BECOMING VALENTINO'S GOOD BOY

CH. 1: Battleline

The rain fell in heavy, unrelenting sheets, turning the world into a monochrome blur of grey and black. It had been too dangerous for fishing, yet Tare remained on the river. Hunger did not respect the weather, and neither did the river. He crouched beneath the shelter of dripping trees, his small canoe tied nearby, waiting for the downpour to ease.

Then he saw it - headlights slicing wildly through the rainy night, too fast, too unstable, cutting erratic paths between the trees that bordered the forest road above the water. A sharp swerve, a sickening crunch of metal against the bridge railing, and a heavy splash swallowed the sound.

Tare did not move at first. People who drove cars like that usually brought trouble with them.

“An accident?” he whispered to the rain. “Who drives so carelessly on a night like this?”

For a moment, nothing. Then something pale floated briefly on the surface - not debris, but fabric or an arm - before vanishing. The car was sinking.

“That car didn’t just fall,” Tare muttered. “Something pushed it.”

He shoved his canoe into the water and paddled hard toward the spot where the splash had occurred. The river was swollen and angry, its dark surface churning. He scanned the water but saw nothing; the vehicle had already disappeared beneath the black depths. His eyes lifted to the bridge above. The metal railing was twisted and broken, a jagged wound in the night.

Then, faint lights pierced the murky water below - headlights still burning underwater, glowing like dying eyes in the abyss. The car had not yet reached the bottom.

Without hesitation, Tare leaped from the canoe into the cold, turbulent river. He swam downward with powerful strokes, the current fighting him every inch. His lungs burned, but he pushed deeper until the submerged car came into view, its headlights still glowing weakly through the murk, illuminating swirling silt and the lifeless form inside.

Water had completely filled the interior. A young man sat slumped in the driver’s seat, motionless, eyes closed, seatbelt and ropes binding him in place.

Tare grabbed the door handle and yanked with all his strength, but the pressure made it nearly impossible. He braced his feet against the car’s frame, muscles straining, and finally wrenched the door open against the resistance of the water. He squeezed inside, the cold flood pressing against him, and reached for the young man. The ropes were tight - crude but effective bindings around his wrists and torso.

Luckily, as a fisherman, Tare always carried a small, sharp pocket knife. He pulled it out, sliced through the ropes with quick, desperate cuts, and freed the unconscious man. Gripping him under the arms, Tare dragged the limp body out of the car and kicked upward with everything he had left.

They broke the surface together. Rain hammered down as Tare hauled the young man onto the riverbank, gasping for air. The stranger lay completely still, lips blue, chest unmoving. Tare dropped to his knees beside him.

He tilted the young man’s head back, cleared his airway, and began CPR - firm, rhythmic compressions on the chest, followed by rescue breaths. Water poured from the man’s mouth with each push. Tare worked without pause, rain streaming down his face, his own breathing ragged.

“Come on,” he muttered between compressions. “Breathe. You have to breathe.”

Seconds stretched into an eternity. Then, suddenly, the young man convulsed. His body jerked violently as he coughed up a rush of river water. His eyes flew open, wide with terror, and he gasped heavily - great, desperate gulps of air that tore from his lungs like sobs.

He was alive.

Tare sat back on his heels, chest heaving, watching as the stranger’s dark eyes - still clouded with shock and confusion - struggled to focus on the rainy world around him.