“You can't bench me.” I rifle through hangers, pulling out a pair of worn Levi's. “I've been prepping this for two weeks.”
“And Leon's been out of pocket for three.” Her voice is calm. Measured. The way it always gets when she knows I'm about toargue. “You think I don't know what you're doing? Taking extra jobs, pushing harder, running yourself ragged?”
I shimmy into the jeans one-handed, hopping on one foot. “I'm fine.”
“You're spiraling.”
“I'mworking.”
Silence stretches between us. I can picture her—wherever she is—pinching the bridge of her nose the way she does when any of us test her patience.
I grab a ribbed tank from the drawer, pulling it over my head. The fabric catches on my still-damp curls and I have to wrestle it down.
“The target's security doubled,” Nonna says finally. “Six men minimum, rotating shifts, plus the new cameras on the east entrance. Without —”
“I'll improvise.” I let my hair fall loose, dark waves tumbling down my back. “I always do.”
“Improvising is what got you that scar on your hip.”
My hand instinctively brushes the raised skin beneath my jeans. A souvenir from a job that went sideways in Miami. Leon had pulled me out. Barely.
“That was different.”
“Was it?” I hear movement on her end. The creak of a chair. “You were reckless then too. Thought you had something to prove.”
“I don't have anything to prove.”
“Then why are you fighting me on this?”
Because I can't sit still. Because every night I'm not working is a night I'm thinking about things I shouldn't.PeopleI shouldn't.
I don't say any of that.
“Because the target is moving product through that warehouse in seventy-two hours.” I keep my voice steady, professional.“Girls, Nonna. Young ones. If we wait for Leon, we lose the window.”
More silence. I pace the length of my closet, bare feet silent against hardwood.
“You've confirmed this?” she asks.
“Punk intercepted the manifest last night. Twelve containers scheduled for Port Authority on Monday.” I grab a hair tie from the vanity, twisting it between my fingers. “If he's alive when those ships dock—”
“He won't be.”
I freeze. “So you're approving it?”
A long exhale crackles through the speaker. “I'm saying… I trust your judgment. Even when it's clouded by whatever's going on in that head of yours.”
“Nothing's going on in my head.”
“Ivy.” The way she says my name—soft, knowing—makes my chest tight. “You can lie to everyone else. You can't lie to me.”
I sink onto the edge of my bed, suddenly exhausted despite the hour.
“I'm fine,” I say again, but it comes out quieter this time.
“You're not. But that's a conversation for another day.” I hear the click of a keyboard on her end. “I'm sending updated schematics. Punk will run remote support. You go in fast, you go in clean, and you get out before anyone knows you were there.”
“I always do.”
