Predator

Cross came in without a word, walked around the table, and lifted her into his arms despite her startled cry of protest.

“Cross!” she laughed breathlessly. “Put me down! What are you doing, my boy?”

“Mom…” he exclaimed. “I’m home.”

She touched his face with her fingers, and tears instantly shone in her eyes.

“You could have told us you were coming.”

“Then you’d have had time to cook ten dishes and scrub the floors three times,” he said with a grin. “I wanted to see the house… the way it normally is.”

Just then, they heard tires crunching over the gravel. His father had arrived. A couple of minutes later, a familiar voice sounded in the hall.

“What’s this? A coup without any warning?”

Ismail Begovich came in wearing a tweed coat, a briefcase in his hand. He stopped at the sight of his son.

“You.”

That was all. One word, but it held surprise, joy, and a worry he kept hidden.

“Dad.” Cross went over and hugged him tightly.

“You sly fox. No warning again.” Ismail patted his shoulder, holding him close. “But good for you. We’ve missed you.”

Then his sister-in-law, Esma, came running in, her hair loose and her face beaming. Behind her walked his brother Kenan, tanned, with a farmer’s muscles, followed by three boys as noisy as a band of outlaws. Little Selma came last, carrying a pink rabbit.

“Uncle Cross!” the boys shouted. “Uncle Cross is here! He brought us something! We know he did!”

“Of course I did,” he said with a delighted grin. “Where would I be without bribes?”

He picked the children up one after another, hugging and kissing them. Then he took out the neatly wrapped boxes and began handing them around.

“This is for you, Munir. A tablet. Don’t break it on the first day.”

“Wow!”

“And for you, Hasan, headphones and glasses. You’re Agent 007 now.”

“Oh yes!”

“And this is for you, little Rasim. A phone with parental controls.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you can call me, but not the police when you break something in the house.”

There was laughter, and someone clapped him on the back.

“And who are you?” he asked, looking at the little girl.

“I’m Selma! And this is Rabbit. He bites!”

“Does he?” Cross crouched down. “Tell me, who was the last person he bit?”

She leaned closer and whispered as though revealing a conspiracy.

“Mommy, when she tried to throw him in the wash.”

“What a little rascal.” Cross touched a finger to the toy’s mouth. “I’ll have to have a word with him. But we’ve found him a girlfriend!”

Cross pulled a large wrapped box closer and asked his eldest nephew to cut through the plastic wrapping. Once the gift was unwrapped, a large, beautiful doll appeared, with long curly hair and a bow.

“Wow!” Munir breathed. “She’s gorgeous!”

“You can practice kissing with her,” Kenan joked, making everyone laugh except Selma. She gave her father a sideways look and reached for the toy.

“She’s mine!”

Munir handed her the gift and answered with a laugh.

“Yes, she’s yours, she’s yours. I don’t play with dolls.”

Esma nudged her daughter toward Cross.

“Thank your uncle.”

Cross was still kneeling in front of the little girl, smiling into her face. She came over, held the doll in one arm, and kissed him on the cheek. Cross closed his eyes and immediately pulled her close.

“Thank you, Uncle Cross,” she said.

“You’re welcome, my princess.”

“Wait, I have something else,” he said, taking a narrow case tied with a ribbon from his bag without further preamble. “For the lady of the house,” he murmured, offering the little box to his sister-in-law.

Esma opened it and went still. Inside lay a delicate white-gold bracelet, its emeralds gleaming in a straight line like drops of dew on grass. The stones caught the lamplight, their facets coming alive.

“Cross…” Her voice trembled. “How do you know?”

“I know there should be more in your life than making soup. Which is delicious, by the way. I remember,” he replied seriously.

She carefully fastened the bracelet around her wrist, her eyes shining. Then Cross took out another envelope and handed her a folder of documents.

“A trip to Thailand for the whole family,” he added simply. “You choose the dates.”

“Thailand?” Esma covered her mouth with her hand. “You’ve lost your mind…”

Kenan grinned, but his eyes lit up.

“Well, brother… You’ve put me in a difficult position. Now I’ll have to admit you’re the best husband my wife could have.”

“Live with it,” Cross laughed, turning to him. “And this is for you personally.”

He took out a set of keys bearing the Nissan logo and a slim folder of documents.

