Gio’s family is at war again. I don’t have proof—not really.
But from what my creepy customer said before he left the shop, the way he hinted about sending Gio funeral flowers, I’d bet money they’re already at war with each other.
The man’s name, Tanaka, would suggest the Chiaroscuros are fighting with the Yakuza this time around.
And even I know it’s suicide to mess with the Japanese Mafia.
The bloodshed never ends in his world.
I’ve seen enough to know that.
And running with him wouldn’t keep us safe.
It would just put a bigger target on our backs.
Still, the moment the door shuts behind him, my knees weaken.
I press my hands to my face, and hot tears slide between my fingers before I can stop them.
I don’t sob—at least not at first—but my chest feels like it’s folding in on itself, like my ribs are closing around a hollowed-out space where my heart used to be.
I love him. God help me, I love him so much it scares me.
And I know in my bones that I will never love anyone else like I do him.
I keep myself busy because if I stop moving, I’ll fall apart.
After sweeping up the broken glass from the vase I knocked over, I straighten shelves that don’t need straightening, reorganize the plants on display.
Eventually, I decide to close early.
I can’t stand the thought of one more customer walking in, pretending to browse, asking innocent questions while my brain is somewhere else entirely—following Gio out that door.
By the time I lock up, the air outside is stifling, the sun glaring down on me in the heat of the late afternoon.
It feels like it’s judging me for giving up on the kind of love a person only finds once in a lifetime—if they’re lucky.
I take the train to Jackson’s school and sit on the low half wall near the pickup location as I wait for the final bell.
When he comes running out, backpack bouncing, the sight of him knocks the air out of me.
My little boy.
My anchor.
My reason.
His dark, messy hair catches the light, and his grin is pure joy when he sees me waiting for him—like he’s never had to worryabout wars or enemies or who might be watching us from across the street.
“Hey, Jay!” I say, forcing my voice to sound bright. “I decided to close up early so you and I could go out for a treat. How about Antonio’s for dinner tonight?”
His face lights up like I’ve offered him a trip to Disneyland. “Really?”
“Really.”
We go to the little pizzeria on the corner, the one with red-checkered tablecloths and the smell of melted cheese so thick it clings to our clothes even after we go home.
Jackson chatters about school, about how Tanner beat him at dodgeball but only because he tripped over his shoelace. I laugh in all the right places, nod, ask questions.
