Wild.Defensive.Cornered.
It’s the same look he used to get when we were kids and he’d broken something important and didn’t know how to fix it.
For one awful second, I feel twelve years old again.
Then I remember the last few years of silence.
Mom and Dad’s funeral.
The way he only showed up to argue about money.
I sit up straighter, fury anchoring me.
“Fuck you, Marco,” I say, cold as ice.“You don’t get to judge me.Not now.Not ever.”
His jaw tightens.
“Now tell me,” I demand, voice shaking but strong, “what is going on—and why you thought kidnapping your only sister was a good idea.”
He exhales hard, running a hand through his hair like he’s unraveling.
“Fine,” he says, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.“I’m in deep trouble, Brina.”
I flinch at the nickname.
I’ve always hated it.
But what scares me isn’t the name.
It’s the way his hands tremble on the wheel.
Not nerves.Not impatience.
Fear.
The same cold, bone-deep fear that seeps into my chest and settles there, heavy, and wrong.
The kind that doesn’t come from guilt alone—it comes from knowing you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.
And the horrible, sinking certainty curls tighter in my gut.
Whatever mess Marco dragged himself into?
He’s dragged me into it too.
Somewhere—God, please—I pray that Theo knows something is wrong.
That he’s already moving.
That he’s already hunting.
Because if he doesn’t?I don’t know how this ends.
“Start at the beginning, Marco,” I say carefully, slipping into my teacher voice.
Calm.Steady.
The one I use when a child is scared, overwhelmed, or about to melt down.
