The embossed viper seemed to writhe in the damp earth, its scales glistening under the canopy. Manno stared, his brow furrowed, a low murmur of unease rumbling in his chest. “What in the—?” he began, reaching for it. But Zetta was faster, her small hand darting out, surprisingly strong as she snatched the volume before his fingers could even brush the cold leather. Her mind, already buzzing with the thrill of the harvest, now spun with a cold, calculating intensity. A syndicate account book. The coiled snake. She knew this symbol. She’d seen it in the financial underworld of her previous life, scrawled on the periphery of countless dirty deals, a silent harbinger of ruin. This wasn’t just a book; it was a weapon. And she, a three-year-old in a polka-dot dress, now held it. “Mine!” she declared, her voice a high-pitched squeak, pulling the book possessively to her chest. “Zetta’s book!” “Careful, little one,” Manno chuckled, mistaking her ferocity for childish possessiveness. “Let Papa see, just for a moment. It looks like it’s been here a long, long time.” But Zetta shook her head vigorously, a determined glint in her eyes. This particular brand of ancient, earth-soaked evil was not for Manno’s soft hands, nor his softer heart. She clutched the black book tighter, tucking it under her arm as she continued to point at more fungi spots. Tavito, ever vigilant, gave the strange book a wary glance, but seeing Zetta’s fierce hold, he merely nodded, returning to his digging with silent intensity. For him, if Zetta said it was hers, it was hers. End of discussion. The trek back down Mount Orfino was less adventurous than the ascent, Manno’s basket heavy with the fragrant mushrooms, Zetta’s small form cradling the sinister logbook. She hummed a tuneless lullaby, a stark contrast to the dark thoughts swirling in her mind. This book, this instrument of ruin, would be her shield. Her sword. And Gavril’s undoing. Two days later, the idyllic calm of the Floris farm shattered like cheap ceramic. The roar of a souped-up Vespa Primavera, too loud and too fast, announced Gavril’s arrival long before his scowling face appeared in the doorway of their modest dining room. He looked like a storm cloud, his usually slicked-back hair disheveled, sweat beading on his forehead, his custom-tailored linen shirt clinging to his wide frame. “Manno!” His voice was a guttural growl, raw with barely contained fury. “You absolute idiot! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Manno, who had been carefully tending to his nascent oak saplings in the small greenhouse, stepped inside, wiping soil from his hands. His brow furrowed with concern, not anger. “Gavril? What’s wrong? Did something happen with the… the delivery?” He glanced nervously at Zetta, who was happily coloring on the tiled floor, Tino gurgling in his playpen nearby. “Delivery?” Gavril scoffed, his eyes blazing. “The delivery’s the least of our worries! The ‘associates’ know. They know about the… *misunderstanding* at the station. And they want answers. More than that, they want *reparations*.” He stalked into the room, his heavy boots thudding on the worn linoleum, making Zetta flinch. “They’re demanding the farm, Manno. They want it signed over. And they want you to confess. *Immediately*.” Manno’s face paled. “The farm? But… but Papa built this place with his own hands! And confess? Gavril, I told you, I can’t let them do this to our family. To Zetta and Tino.” “It’s not ‘them,’ Manno, it’s *us*!” Gavril snarled, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, though not quiet enough to escape Zetta’s keen ears. “Or rather, it’s *you*. You were supposed to take the fall, smooth things over. But no, your precious daughter had to go and play hero. Now they think we’re mocking them. They want blood, Manno. And if you don’t give them this farm and your confession, they’ll come for more. For everything.” His gaze flickered towards the playpen, lingering a fraction too long on Tino. The implied threat hung heavy in the air, a chilling current that made Zetta’s small fists clench. “Gavril, please,” Manno pleaded, his voice cracking. “There must be another way. We can talk to them. I have a little money saved, maybe we can offer—.” “Money won’t cut it now!” Gavril roared, his patience snapping. He slammed his hand onto the rickety breakfast table, making the utensils jump. “They want a show of loyalty! A complete capitulation! Now, where are those papers? I’ve already drafted them. Just sign, Manno. Sign the damned farm over, and let’s get this over with.” He pulled a sheaf of documents from his briefcase, their stark white contrasting sharply with the cluttered room. Zetta, who had been quietly observing the escalating tension, chose this precise moment to make her move. With the slow, deliberate waddle of a toddler, she pushed herself up from the floor, a single sheet of paper held tightly in her small hands. She approached Gavril, her polka-dot dress swishing softly with each