"Mummy!"
He launches himself across the room, a blur of limbs and momentum, arms locking around my waist. The impact knocks the breath out of me and gives it right back. I drop to my knees to hold him properly, bury my face in his hair, breathing him in like oxygen after a long, suffocating dive.
"Hey, my brave boy," I murmur, pressing kisses into his curls.
He pulls back just enough to grin past me at Massimo, and he receives his hug. Then his eyes widen as he remembers something important. Very important.
"Are we still going to the pool?" he asks, gaze flicking between us, hopeful and insistent all at once.
I look up at Massimo.
He doesn't hesitate. "Yes."
Amauri whoops, grabbing both our hands at once, clutching them like anchors, like if he holds on tight enough, nothing bad can happen. In that moment, the rest of the world—the lies, the blood, the choices waiting down the road—falls quiet.
The pool deck is empty when we arrive. No shrieking kids. No tourists with neon drinks and sunburned shoulders. No noise beyond the soft rush of water. An oasis in the middle of a humming city. Massimo had it cleared completely; security is posted discreetly at every access point, eyes alert but unobtrusive.
For a split second, guilt pricks at me. All those tourists in the hotel, spending their money, expecting the full experience. And here we are, alone in paradise because we can. But then Amaurilets out a delighted gasp and bolts forward, shoes already half-off, and the guilt dissolves. Security for my son comes first. Always.
And if I'm honest—truly honest—I feel a flicker of something else too. Enjoyment. This kind of quiet luxury. This kind of protection. This kind ofbeing chosen? It's something I could get used to. Easily. Would I want it every day? No. Amauri needs other kids, scraped knees, noise, chaos. He needs normalcy, too. But for right now? This is perfect.
Amauri doesn't wait for instructions. He barrels straight toward the water slide like it personally insulted him by existing without him. "I'M GOING FIRST," he announces, already climbing.
Massimo laughs—a real one, unguarded. He looks at me, and I realize he doesn't know what to do. Because of his scars. He doesn't like to show them even now, even with the waterpark emptied of people. With a shrug, I peel out of my dress, a little self-conscious about the bikini I got at the boutique. My stretch marks are on full display, and so is the scar from the C-section. Defiantly, I raise my chin, and Massimo's smile deepens as he shrugs out of his shirt and follows Amauri at a more reasonable pace. It seems today is the beginning of a new life for all of us.
I freeze for half a second. God. The scars are there. Faded and angry, old and new all at once, mapping battles I only know pieces of. But instead of detracting from him, they somehow make himmore. More real. More dangerous. More earned. And infuriatingly—unfairly—he's only gotten more handsome in the last ten years. Taller than I remember. Broader through the shoulders. His body has settled into its power, muscle carved by use rather than vanity. He doesn't look like a man who works out to be admired; he looks like a man built to endure, to protect, to destroy when necessary. The kind of body that doesn't ask for attention but commands it anyway.
Sunlight catches on his skin as he steps closer to the pool, highlighting the planes of his chest, the strength in his arms. There's no hesitation in him, no self-consciousness. He justis,solid, grounded, lethal. I swallow, heat pools low in my stomach, and I briefly resent the universe for this particular injustice.
Ten years apart. Ten years of hell.
And somehow, he gets to look likethat.
I tear my gaze away just as Amauri comes flying down the slide, reminding myself that now is not the time, but filing the image away anyway. For later. Much later.
"Did you see that?" Amauri beams. "Did you?"
"I did," Massimo says seriously. "Ten out of ten. Excellent form."
Amauri puffs up like he's just won an Olympic medal, then his eyes flick back to Massimo's chest. He squints, curiosity knitting his brow in that very particular way kids have when they notice something that doesn't fit their understanding of the world.
"Massimo?" he asks.
"Yes, champ?"
"What are those?" He points, vague but earnest. "The lines."
My breath catches. I hold it without meaning to. Massimo doesn't hesitate. He glances down at himself, then back at Amauri, calm and unbothered.
"These?" he points lightly. "These are from times I got hurt doing my job."
Amauri considers this. "Did it hurt a lot?"
"Some of them," Massimo admits. "But I'm okay now."
Amauri nods, satisfied with that answer. Then, after a beat, he adds solemnly, "You're like a superhero."
Massimo's mouth twitches. "Not quite."
