Elizabeth’s eyes soften, and I see her hand move like she wants to reach for me, but she doesn’t. She just listens.
“We sat there together,” I continue, the poker chip moving between my fingers like it’s keeping time with the memory. “Eating those caramel candies one by one, watching some old sitcom on TV. She laughed at the jokes. Her laugh was kind of unsteady, but it was real. For that one night, everything felt… okay. Like maybe things would be all right.” I pause, swallowing hard against the tightness in my throat. “Now, whenever I see caramel candy or flip this chip, I remember that night. It’s a reminder that even in the hardest times, there were glimpses of something good. Something worth holding onto.”
“Sin…” Elizabeth’s voice is gentle, careful. “What happened to her?”
And here’s the hard part. The part I’ve buried so deep that sometimes I can almost pretend it didn’t happen.
“She had a gambling addiction,” I say, my voice flat, emotionless, a defense mechanism I learned young. “Bad enough that it put us both in danger. By the time I was thirteen, things had gotten worse. She borrowed money from the wrong people, kept chasing that win that would fix everything.” The chip pauses in my palm, and I stare at it like it might have the answers I’ve been looking for all these years.
“I came home from school one day to find our apartment ransacked. She was there, bruised, terrified. The collectors had come. A few months after that, I came home and she was just… gone. No note, no sign of a struggle. Just emptiness.”
Elizabeth’s hand finally reaches out, covering mine where it holds the chip. The touch grounds me, keeps me from drowning in memories that have razor-sharp teeth.
“I survived on the streets,” I continue, needing to get it all out now that I’ve started. “Abandoned buildings, couches of people who took pity on me, anywhere I could crash. I learnedto be invisible, to slip through the cracks. Eventually, I heard whispers. Some of the older street kids… they knew things.” My hand tightens around the chip, Elizabeth’s warmth the only thing keeping me steady.
“My mother had been caught trying to flee town. The Hidden Hand Alliance picked her up. They said…” I have to force the words out. “They said they dumped her in the desert. A warning to anyone else thinking of running from their debts.”
“Oh God, Sin.” Elizabeth’s voice breaks, and I see tears in her eyes. For me. For the kid I was. For the mother I lost.
“I never got to say goodbye,” I say, and for the first time in years, I let myself feel the full weight of that. “Never got to tell her I understood, that I didn’t blame her, that I—” I cut myself off, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
“That’s why you rose up in the club,” Elizabeth says softly, understanding dawning in her eyes. “Why you became president. Why you protect the vulnerable.”
“I couldn’t save her,” I admit, the words like razors. “But I can make damn sure no one else gets that kind of power over me or anyone I care about. The club gave me family, gave me purpose. And I’ve built it into something strong enough that we don’t have to be victims anymore. Especially to assholes like the Alliance who don’t care about breaking up families or hurting innocent people.”
We sit in silence for a moment, my confession hanging in the air between us.
Then Elizabeth asks, so gently it almost breaks me, “What was her name?”
My voice comes out rough, weighted with decades of grief and loss. “Maria. Maria Moretti.”
Her eyes widen slightly, and I press on before I lose my nerve. “And mine is Diesel. Diesel Moretti.” I manage a bitter smile.
Something flashes across Elizabeth’s face. Surprise? Recognition? But it’s gone before I can identify it, replaced by something that looks like understanding mixed with…
Is that guilt?
“Diesel,” she says, testing the name on her tongue. “I like it. It suits the boy who survived. Who built something from nothing.”
“Got the nickname ‘Sinister’ when I was eleven for being a scheming little bastard. Eventually, it just became Sin.”
She exhales, pulling me close, and I let her. Let myself lean into her warmth, her acceptance of all my broken pieces. “I’m sorry you went through that,” she whispers against my skin, her hand on mine. “Sorry you lost your mother that way.”
“It was a long time ago,” I say, falling back on old defenses.
“Doesn’t make it hurt less.”
She’s right. It doesn’t.
We sit together in comfortable silence, her presence somehow making the memories less sharp, less jagged. For the first time in my life, I’ve let someone see the scared kid underneath all the armor, and she hasn’t run.
Elizabeth’s hand stills over mine, warm and steady, grounding me in ways I don’t know how to handle. For years, this room has been nothing but business. Brothers. Orders. War. Now it feels different. Feels like her.
She says my name, soft. But it hits like a sledgehammer. “Diesel.”
Christ. The sound of it in her mouth is a knife and a balm at the same time. Nobody says that name. Nobody is allowed to. But from her lips, it doesn’t feel weak, it feels like she sees me.
All of me.
