And then someone new. The Siren.
The soft click of heels on hardwood announces her before she appears. Then she's there, and the air itself seems to shimmer. Not from her beauty, though she's striking, but from something more elemental. Joy, maybe. Or the magnetism of someone who's learned to transform pain into art.
The first thing anyone notices: the wig. Electric blue tonight, a sharp bob that frames her face like modern art. She isn't hiding behind the wig but creating something new with it, an extension of herself rather than a mask. Without stage makeup, her natural features command even more attention—wide eyes that seem to capture and reflect every flicker of candlelight, and lips that curve with such natural expressiveness you can almost hear music in their movement before she even begins to sing.The faint scent of jasmine follows her, delicate against the food's richness.
"Gabriel!" she exclaims, pulling me into a quick, warm hug that says she's glad I'm home without needing to make a production of it. When she turns to Sera, her whole face transforms, lighting up with genuine interest.
"You're the one who cooked all this?" She doesn't wait for an answer, drops into the chair beside Sera like they've been friends for years. "Anyone who feeds this group is automatically my favorite person."
The warmth is immediate, encompassing. She asks about the food, the spices, where Sera learned, and actually listens to the answers. I watch Sera relax by degrees under the attention.
"I don't think we've met properly," Sera says, clearly charmed. "I'm Sera."
"Everyone calls me the Siren," the woman says with a smile that could power the city. "Though on stage they just call me the headliner. Less poetic, more accurate."
"You're the voice," Sera says suddenly, recognition dawning. "I heard you singing the other night, through the walls. Your voice is…"
"Too loud probably," the Siren laughs. "These old walls weren't built for soundproofing."
"Transcendent," Sera finishes. "That's the word I was looking for."
The Siren's expression softens, something real showing through the perpetual warmth. "Well, now you're definitely my favorite."
The table fills. It’s me and Sera, Gunner, Logan, Adrian, Isa, and the Siren. My sister and Nico are notably absent, still in Chicago.
Adrian picks up his wine glass, that grin that means trouble.
"Father Gabriel," he says, and the title lands like a joke and a challenge. "How about some grace? Old habits and all."
The table goes quiet. They all know about the collar. They know it's in a drawer upstairs. The question seems light but isn't.
I look around the table. The candles Adrian insisted on. The food Sera created. The faces. My people, not by blood but by choice. Gunner steady, Logan watching, Isa sharp, the Siren warm, Adrian grinning, and Sera beside me with eyes that say: whatever you choose.
My hands find each other, fingers interlacing the way they have ten thousand times before. But this time, no collar at my throat. My voice, when it comes, is rougher than the practiced cadence of Father Gabriel.
"Thank you," I say simply, eyes open, looking at each face, "for this food. For the hands that made it. For this table and the people around it." Three sentences. I mean every word. "Amen."
"Amen," Adrian echoes, immediately reaching for bread. The moment breaks, conversation erupting, and somehow my simple prayer was exactly right.
Past midnight, the table looks like a battlefield. Plates empty, wine bottles drained, candle wax pooling. We've migrated to couches and chairs, that comfortable sprawl that happens when food and wine and laughter have done their work.
The Siren starts singing.
No announcement, no performance. She's curled in an armchair, wine glass in hand, and just begins. Her voice unfurls like smoke. Not smooth, but actual smoke, with weight and texture and the ability to fill every corner of a room. An old Cuban ballad I half-recognize, the melody seeming to pull memories from the walls themselves.
Adrian's sprawled on the couch, eyes closed, fingers tapping along. Logan's actually relaxed, the sweater-and-wine version I haven't seen in years. Gunner's still at the table, massive arms crossed, head back, those pale eyes closed. Peaceful. The gun under his left shoulder makes a slight bulge in his shirt, reminder that even ‘family’ dinner happens in a dangerous world.
Isa's at the bar, cleaning already-clean glasses because her hands need occupation. But when she thinks no one's looking, her eyes find Adrian. Just for a moment. The way her hand pauses mid-polish, the slight softening around her mouth. Then she catches herself, returns to the glass with renewed focus.
This is my home. Not the Delgado empire, not the dynasty. These people who kept my chair empty for years and let me fill it tonight without demanding an explanation.
I think about Homestead. The sanctuary lamp burning for an empty church. Mrs.Alvarez in her pew. Tomás covering for me, telling some story about family emergency that isn't really a lie.
The Siren shifts to something else, fingers of melody reaching into corners. Sera's hand finds mine under the table, her thumb tracing circles on my palm.
The song ends. Another begins, slower, sadder. No one moves to leave. This is the ritual. Not the food or the wine but this after, when defenses drop and people just exist together in the same space.
Adrian opens his eyes, catches me watching him. "You good?"
