Enzo looks at me. "What about you?"
I look out the window, down at the river of neon and lost souls streaming through the Strip. Vegas runs because I say so. It's time to remind the city who's still in charge. "I'll take care of Manetti business; you take care of the rest."
There's a pause as the men process the end of the meeting, a ritual as old as the city itself. They don't get up, not yet. They wait for the signal.
I give it. A single nod.
The room breathes again.
Enzo stands first, not out of disrespect, but because he's earned it. He collects his glass, wipes the condensation away with the edge of a monogrammed handkerchief, and turns to Damiano. "Start with the west end. Use the new system. Less chance of a leak."
Damiano nods, already pulling up feeds. He moves with the wiry energy of a man who lives for the chase, a man who would be a serial killer in another life if not for a healthy respect for hierarchy and cash flow.
That same night…
It's almost dark when it happens. Tension has been in the air all evening, splinters of it working into the seams of every conversation. I'm rinsing a glass at the sink, half-listening to Jason, who stayed later than usual tonight, and Carter in the adjacent room. They're arguing about politics, but not really; what they're really doing is trying to one-up each other, as men do, about who knows more about the undercurrents, who's been reading the better sources, who's less naive. Carter, whose voice never drops below a certain volume even when he tries, has already managed to saylet's be realistictwice in the past five minutes. Jason, whose smile always means he's angry, is goading him on, playing the part of devil's advocate with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Amauri is at the small table with his math books, his elbows on the wood, feet swinging under his chair in time with whatever internal song he's composing. His tongue pokes out the side of his mouth, his brow furrowed with the grave importance only a fourth grader can bring to three-digit addition. He is the only one immune to the friction static in the room; he is the only one truly present, drawing pencil lightning bolts on the margins of his homework and humming to himself.
I'm watching the darkness fill the backyard through the window. There is a chill in the air, a subtle drop in pressure. I tellmyself it's the weather, but there is a part of me that has known for hours that something is coming. It's the way the wind has gone still, how the birds have vanished from the powerlines.
The glass in my hand is still cool from the drink it held a few minutes ago. I hold it under the tap, watching the thin stream of water run over my skin, and I wonder how many times I've done this exact thing in my life. Rinsed a glass. Stood at the sink. Listened to my husband argue with his friend, caretaker, driver, therapist— whatever role the man filling the silence happens to occupy today.
How many times have I tried to perform normal? How often have I told myself that if I just keep moving—keep cleaning, keep smiling, keep managing—I won't hear the voice inside me screaming to get out. To take Amauri and run. To disappear so completely that no one can ever find us again.
My father can't force me to have an abortion anymore. Amauri is here now. He's ten years old. He exists. He breathes. He laughs. I could file for divorce like every other woman in the world. Only… I'm not every other woman, am I?
To the world, I wouldn't be just leaving a husband. I'd be abandoning a—the word flashes through my mind, sharp and cruel—abroken man.The shame hits immediately. Hot and choking. I swallow it down. A man in a wheelchair. A survivor. A hero. A symbol. The public adores Carter. They see the tragedy, not the cruelty. The accident that stole his future. The golden boy brought low. They don't see the way he uses his broken body like a weapon. They don't see how carefully he wields it. They certainly don't see the man who sold me to his coach when I was eighteen.
The man who saidcall meand walked away, leaving me behind to be raped. The man who spatwhoreat me when I finally broke it off.
If I leave now, my father will take his side.
Not because he loves Carter, but because he loves optics. Because Carter is useful. Because a loyal, paralyzed son-in-law looks better than a divorced daughter with inconvenient truths.
They would frame it as a concern. For Carter. For Amauri. They would talk about stability. About routine. About what's best for the child.
And they would try to take my son.
Not that either of them truly wants him, no, he's leverage, a symbol. Plain and simple. And because he's easier to control than I am. I could survive the press turning on me. I know exactly how it would go. After all, I'm the one who would orchestrate it if the roles were reversed. The headlines, the whispers, the think pieces. The righteous outrage. The woman who left the disabled hero. The ungrateful bitch.
I could live with being hated.
But Amauri couldn't.
How does a boy grow up when his classmates' parents whisper? When his mother's name is dragged through the mud, her face paraded across screens and papers? When kids repeat things they don't understand?
I know what a witch hunt looks like. I design them for a living. I'm the PR shield for my father and my husband. I know how stories are shaped. How truths are buried. How narratives are weaponized until there's nothing left but what people want to believe.
So I stay.
I stay in a loveless marriage with a man I despise. I swallow my anger. I manage appearances. I survive on scraps of peace. Because at least this way, I have Amauri. Until I can find a way to protect him, I'm trapped. I've managed so far, and I sure as hell will keep on doing so.
Suddenly, without warning, the power goes out. It doesn't flicker. It doesn't hesitate. One second there is light, and thenext there is nothing but darkness. The sudden absence of light is so complete it seems to pull all the air out of the house. The refrigerator goes quiet. The A/C's hum dies. The clatter of Carter's voice is cut off mid-argument, and for half a second, nobody makes a sound.
Then the world erupts.
First comes the crash, no, not a crash, an explosion. The back door is obliterated inward, glass and wood splinters all at once. The shockwave throws me hard against the counter, the glass in my hand shatters, and water and blood mingle on my palm. I'm only dimly aware of the pain; the adrenaline is already pounding through my pulse, roaring, telling me to move, run, do something. But I am rooted by the sight of them: men, half a dozen at least, without masks, but all the more terrifying for it. No hesitation. No warning. They move as one, rifles up, bodies low and fast and technical, the kind of movement that comes from training, not instinct.
