"He'll be in L.A. tomorrow. I'll have a welcoming committee ready."
A slow smile curls in my chest. Cold. Precise. "I'll be there." I glance once at the reflection of my own eyes in the glass, dark, focused, unyielding. "We'll lay a trap for him."
The SUV pulls into traffic, carrying me back into the world I rule. And this time, I'm not doing it for power. I'm doing it for family.
The day settlesinto something almost gentle. Amauri sprawls on the floor in front of the TV, half-watching a cartoon while we work on a puzzle that's supposed to be for ten-year-olds but is clearly designed by a sadist. We argue about edge pieces. He cheats. I let him. At some point, we abandon the puzzle entirely and switch to a board game, then back again when he decides the rules are unfair. It feels… normal. Too normal, considering everything.
Then things start arriving. First, my phone. I stare at it for a long second before I touch it, like it might bite. I walk into the room to find it fully charged, sitting neatly on the counter, as if it never disappeared in the first place. Massimo doesn't do half-measures. I should've known.
Amauri looks up. "Is that your phone?"
"Yes," My throat is so tight it comes out as a croak. "Yes, it is."
Not even ten minutes later, there's another delivery.
"Amauri," I say slowly, blinking. "Is that?—"
"My hamster!" he yells, already off the couch and sprinting toward the carrier like Christmas came early. "Mummy, you forgot him!"
"I did not forget him," I lie weakly.
The hamster—miraculously alive, fluffy, and indignant—blinks up at us, no worse for wear. We clean his cage together, fresh bedding, food, and water. Amauri narrates everystep like he's hosting a documentary. We let the hamster run around in a plastic ball, and he bumps into furniture with reckless confidence. My laugh sounds rusty. During a quiet moment, I step aside and finally unlock my phone. It explodes. Missed calls. Voicemails. Text messages stacked so deep that I have to scroll for several seconds to hit the bottom. Friends. Acquaintances. Numbers I barely recognize.
My father.
Marianne.
Over and over.
My pulse picks up.
Before I can spiral, I call the school.
They answer immediately, voices gentle, sympathetic. They already know. Massimo called. Of course he did. They saw it on the news anyway—how terrible,how frightening,how are you holding up,what can we do to help.
"Take all the time you need," they tell me. "Just let us know when Amauri is ready to come back."
I thank them and hang up with shaking hands.
The TV hums softly in the background. Amauri is lying on his stomach now, chin propped in his hands, talking to the hamster like they're old friends. I watch him for a long moment. And then—inevitably—my thoughts drift back to Massimo. To his kitchen. To the way he stood behind me, solid and certain.
To the promises he made like they were already facts.
My life feels like it's tilting, rearranging itself without asking permission. Ten years of survival-mode instincts are struggling to catch up to the reality of having someone else take the weight.
I look back down at my phone. More messages light up the screen. My father's name sits there, heavy and unavoidable. So does Marianne's.
I don't answer any of them.
Not yet.
For now, I sit back down on the floor with my son, help him find a missing puzzle piece, and let the world wait a little longer.
Inevitably, the phone rings. Marianne.
I stare at the screen. Sooner or later, I'll have to talk to someone, and I'd rather it be Marianne than my father. I answer.
"Jenna—oh my God." Her voice spills out fast, breathless, practiced panic. "I was so worried. That shooting—are you okay? Are you hurt?"
