He looks good. He always does. The exhaustion around his eyes hides under swagger.
“You look tired,” she says anyway.
“I look good,” he counters, cocky.
She snorts, smoothing a hand over his cheek, but her eyes search, taking inventory. “Always so full of yourself. Sit. Eat.”
Quickly moving away from the door, I head to the living room.
Stepping inside, I spot Emiliano in his usual spot on the couch, long legs stretched out, voice low as he talks to Romiro. Valentina sits tucked beside him with Bianca curled against her shoulder. Bee’s tiny hand is fisted tight in the knit of Val’s sweater. The sight loosens something in my chest and tightens something else.
“Hey,” I say.
Val’s face softens, a flash of relief like she’s been counting heads.
“Come here,” she whispers, careful not to jostle Bee.
I slide in next to her, my fingers brushing the top of Bianca’s downy hair. She makes a soft sound, a sigh more than anything, and nuzzles closer to Val.
Ma walks in a couple seconds later, leading Lucio into the room.
“You spoil her, you know,” Val says to Lucio when he swoops in to steal the baby like a thief.
He rocks her against his chest, chain catching Bee’s little hand.
“Yeah? And?” he says, his thumb stroking her tiny fingers.
Val rolls her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. “You act as if she’s your kid.”
He grins down at Bee, stroking his thumb over her little hand before he says, “She’s the only one who doesn’t give me shit.”
“Yet,” Emiliano mutters, lifting his espresso.
Eli’s expression only ever softens for two people: his wife and his daughter. Everyone else could go to hell for all he cares.
For a few quiet minutes, we all pretend to be normal, as if my brothers don’t run a criminal enterprise. Ma enters with a tray, moving with that calm, efficient grace that used to make us all feel like nothing bad could happen while she was standing. She sets down the glasses.
“Wash your hands,” she says to Lucio without turning.
He smirks and doesn’t move. She reaches up and flicks his ear without looking.
I meet Ma’s eyes when she straightens. There’s something there—pride, worry, love—stitched together so tight I can’t pull one thread without unraveling the rest. I open my mouth to say something, anything that isn’t the ache in my chest, when?—
Glass shatters.
It isn’t a dropped cup. It’s the front doors. The sound slices the room in half, and it’s as if time stops. Everything moves in slow motion like we’re in a movie.
Lucio is already moving. Emiliano too. Romiro’s out of his chair like it’s on fire. I don’t think. I reach for Bee on instinct, but Val pulls her in tighter, curling around her. Ma’s hand is already on my shoulder, pushing hard.
“Down,” she breathes.
Men flood the entry like shadows. Masks. Rifles. The world narrows to a barrel, and it becomes clear that a bloodbath is about to ensue.
The first shot sounds like the end of something, gun pointed toward Valentina. Emiliano lunges for Val and the baby, his chair crashing back, wood splintering. Bullets cut the air. The pungent scent of gunfire fills the room, death swirling around as if inevitable.
I don’t see Ma move—I feel it. She throws herself forward, covering Valentina and Bee with her body. She’s small and somehow huge all at once, a shield made of bone and will.
The first shot steals the breath out of the room. And we can’t do anything but watch as Ma jerks. Red blooms fast across her blouse, staining the silver chain at her throat. Another impact snaps her shoulder back.