“A Patrol. Brand-new, already on its way. Fully loaded.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Kenan looked from the keys to his brother and smiled.

“Are you serious?”

“When have I ever joked about something like this? The car’s yours. It’ll be sitting in the yard in a couple of weeks.”

Kenan let out a loud breath, settled the keys in his palm, and stepped forward to hug his brother tightly.

“You’re… crazy. But you’re my kind of crazy. Thank you.”

The room filled with laughter, hugs, and jokes. Emira leaned closer to examine the bracelet and said with a smile:

“Well, now you really are going to make me so happy I won’t know what to do with myself.”

Once everyone had gathered at the table, Cross turned to his mother, took out a small velvet-covered case, and offered it to her.

“And this is for you, Mrs. Emira.”

She opened the box and went still. Inside lay a delicate brooch in the shape of a jasmine flower, studded with diamonds. The stones sparkled softly, catching the light from the hearth.

“A brooch…” she whispered. “Jasmine…”

“The flower that has always reminded me of you, Mom,” Cross said. “Resilient, gentle, and stubborn.”

Her fingers trembled slightly. Then he took out a second gift, a perfume bottle bearing a delicate engraving: Jasmina Noire.

“And this is so you can always keep the scent of your youth close.”

Emira pressed the brooch to her chest, then breathed in the perfume, her eyes shining through her tears.

“You remember everything…” she whispered with a happy smile.

“I don’t forget anything,” he replied quietly, smiling too.

At dinner, after Cross had rested from the long flight, they all sat together around the table. There was a feeling of comfort and family strength, as though the evening itself confirmed that their foundation could never be shaken.

“Remember when we stole Dad’s old rifle?” Kenan asked, holding his glass.

“You stole it!” Cross objected. “I covered for you.”

“Covered for me? You were shouting all over the forest that we were going to shoot witches!”

“It was a scientific experiment!”

“You split my eyebrow open with the rifle butt!”

“Not on purpose. I just wanted to give you a hug. A bit too suddenly.”

“With the rifle butt?”

Their father joined in after taking a sip of wine.

“And I thought the neighbors had stolen the rifle. I was going to call the police. So now I find out the truth. Wonderful, twenty years later! Never mind, I still have connections. I can have you locked up for a couple of days, just to keep you out of trouble.”

Their mother merely shook her head and grumbled as she sorted the napkins.

“You two again. One always starts it, the other covers for him. Nothing’s changed.”

“Of course,” Cross said with a grin. “We just do things on a bigger scale now.”

The children ran around the house. Esma brought in an apple pie, and Emira returned to her perfume, dabbing drops onto her wrist and breathing them in like a schoolgirl.

“This scent suits me so perfectly… Cross, you’re still my boy.”

He looked at her without speaking, his eyes holding more gratitude than words could express.

Meanwhile, the wine flowed easily as they talked. There was an extraordinary warmth, the kind found only in a home where everyone had once grown up wearing the same socks. They laughed, interrupting one another, and old stories surfaced on their own, as though they had been waiting beneath a pillow for their moment.

Their father poured himself more wine, leaned back, looked at his two sons, and suddenly said:

“Do you know what I remember most? Sneaking out through the shed with you at night so your mother wouldn’t notice.”

Emira rolled her eyes.

“Here we go again…”

“Don’t interrupt. This is an important story.” He pointed his spoon at Cross and Kenan. “These two wolf cubs followed right on my heels. We’d take the old double-barreled shotgun, a thermos of liquor that I passed off as ‘just tea,’ and head into the woods. We sat by the fire. Learned to be quiet and think.”

“And drink,” Kenan added.

“Just a drop!” Ismail raised a finger. “Only to keep warm.”

“I was fourteen!” Kenan exclaimed.

“And already dreaming of becoming a farmer,” Cross snorted. “You tried to tame a hedgehog.”

“So what? It almost listened to me!”

“It bit your finger!”

“Because you kicked its burrow!”

“I nearly left the pair of you in the swamp that night,” Emira muttered. “You came home reeking of campfire smoke, the gun covered in mud, your fingers wrapped in bandages.”

“But we were happy,” their father said, pouring more wine. “You see, son, sometimes what matters isn’t what you did, but who you did it with. That’s all.”

He raised his glass.

“To those who sat by the fire!”

“And those who kept it all from Mom,” Cross added.

