They sat in the stillness that followed, the name hanging in the air like a quiet solution to a loud problem.
“Martin can handle the Pentagon,” Ford circled back. “The world won’t fall apart without you there.” A pause. “But she might.”
Mike’s hand clenched just slightly around the bottle.
Ford added, “You’ve been in foxholes with less at stake.”
Finally, Mike said, “I don’t know how to talk to her anymore.”
Ford nodded. “Then don’t talk. Sit. Stay. Let her yell. Let her break. But stay.”
They sat there for another minute, nothing moving but the trees in the breeze. Inside, the lights were still on. Upstairs, her shadow crossed the window.
TWO
LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA
The kitchen smelled like garlic, lemon zest, and home. Real food, not field rations, not restaurant food.
Sunlight through the windows poured across the long dining table, catching on glassware and bowls full of roasted vegetables. For once, the Olivettis weren’t negotiating legal briefings or ghosting surveillance teams, just having dinner.
Dante stood at the stove, sleeves rolled, flipping swordfish steaks with practiced ease. He looked relaxed, but that was a lie. He was never fully relaxed at his family home.
Rachel leaned on the counter beside a fresh loaf of bread, sneaking bites between smirks. Her dark curls were pulled into a messy bun, and her face glowed the way it only did when she had news she was dying to spill.
At the head of it all, crisp and commanding even in her apron, was Miriam Olivetti. She was the chief legal legend of Chase San Diego, matriarch and master of maternalinterrogation. The cutting board and cross-examination table were one and the same when she was involved.
“So,” she poured herself a glass of Barolo, “what’s new in your lives?”
Dante gave a dry look. “Straight to the deposition, huh?”
Rachel laughed. “You expected appetizers first?”
“You know better,” Miriam said sweetly. “This is my kitchen. You bring updates, or you wash dishes.”
Dante sighed, plating the swordfish. “Work’s fine. Still protecting people who shouldn’t need protecting.”
Miriam arched a brow. “And your love life?”
Dante sighed. “Still classified.”
“You’re thirty-two, Dante,” she said. “You have health insurance, real estate, and a jawline that’s been called ‘architectural.’ Why am I not holding a grandchild yet?”
“Because I’m not a breeding program,” he muttered.
Rachel snorted, setting down the knife. “Dante’s allergic to vulnerability. It’s why he lives alone and owns more knives than throw pillows.”
“I’m functional,” Dante said.
“You’re emotionally feral,” Rachel countered.
Miriam sighed dramatically. “So I’m putting all my legacy eggs in your basket, Rach.”
Rachel looked sheepish but glowing. She reached for water, not wine, and that was when Dante noticed.
He frowned. “No Barolo for you?”
Rachel’s eyes sparkled. “I was wondering how long it’d take you.”
