It’s true, technically. Everything is working out exactly as it should. The kids are safe, healthy, thriving. I should be celebrating.
Instead, I feel like I’m slowly bleeding out from a wound no one can see.
That evening, I watch the local news while folding laundry—another luxury, having enough clothes that they need to be sorted and put away, instead of worn until they fall apart. The anchor’s serious voice fills our comfortable living room.
“The violence that has been simmering in Las Vegas for weeks shows no signs of abating. Sources say the conflict between several organized crime families has escalated…”
I change the channel quickly, but my hands shake as I fold Maisie’s new school clothes.
Eva is worried about this war that seems to be tearing Vegas apart. I know because I can see the proof every day—the black sedan that parks at the end of our street, the man inside who watches our house with professional attention.
Eva’s protection, even after everything.
But I have no way to reach her. No phone number, no address, no way to know if she’s safe or hurt or…worse.
The not-knowing is killing me slowly.
I actually gave in once, and called Leon. But the number had been disconnected.
“Robin?” Adrian appears in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. “Kids are in bed. You want to talk?”
“About what?”
He settles into the armchair across from me, the one we picked out together at a furniture store where I didn’t have to check price tags. “About how you stare at that car outside like you’re waiting for something. Or how you sometimes look like you’re going to cry when you think no one’s watching.”
“I-I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m eighteen, not eight,” Adrian says gently. “I know what you did for us. I know it cost you more than just the bartending job. And I know you and Eva had something?—”
“Shh,” I shush him. The laundry blurs in my hands. “The kids will hear.”
“No, they won’t.” He leans forward, his voice soft but serious. “Listen, I need you to know that whatever you gave up, whatever you lost—we see it. We’re grateful. And we love you.”
Tears I’ve been holding back for weeks threaten to spill over. “I’m fine, Adrian. Really.”
He doesn’t argue, but over the next few days he intercepts Maisie when she asks about Eva and Leon and whether we’ll ever see them again. He gives me extra hugs, makes my coffee in the morning, handles the little crises that used to fall to me. Like he’s trying to take care of me, give me time to grieve.
It should be comforting.
But it just makes it worse.
A few nights later, I’m taking the garbage out after dinner—a mundane domestic task that still feels pleasant after years of living in an apartment where the dumpster was two flights down and frequently overflowing. Our suburban street is quiet except for the soft hum of air conditioners. It’s been a warm spring so far in Vegas.
The black sedan is in its usual spot, about a hundred yards down the street. I’ve grown accustomed to its presence, the way I might grow accustomed to a barking dog next door. It’s part of our new normal now—the price of Eva’s continued protection.
But tonight, something’s different.
Instead of maintaining its usual distance, the car starts up and drives closer. Much closer. It stops right in front of our house, and for the first time ever, the driver gets out.
He’s middle-aged, wearing a plain black suit. “Ms. Rivers?”
My heart stops. In all my time under surveillance, either here in Vegas or when I was overseas with Eva, none of the guards has ever spoken to me. They watch, they protect, they maintain their distance. They don’t engage.
This seems…wrong.
I walk closer despite every instinct screaming at me to run back inside and lock the door. “Yes? What is it?”
“It’s Ms. Novak,” he says, and my world tilts sideways. “She’s in Vegas again and she wants to see you.”