“Well, we don’t discuss that,” Kenan said. “You and I have an official conspiracy.”

“Your official conspiracy will end as soon as the grandchildren start following your example,” their mother said, though without anger. “Then we’ll see how you like it.”

“We’ll cover for them,” Cross said. “And give them a drop. Just as we should.”

Dinner went on for a long time. Evening settled outside, moisture crept down the windowpanes, and the familiar smells of the house mingled with the perfume. Inside… it was as though everything had fallen into place. Everyone had their role. Everyone was loved. Even the rabbit, who now sat in a backpack and wasn’t biting anyone.

Later, when the noise in the house had died down and only the warm, lingering glow of the fire remained, father and son sat down to play chess. This time, Cross had brought the set from Prague.

“A chess set…” Ismail’s voice held a note of admiration. “Is this beech root?”

“And walnut. Every piece is handmade. From Prague.”

“You’ve… lost your mind, son.”

“You’re only allowed to lose to me on this set.”

They played in silence. Only the clicks of the pieces moving along familiar routes and the smoke from the pipe disturbed the peace.

“You’re planning something,” his father said quietly.

“I just came to visit.”

“Don’t lie. You never come for no reason. Has something happened?”

Cross smiled.

“Nothing bad.”

“I can feel it.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You seem thoughtful…”

“I’m growing up.”

“Nonsense. Tell me.”

Cross leaned back in his chair.

“I want to go away. For a year. Maybe longer. Somewhere remote. Rent a little house, get away from the city for a while.”

“Is it because of a woman?”

“No.”

“Because of work?”

“Not that either.”

“Then is it because of you?”

Cross took his time answering.

“I want… a simpler life. Nothing more.”

“Have you done something? Debts? Enemies?”

“No. I swear.”

“You’re not lying?”

“I never would.”

His father sighed and looked at the fire.

“I understand. I even envy you. But remember, if anything happens, I’ll call on everyone.”

“I know.”

“Then go. But come back.”

“I will.”

The game ended in a draw. It was the first draw they had ever played.

Every morning in that house felt like a celebration. There were no fireworks or fanfares, but everything was so real, so warm, so full of family. And at the center of that universe was Cross Begovich.

His mother, Emira, seemed to be ready to celebrate from the first light of dawn. Together with Esma and their helper, she bustled around the kitchen as though the president himself were expected for dinner.

Poor boy… she thought, kneading the dough and nodding to herself. Always eating that fast food of his over there in his America. What do they even eat? Boxes, paper, and something reheated. Let him eat properly now. Decent food. Homemade. Our food.

There was enough food for a wedding: pies, meat, vegetables in sauce, soups, fruit compotes, baked treats. It seemed that over those three days, Cross had not only gained a couple of kilos but also regained his taste for ordinary life back home. Kenan, meanwhile, shook his head whenever another dish arrived, although he had put on a barbecue himself for the occasion, setting up a grill under the canopy. The smoky aromas rose into the air and drifted through the neighborhood. Close neighbors joined the feast too. The men stayed by the fire, eating grilled meat and washing it down with whiskey or wine. Inside, the women and children celebrated the homecoming of the Begovich family’s fine son. Laughter and conversation filled the whole place.

Still, Kenan pretended to object.

“You’re going to overfeed him!” he said with a grin. “He won’t be able to fly back to America because he won’t fit in the seat.”

Deep down, though, he was pleased. The feast wasn’t only for Cross. Everyone was at the table: Kenan himself, Esma, and the children. He even joked:

“Well, let him come more often! Maybe I’ll put on a little weight from happiness too.”

His wife narrowed her eyes and tossed a spoon his way.

“You poor thing, wasting away! Nobody feeds you, do they? How many kilos do you weigh?”

“One hundred and twenty!”

Everyone laughed. Cross felt more than comfortable. He felt happy. Every part of him was at rest: his mind, his back, his chest. He wasn’t thinking, planning, or defending himself. He was among his own. And that feeling soaked into him like the smell of fresh bread into the walls of an old house. Sometimes a dangerous thought even crossed his mind: perhaps… he could stay? What was all the rest for? Money, deals, ambition. Everything here was simple. And clean.

