grata.” Why would they want me so badly? What about Deschamps? Is he still kicking? Put him on counter-intelligence; he always wanted my position anyway.”
“I fired Deschamps the second I became the Director. This isn’t the Agency’s call; this is mine. I’m asking you not as a boss, but as a friend. Help me, please. The implications of this are far beyond any of us.”
He looked at the seriousness in her face; in all their time together, he knew not to ignore that look. “That bad, huh? Fine. What’s the Job?”
“We want him found and captured alive. We need to know what information he’s been sharing.”
“And then?”
Esmerelda’s voice softened slightly.
“That will depend on what you discover. You know where to find me. Please try to clean yourself up. Your team doesn’t need to see you like this?”
“My team?” Durham asked quizically.
“Yes, you’ll have a full team of agents at your disposal. ” She turned on her heels and made her way to the door. “It’s good to see you come back.” She said before walking out the door.
Durham pushed the blinds aside and stared out at the rain.
For a moment, the city outside dissolved, replaced by another night years ago.
Naples.
The air had been warm then, thick with salt and diesel drifting up from the harbor. Streetlights painted the narrow alleyways in amber and shadow while voices from nearby cafés echoed between the old stone buildings. Durham remembered leaning against the rusted railing of a small balcony outside the academy dormitory, watching the lights shimmer across the water.
Gianluca had been beside him.
He could still see him clearly—the crooked smile, the restless energy that never quite left his body, the way he always looked like he was already planning something reckless.
“You think any of this actually matters?” Gianluca had asked, nodding toward the academy buildings behind them.
Durham hadn’t answered right away. He had been watching the harbor, listening to the distant hum of scooters and laughter drifting through the night air.
“I think they want us to believe it does,” he said finally.
Gianluca laughed softly.
“Careful, Foster. That almost sounded like skepticism.”
Durham turned toward him then.
The distance between them had been small. Too small, probably. But neither of them moved. The breeze coming off the sea pushed Gianluca’s dark hair across his forehead. For once, he looked still, thoughtful in a way Durham rarely saw.
“You ever think about leaving?” Gianluca asked.
“Leaving what?”
“All of it. Intertel, this life of craziness?”
Durham studied him.
“You wouldn’t last a week,” he said.
Gianluca’s grin returned, slower this time.
“You underestimate me.”
“Oh, do I? What would you do that could entertain you?” Durham teased.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The sounds of Naples drifted upward from the streets below. Music, voices, the distant crash of waves against the harbor wall. Vespas hum in the horizon, almost melodically.
Then Gianluca reached out and caught Durham’s wrist.
The movement was sudden but gentle.
Durham felt the warmth of his hand before he fully registered what was happening.
Their eyes met.
Everything else. The academy, the mission briefings, the expectations waiting for them, fell away in that small, suspended moment.
Gianluca leaned closer, his voice quieter now.
“One day,” he murmured, “we’re going to regret not doing the things we actually want. We can be who we want to be.”
Durham should have said something. But all he could do was smile, and a blush fell upon his cheeks.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them.
Then footsteps echoed from the stairwell behind the dormitory door.
Gianluca released his wrist immediately.
The moment shattered like glass.
By the time Durham turned back, Gianluca had already stepped away, leaning casually against the railing again as if nothing had happened.
“Come on,” he said with a grin. “We’ve got weapons drills at dawn.”
Durham blinked.
The memory vanished.
The gray rain-soaked city returned outside his window.
For the first time in years, the name Gianluca D’Campo no longer felt buried in the past.
It felt like something coming for him.
