PROLOGUE
SHELLY
San Ramon,California—September 1995
My boys were laughing in the backyard, the kind of full-body kid laughter that carried through windows and walls, and I pressed my hand against the swell of my belly.
“You hear that, sweet girl?” I whispered. “That’s your brothers. They’re going to love you so much.”
Another kick, stronger this time. Seven months along, and she was already making her presence known. After everything. After three pregnancies that ended in blood, grief and silent drives home from the hospital, this baby was determined to be here. To stay.
The front door burst open, and Michael’s voice filled the house.
“Shell! Boys! Get in here!”
I turned from the window to find my husband standing in the kitchen doorway, grinning so wide his face could barely hold it.He had a bottle of champagne in one hand and a newspaper in the other, and he was bouncing on the balls of his feet like Fury on Christmas morning.
“It’s out,” he said, breathless. “It’s actually out.”
I grabbed the counter. “The piece?”
“Front page of the investigative section. Six months of work, and they gave me the cover.” He crossed the room in three strides and kissed me, hard, his hand finding the side of my face. “We did it, Shell. We actually did it.”
The boys thundered in from the backyard, kicking off their shoes at the door. Fury hit the kitchen tile and slid in his socks, nearly wiping out. Blaze was more measured but no less curious.
“Why is Dad yelling?” Fury demanded.
“I’m not yelling, I’m celebrating.” Michael swept Fury up with his free arm, making him shriek. “Your dad just published the biggest story of his career.”
“What’s it about?” Blaze asked. His blue-violet eyes, my eyes, were serious and attentive. Too old for nine.
Michael set Fury down and unfolded the newspaper on the kitchen table. The headline took up half the page:
EMPIRE OF BLOOD: Inside the Ochoa Cartel’s Network from Mexico to San Francisco By Michael Gracen
“It’s about a very bad man who hurt a lot of people,” Michael explained. “And about how we stopped him.”
Blaze studied the headline the way he studied everything. Like he was memorizing it. “Did you catch him?”
“The police caught him. I just told everyone what he did.” Michael’s hand found the back of Blaze’s neck, gentle. “Sometimes the most important thing you can do is tell the truth, even when it’s hard.”
Fury was already done with serious talk, tugging on Michael’s sleeve. “Can we have the champagne?”
“Absolutely not,” I said, but I was smiling. “You can have apple cider. Michael, get the glasses.”
We gathered around the table. Me in a chair because standing too long made my back scream, Michael pouring cider for the boys, champagne for himself and a tiny splash for me. Blaze read the first paragraph of the article with his finger tracking the words. Fury tried to climb onto the table to see better.
“To Dad!” Fury announced, lifting his plastic cup.
“To telling the truth,” Michael corrected softly. His hazel eyes found mine across the table. “And to family. The only things that matter.”
We toasted. Rose kicked so hard I gasped, and Michael’s hand was there instantly, spread wide across my belly.
“She knows,” he said. “She knows it’s a good day.”
It was a good day. The best day. My boys were healthy and whole. My husband grinning like a man who’d done something that mattered. My daughter alive and kicking under my ribs after everything we’d been through to get her here.
I let myself believe it would stay this way.
