When Sera finally pulls back, her eyes are wet.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm so sorry I disappeared. I should have called more, I should have explained?—"
"Hush." Mr. Bolinger cups her face, studying her with the kind of attention I recognize. The way I look at my own people, evaluating, assessing. "You're alright. That's all that matters."
His gaze shifts to me, and I see the exact moment he registers who I am. What I am. His expression doesn't change, but his hand drops from Sera's face, and he steps slightly in front of her.
Protective.
I respect that.
"Mr. Bolinger," Sera says quickly. "This is Adrian. My husband."
The word still sounds strange in her mouth. Uncertain.
"Husband." Mr. Bolinger's eyebrows rise. "That was sudden. When you told me you were getting married, I thought you were joking."
"It's complicated," Sera says.
"I'm sure it is." He doesn't take his eyes off me. "Adrian Nero, I presume?"
So he does know who I am. Not surprising. You don't run a rare book shop in Manhattan for decades without learning to recognize the families that control the city.
"Mr. Bolinger." I extend my hand. "Sera speaks very highly of you."
He stares at my hand for a long moment before taking it. His grip is surprisingly strong for his age.
"She's a good girl," he says. "The best assistant I've ever had. Smart. Dedicated. Kind."
"I know."
"Do you?" His eyes narrow. "Because she disappeared for weeks without more than one phone call, and now she's back married to a man whose family—" He stops himself, glances at Sera. He smiles at her, reassuringly. "Forgive me. I'm protective."
"I would expect nothing less," I say evenly. "She's fortunate to have someone who cares about her welfare."
We're having two conversations at once. The surface one, polite and measured. And the real one underneath:I know what you are. I know what your family does. If you hurt her, there will be consequences.
I almost smile. As if this old man could do anything to me.
But he matters to Sera, so I play nice.
"Things have been difficult," Sera says quietly. "I should have visited sooner. I'm so sorry."
"I'm just glad you're here now." Mr. Bolinger touches her stomach gently. "And that you're well. Both of you."
"Pregnant. Yes." She says it softly. "Twenty weeks."
"Oh, kiddo." He pulls her into another hug, and over her shoulder, his eyes meet mine. The message is clear:You better take care of her.
I nod once. Understanding.
When they separate, Mr. Bolinger gestures to the back room. "Come. Sit. Catch me up on everything."
We follow him through the velvet curtain into a small restoration workspace. A table covered in tools I don't recognize, bottles of solutions and adhesives, brushes, gloves. A work lamp. Books in various states of repair.
This is where Sera disappeared when the world got too heavy. I can see it in the way she trails her fingers over the tools, the almost reverent way she picks up a leather-bound volume.
"First edition Dickens," Mr. Bolinger says. "Someone tried to fix it with scotch tape. Can you believe it?"
