I keep my eyes on the road, fingers tightening around the wheel.
“They’re…actually okay,” I admit, the words sounding strange even to me.
“Okay,” she repeats slowly, as if turning it over in her own head. “So thereissomething between you two?”
I shrug, not wanting to make a thing of it. Not yet, anyway. Things are still uncertain between us, and I don’t want to run before I walk.
“That’s good.” She looks out at the road, eyes distant, like she’s miles away in her thoughts. “Se c’è anche solo un po’ di amore, vale la pena tenerlo stretto.”If there’s even a little bit of love, it’s worth holding on to.
My chest constricts.
“I want you to be happy, Fiona,” she continues. “I know this isn’t what you imagined. And it’s not what I imagined either. But sometimes happiness doesn’t come the way we think it will.”
“You’re right. I just didn’t think that happiness would come in the form of the Russian Mob.”
She lets out a chuckle. “You’d be surprised where true happiness sometimes comes from. You take it where you can get it.”
I glance over at her, the wind gently tugging strands of her hair loose as she stares out the window like she’s remembering something far away, and I wonder what that could be.
The tires crunch over the gravel as I pull into the driveway of my childhood home, and something inside me softens. The house is small and older than I am, but it’s warm and lived-in. Paint chipping on the baby-blue shutters, a cracked front step that no one’s ever fixed.
My mom squeezes my hand before opening the door, and I follow her inside. We remove our shoes and head to the kitchen, and Dad looks up from the table, half a crossword filled in, glasses low on his nose.
He immediately smiles, his eyes crinkling. “Ciao, stellina. Come stai? Dimi, come ti trata il diavolo?”Hello little star. How are you? Tell me, how’s the devil treating you?
I laugh, shaking my head. “The devil may have a bit of an angel he’s hiding.”
He scoffs. “Lo crederò quando lo vedrò.”I’ll believe it when I see it.
“He actually wants to have you and Mom over for dinner,” I say, unzipping my coat. “Maybe tomorrow night?”
Dad raises a brow like he’s waiting for a punchline, then peers over at Mom. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
She waves him off. “I think it’s a great idea. Tomorrow night is fine. Your father will come around.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dad mutters to himself as he heads for the coffee pot and reaches for the canister. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” I slide onto a chair.
We settle around the kitchen table, mugs steaming in our hands. The warmth seeps into my fingers as I listen to Mom tell a story about the neighbor’s dog escaping again and chasing after the mailman. And for a few precious minutes, it’s like old times, and I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed that.
But the moment doesn’t last.
A sound drifts in from the back of the house, faint at first, as if carried on the tail end of a distant echo. A single dull thump, barely enough to register as anything out of the ordinary.
Mom pauses mid-sentence.
Then it comes again, louder this time. A heavier knock that seems to vibrate through the floor.
What the hell?
I glance at my parents, and the shift in their expressions is instant. The ease drains away, replaced by a wary stillness that knots in my stomach.
“Stay here,” Dad whispers as he moves toward the kitchen drawer and slides it open, pulling out the old Glock I know he hasn’t touched in years.
My pulse spikes. I grab my phone and text both of my bodyguards, asking them to check the back of the house. But a response doesn’t come.
A cold wave crashes over me as I stuff my phone into my jeans. Something is very, very wrong.