The scents of home, of his native soil, of warm bread on the table, and of everything words could never capture brought an ache of longing, taking him back to being ten years old, when his mother was calling him to dinner again. Here, he didn’t have to explain who he was, why he spoke in a certain tone, or why he was silent. Here, one look from his mother could make the day brighter.

And there were the children. Three nephews and little Selma. All four believed that Cross had come into this world exclusively for them. He played soccer with the boys right there in the yard. Snow lay in a thick carpet, the air was dry and fresh, and the ball kept burying itself in the snowdrifts. But that only made it more fun. They ran, fell, squealed, and put together makeshift goals using a bucket and a shovel. Cross laughed with them until he cried.

Then Selma, so serious in her knitted hat with ears, dragged him off to build a snowman. They made a crooked little fellow with such a kind face, a carrot for a nose, two buttons from a coat, and mittens that, of course, had to be washed afterward. Cross tied his old scarf around its neck and said:

“There. Now the whole family’s here.”

The little girl clapped her hands and laughed. He watched her and felt genuine happiness. No conditions, no catch. The kind that reached… all the way into his heart.

He didn’t even notice how he became part of that rhythm. How he let go of control. How his shoulders relaxed and his voice grew softer. In just a couple of days. It was a new feeling, being fully and unconditionally present. Nothing was expected of him. He didn’t have to be strong, successful, or ready for anything. He only had to be there. And take it all in… Home. His family. Bread. Snow. The little scarf on the snowman.

Chapter 5

But on the fourth morning, Kenan barged into his room.

“Are you still alive in there?” His brother’s voice was loud as ever. “Come on, Mommy’s boy, get up! Enough lazing around. The barn won’t fall apart without you, but it won’t fix itself either.”

Cross propped himself up on one elbow and frowned.

“I thought you’d let me have at least a week off.”

“I’ll give you a week off! But first, a pitchfork in your ribs.” Kenan was already rummaging around the room. He tossed a warm sweater at him. “It’s below freezing outside. Don’t forget your boots.”

Half an hour later, they were walking over the crisp morning snow. Steam rose from the barn, and the air was thick as broth. The brothers and a couple of helpers cleaned the stalls, carried bales, and checked the feed. They worked in silence, but comfortably. Then Kenan wiped his forehead and chuckled.

“Remember the bull?”

Cross grinned.

“Which one? There are dozens here.”

“That one! With the torn ear. When he charged at me and you threw a sandbag under his feet. You saved me, you know. Though you could have just stood back and watched.”

“I was actually hoping he’d catch you a little,” Cross replied without batting an eye. “Teach you a lesson.”

Kenan snorted, and then they both laughed. It was an easy laugh, warm and familiar. Kenan sat beside him, put an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders, and pulled him close. They were fifteen and thirteen again… Cross smiled broadly and looked at him. Kenan clapped him on the shoulder and nodded, sharing the thought.

When sunlight began streaming through the window, Esma called them in. Breakfast was ready. The smells of freshly cooked eggs, flatbread, and honey filled the house. The children were already at the table, arguing over who would tell Uncle Cross about their dream first. He sat down, and his sister-in-law smiled as she placed a huge mug of milk and some pies before him.

“Eat up, hero. I hear you’ve finally made yourself useful for the first time in three days.”

He grinned, looked at his brother, and gave him a silent nod: Consider my keep earned.

After breakfast, they went outside again, and Cross brought the ball along without waiting to be asked. He played with the boys as though he were a kid again himself. Then Selma called him back to the snowman to straighten its scarf “so he won’t get cold.” Cross stood watching her and knew he would never be a stranger here. Never.

The kitchen had emptied out. All that remained on the table were crumbs and a cooled kettle, while the air still held a little warmth from the big dinner. The light had taken on a soft, warm glow. With her sleeves rolled up, Esma washed the dishes to the quiet splash of water. From the next room came the soft breathing of firewood in the stove and the distant voices of children. Someone seemed to be arguing over a book.

Cross stood in the doorway, his shoulder resting against the frame. He didn’t mean to get in the way. He was simply… watching. There was something strangely soothing about standing still in the shadows at the edge of the kitchen light and doing nothing. Esma felt his gaze but didn’t turn at once. She only wiped her hands on her apron and tucked back a loose strand of hair.

“What, hungry again?” she asked with a smile. “Or have you come for a late-night talk?”

“Neither,” he replied. “It just… feels good here.”

