She’s like her uncle in that regard. Head cheerleader, dance team captain, debate team captain, class president … When Maria puts her mind to something, she excels.
Just like Don Matteo did. Like Aron did as a bodyguard, like he did as a don himself.
I can’t speak for Emily’s influence. Thankfully, I don’t see any of that in Maria’s personality or her actions. She seems level-headed, if a bit headstrong, but nothing of the mental illness that plagued Emily.
Then again, I guess Emily’s illness didn’t plague her. She seemed to enjoy it, from what little I knew of her.
We stand off to the side, watching, wringing our hands as she nails the ending and awaits the judges’ marks. This is a big step for Maria, and several scholarships are riding on today’s results. She could go to the college of her choice, really, based on grades and the achievements she’s already won, but if she got a full ride today, it would ease some of our anxiety—and ease our bank accounts. With Maria graduating a year early, we were starting to worry about how much we’d saved up.
One by one, the judges hold up their scorecards.
Ten. Nine point nine. Ten. Ten. Nine point eight. Ten. Ten. Ten.
Ten.
Maria lets out awhoopof joy, and Gia grabs me in a bear hug. The whole auditorium bursts into applause, and for a moment, I almost miss seeing it.
I almost miss the two silver foxes in the very back who start the standing ovation.
I almost miss the fact that one has brown eyes, and one has blue eyes.
A distinctive sapphire shade of blue.
My own eyes brim with tears as I mentally add sixteen years to the faces I knew, and recognition sets in.
They made it. Somehow, they knew she had an important competition today, and they made it. Despite the potential risk, despite the danger of being discovered, they came.
As her team members crowd the stage, and the reporters’ flashbulbs blind me, I lose track of Matt and Aron in the crowd. Gia and I ascend to join our daughter, and we both engulf her in a group hug.
“We’re so proud of you, Maria! We knew you could do it.”
Maria carefully wipes tears of joy from her eyes, somehow managing not to smear her makeup. “I can’t believe it. Moms, someone from freakin’Dance Magazinewants to interview me!” She fans herself with her hand. “Oh, my God, I’m gonna faint.”
Gia gives her a sharp but gentle punch in the shoulder. “You’re not going to faint. We raised a tougher kid than that.”
“She’s made of sterner stuff than that,” a familiar male voice says behind me. I turn and force a neutral expression on my face. Matt extends his tattooed hand, keeping the other one casually behind his back, and I shake it with a smile. “Matt Smith. This is my husband, Aron Smith. We’re friends of Maria’s birth family.”
They kept their first names? Bold, but not unallowed. If they managed to survive this long outside the Syndicate, I suppose they’ve earned it.
Maria’s eyes widen in shock. “You knew my parents?”
Gia and I freeze. To keep things simple, we’d told Maria that her parents died in the explosions set off by the Empire, in the early days of the brief but messy war between organizations. Granted, we told her they were victims of coincidence, collateral damage from residing in the wrong apartment building at the wrong time, but there’s no way for Matt and Aron to know what tales we spun for her safety. If we hadn’t used the names of some of the real victims of the attacks …
“We did. We’ve been keeping an eye on you from afar, watching over you in a way. You see, Matt and I were yourgodparents, but we couldn’t keep you.” Aron’s slightly wounded expression seems sincere, and his voice is tinged with an ache that only a parent could know. “We’re both very proud of your performance today. Cinder and Gia couldn’t have done a better job than they did in raising you.”
Maria beams up at him. She’s tall for her age, but Matt and Aron both still stand a few inches taller than she does. “Thank you, Mr. Smith. And, um, Mr. Smith.”
“Please,” Matt says with a warm grin, “call us Matt and Aron. Less confusing that way. Here.” He pulls a ridiculously large bouquet of roses from behind him. “For the champion. If, that is, it’s okay with her mothers.”
I take the bundle from Matt and nod. “Sure.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jones.”
So, they have been keeping tabs on us. I suppose our fake surnames are no less original than “Smith.”
Aron reaches out and hands Gia a manila envelope while Matt keeps Maria occupied with questions about her dance routine. “Here. For when she’s eighteen,” Aron whispers. “It should cover anything she needs.”
“Aron—”