step, her eyes wide and innocent. “Uncle Gavril!” she chirped, her voice a sweet, almost musical sound that cut through the furious air. “Look! Zetta colored for you!” Gavril, mid-rant, paused, his anger momentarily deflating at the unexpected interruption. He looked down at his niece, his expression a mixture of annoyance and forced geniality. “Oh, did you, little terror? What have you got there?” He reached out a hand, intending to pat her head dismissively. Instead, Zetta pushed the paper into his hand. It wasn’t a single sheet. It was the leather-bound register, now utterly transformed. Each page, once filled with precise, damning script detailing extortion payments, smuggling routes, and illicit deals, was now a vibrant, chaotic explosion of crayon. The coiled reptile emblem on the cover had been given bright purple eyes and a sunshine yellow tongue. Figures detailing syndicate payouts were now smiling stick figures with oversized heads. A list of black market assets was adorned with glitter glue and a drawn rainbow. The entire, meticulously recorded history of the syndicate’s criminal enterprise had been turned into a very enthusiastic, very artistic, very defaced coloring book. Gavril’s eyes, initially scanning the pages with a dismissive smirk, stared fixedly at the waxy magenta scribbles. The skin along his temples pulled tight. He recognized the distinct hand-tooled goatskin, the heavy grain of the paper stock, even through the primary-colored chaos. He recognized the snake, now crowned with yellow horns. This wasn't just any book. This was the master account. The one he’d been so careful to keep buried, the one he’d been terrified the 'associates' would ever find. And now, it was a child’s plaything. His eyes darted to Zetta, who smiled up at him with unblemished innocence, then to Manno, who watched with mild curiosity. Panic, cold and raw, gripped Gavril. Humiliation burned through him, a searing flashpoint. “What… what is this?” Gavril choked out, his voice thin and reedy, completely devoid of its earlier bluster. He looked like a man staring into the abyss, and seeing his own reflection in crayon. He scrambled to hide the defaced book, stuffing it under his arm, away from Manno’s view. The power dynamic had shifted, violently, irrevocably. Zetta had just handed him a nuclear bomb, wrapped in a child’s drawing. “Zetta’s book!” she declared proudly, pulling at the hem of his shirt. “Pretty colors!” The humiliation, the sheer terror of what the ‘associates’ would do if they ever saw this… it boiled over. Gavril’s face contorted, a mask of pure rage replacing the fear. He had been played. By a three-year-old. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that this was no accident. His eyes, dark and venomous, fixed on Zetta, a spark of pure hatred igniting within them. But his fist, clenched white-knuckled with fury, wasn’t aimed at the toddler. In a sickening, visceral snap, it swung out, connecting with Manno’s jaw. The sound echoed against the tile, sharp and brutal. Manno staggered back, tripping over a rug, his head snapping to the side, a crimson bloom appearing almost instantly on his lip. He fell heavily against the counter, a dazed, disbelieving look in his eyes. The papers Gavril had brought fluttered to the floor, forgotten. Silence descended, thick and suffocating. Zetta gasped, a small, involuntary sound. Tino, startled by the noise, began to wail. Manno touched his split lip, his gaze slowly lifting to meet Gavril’s. The blind loyalty, the brotherly love, the naive forgiveness that had been Manno’s defining trait, fractured under the blow. It was as if a veil had been ripped away, revealing a harsh, ugly truth. His own brother. His own blood. Gavril, his chest heaving, seemed to realize what he’d done. His anger, for a fleeting moment, was replaced by a flash of something akin to regret, or perhaps just cold calculation. He stared at Manno, then at the crayon-covered book still clutched in his hand, then back at Zetta, who was now utterly still, her eyes like chips of glacial ice. Her small mouth was a tight, grim line. She hadn’t anticipated the violence, not like this. Not for Manno. “This isn’t over, Manno,” Gavril snarled, his voice low and menacing, a stark contrast to the stunned silence. He threw the ruined book onto the table, its pages fluttering open to reveal more childish scrawls, then snatched up his briefcase. “You think this saves you? You think this child’s trick protects you?” He jabbed a finger at Zetta, who met his gaze without a flicker of fear. “You made a mistake, Manno. A grave one.” He turned and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him with a final, echoing bang. But before he disappeared around the side of the house, Zetta heard it. A whisper, chilling and venomous, carried on the sea breeze, just for her. “Those ‘associates’… they’re going to pay a little visit to your crib tonight, Zetta. Just to introduce themselves.”

The Coloring Book Cartel