She nodded, unsurprised.

“This is our home. It heals. Especially after a long time away.”

He came closer, casually picked up a clean plate, and began drying it with the towel beside the sink.

“You’ve changed,” she said without looking at him. “You’re not just resting. Inside, you seem… quieter. Softer, perhaps… But not weaker, no. More like… you’re no longer being pulled apart.”

Cross gave a brief chuckle.

“Maybe things have just gone quiet for a while.”

“No,” she said slowly, shaking her head. “I don’t mean what’s happening around you. I’ve seen you before. You were all sharp edges, as though you were made of glass. Even your smiles seemed borrowed. But now… there’s warmth in your eyes. Even when you say nothing.”

He said nothing. The plate in his hands was already dry, but he still held it. He didn’t want to let go of the conversation or the moment.

“I’ve just come a little closer to myself,” he finally said with a sigh. “It’s easier here. You… remember who I really am.”

“We never forgot,” she replied calmly. “Even when you were far away. Even when you didn’t call. We still waited for you. Always.”

He nodded and smiled.

“Sometimes I think I lost myself, you know… Over there in New York. Or traded myself for what I can do now.”

“Perhaps,” she said gently. “But you came back. And that always means more than what you lost.”

He looked at her for a long time, thoughtfully. Everything was in that look: gratitude, regret, acceptance.

“Thank you, Esma.”

“For what?”

“For saying things simply. And getting them right.”

She smiled but said nothing. She just put her hands back in the water, and the sound of the faucet grew a little louder. Then she added:

“Go to bed. Your father will drag you off first thing tomorrow,” she said over her shoulder. “He’s been planning a surprise for you all evening.”

Cross laughed.

“Let me guess. The greenhouses?”

“The greenhouses.” She nodded. “But talk to him. He won’t say it, but he’s glad you’re here. Truly glad.”

Cross turned and went to his room. Once again, only the warm lamplight, the sound of dishes, and a woman whose eyes were also full of light and love remained in the kitchen.

As expected, his father looked into Cross’s room the next morning while it was still dark. He knocked once, as always, without ceremony.

“Shall we go?”

“Is it morning already?” Cross asked hoarsely, feeling around for his phone before abandoning the search.

“Life’s already started,” his father said with a grin. “I’m in the truck. There’s water in the thermos. Esma packed sandwiches.”

A few minutes later, Cross had pulled on his jacket and gloves and was sitting beside him in the pickup. It was old, with worn upholstery and a rumbling engine, but it ran reliably. Outside, the sky was gradually lightening. Trees with ice-covered branches slipped past along the roadside, and the road wound through the hills like an old vein.

“The greenhouses have shifted a little,” his father said, keeping his eyes on the road. “The winters have become milder, but more treacherous. Ice one day, rain the next.”

“Global warming,” Cross muttered, stretching.

“Right. Or just these damned times,” his father said curtly.

They drove in silence for a few minutes. Then Cross said:

“You look good, by the way. For an old man.”

“Thank you, son. So do you. For someone I spent half my life thinking of as a problem.”

They both laughed, briefly, in the easy way men do when neither takes offense.

By the time they reached the vineyard, the day was getting underway. The frost-covered fields steamed in the sunlight. The workers, a couple of men from the neighboring village, were already busy with the plastic sheeting, securing the fasteners and checking the tension. His father got straight to work, pointing out a tear, a section of frame that needed replacing, and a leaking joint. Cross went to fetch the tools, took off his gloves, and joined in as though he had never left.

“Remember how you hated these things?” his father asked, fastening a crossbar.

“Yes. Because they never stayed the way they were supposed to. They had a mind of their own. Like you.”

His father grunted, but smiled.

“And now?”

“Now you’ve got worse. More tolerant.”

“You know…” His father straightened and ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Three years ago, I thought that was it. Everything was gone. There was hardly any harvest. The winery was losing money. The loans… It was all choking me. Then, just like that, you turned up. Without asking, you paid it all off. You simply did it.”

Cross glanced at him.

“It was my duty as your son. There’s nothing to discuss.”

“I’m not discussing it. I remember. That’s all.”

They fell silent again. For a couple of minutes, Ismail watched his son, his lips pressed together but his eyes full of love. Somewhere, a bird called. The frosty air carried the smell of men at work, but inside, all was peaceful.