Victor met his eyes. “Your daughter needed the restaurant protected. The cost was acceptable.”
Her father grunted. It was the sound he made when evaluating produce at the market: assessing worth, calculating value. He’d spent thirty years making those calculations.
“My wife’s family owned a restaurant in Taipei,” he said. “Before we came here. When the government tried to take it, my father-in-law burned it down himself. Rather than let them have it.”
Victor said nothing. He went very still—she felt it like a held breath.
“Stupid,” her father continued. “Everyone said so. Lost everything. Had to start over in America with nothing.” He looked at Victor’s branded palm again. “But my wife never forgot that he chose the fire himself.”
He reached through the doorway; not for a handshake, but palm-up. An offering. Victor hesitated, then placed his branded hand in her father’s grip. The old man studied the mark for a long moment, thumb tracing the edge of the scar.
“This will heal?”
“No. It’s permanent.”
Her father nodded once, as if that confirmed something. Then he released Victor’s hand and stepped back.
“You eat dinner with us on Sundays,” he said. “We’ll bring the table to the door.”
Ava looked away. Busied herself wiping down a counter that didn’t need wiping.
When she looked back, her father had returned to the booth. Victor was still in the doorway, examining his branded palm like he’d never seen it before.
“Sunday,” her father called over his shoulder. “Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”
CHAPTER 18
They didn’t talk on the drive back to Victor’s apartment.
Ava watched the city slide past the Tesla’s windows: Queens giving way to Manhattan, the skyline growing taller as they crossed the bridge. Victor’s exhaustion pressed against her like a physical weight. His pain, still radiating from the brand on his palm. And underneath it all, something she couldn’t quite read. Something he was holding back.
He kept his injured hand in his lap, palm up. The brand had stopped smoking, but the skin was still raw: three flames in a circle, seared into flesh that should have healed instantly. Whatever magic the hearth had used, it wasn’t letting go.
“Does it hurt?” she asked finally.
“Yes.” He didn’t look away from the road. “It will for a while. Old magic doesn’t heal the same way.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Weeks. Maybe longer.” A pause. “It doesn’t matter.”
But it did matter. She could feel it through the bond: the way he was compartmentalizing the pain, boxing it away so she wouldn’t have to carry it with him. Protecting her even now.
“Victor…”
“We should talk about what comes next.” His voice was carefully neutral. “The hearth rights will hold, but your parents still owe the debt. Two million dollars, compounding daily. The building is safe, but everything else…”
“I know.”
“Marchosias will have received the notification by now. He’ll know someone invoked ancient law against contracts bearing his seal. That buys us time, but not much. A few weeks at most before he decides how to respond.”
“I know.” She reached across the console and took his uninjured hand. “Can we just… not strategize for five minutes? Can we just be two people who had a really hard day?”
He glanced at her. Something cracked in his careful composure—she felt it like glass fracturing.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “We can do that.”
The apartment wasdark when they arrived. Victor didn’t bother with lights; just dropped his keys on the counter and walked to the window, staring out at the city with his branded hand cradled against his chest.
