Her red hair declares allegiance to Frankie, but as she studies Wolf with a serious little face, her brows pinch in a severe expression that’s pure Monty.
Whenever she throws a fit, she clenches her tiny fists.That’s all Leo.
But right now she’s calm, issuing small, satisfied grunts that are unmistakably Kody.
We were all here for her arrival.Frankie’s husbands argued over names for weeks leading up to the birth.So Frankie solved it herself.
Kaya.
After Kody’s mother.After Monty’s childhood friend.The name stuck the second she said it.
Jag stands behind the couch with Monty, both of them half-turned toward the TV screen, deep into talks about global politics, fiscal consequences, or whatever boring shit they call relaxing.Jag is in his element, a hacktivist at heart.Monty counters a point.Jag nods and pushes back.It’s a friendly chess match, all restraint and respect.
Frankie and I share the loveseat.She has that post-baby glow that’s more about relief than sleep.She tells me about her return to the hospital after maternity leave and how much she needed to be a nurse again.
Monty slid easily into his new role as a stay-at-home father, taking the night shifts and controlling diaper changes and feeding schedules.Frankie talks about it like it’s normal.
It is now.
I tell her about the car Wolf surprised me with last week.Another vintage beauty, rescued and ready to restore.He buys me a car for every occasion.Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays.Once, because I had a sinus infection.
My collection is obscene at this point, rivaling Luke’s, and it makes me laugh every time I step into the garage.I love the cars, sure.But I love the way Wolf watches me work on them more.
Across the room, he pries his eyes off Kaya and looks up at me, giving me a blinding, proud, big-brother smile.
He’s taken his art to the next level, past skill, past reputation, and into something that feels inevitable.Everyone at the citadel wears his work on their skin.Jag and I included.
He finished Jag’s leg sleeve last month.It’s a mural of places and moments, and at its center is the face of a blue-eyed Arctic wolf, its muzzle breaking through the surface of an icy river, in a rise of ink and smoke.
Mine is smaller, tucked high on my thigh.Wolf designed it exactly to my specifications.A circle formed by three figures in motion.A jaguar in mid-prowl.A wolf curved opposite it.At the center, a dove in flight.
I also have a Trail Cat on my arm, with a black shirt and red boots.Jag pets it every time he sees it.
Wolf has been working on himself, too.His scars keep him from touching his chest, so he inked upward and outward, shading his throat, arms, and shoulders in symbols and fragments of his life.Not the bad parts.The good ones.Places.People.Moments that made him feel safe and alive.His ink is a record of joy, layered and intentional, growing as he does.
Jag glances over at me mid-sentence, checking in with a look that says,You good?I nod.Wolf grins and returns his attention to Kaya.
This is us now.No scrambling.No apologies.No waiting for the other shoe.We fit.We choose each other daily, without bargains or fear.
I’m deliriously happy.With Jag’s protective love.With Wolf’s feral devotion.With the life we built and keep choosing to live.
The broadcast in the background stutters, and a banner flashes across the TV screen.
Breaking News.
The living room shifts.Sound sharpens.My breath catches before I know why.
The anchor’s voice turns grave as footage rolls through emails, voice recordings, and red strings connecting names I already know by heart.
Adrian Crowe’s buried files and financial records have finally been dragged into the light.Decades of money trails.Front charities.Private jets.Offshore accounts.
Amid the flashing of videos and interviews are the words that fist my throat and pull me to my feet.Trafficking, underage girls, bought, moved, silenced…
Clips cut fast.A famous face, handcuffed and defeated.Another one, older and powerful, being rushed into a car.A Supreme Court justice, jaw clenched.A Hollywood legend, hiding his face.And the big one, the former U.S.president, surrounded by agents, his expression pale and furious.
I don’t gasp.I already knew every monster’s name.
The U.S.government has been trying to indict these powerful men for decades.And a criminal syndicate brought them down in twelve months.
