I'm not the girl at the gates anymore.
And this time? I didn't come asking.
Before he can recover. Before he can lie, I greet him. "Long time no see."
His mouth opens. Closes. He looks afraid. But I'm too shaken to try to figure out why. Enzo's hand tightens—just a fraction—on my shoulder, his attention sharpens. He looks between us, his eyes narrow just enough to be dangerous.
"You two know each other?" he asks, frowning.
The question hangs there, heavier than it should.
I don't look at Bello. I don't need to. "We met once, a long time ago."
Bello clears his throat. "Years ago," he adds quickly, too quickly. Like he needs to get ahead of something that's already breathing down his neck. Enzo's gaze flicks to him. Lingers. The scars on his face seem to pull tighter as his expression shifts from curiosity to calculation. He doesn't say anything, but I can almost hear the mental note being filed away. Interesting.
Suddenly, the day catches up with me, and I'm so tired it feels like my bones have weight.
"I want to go home." Whatever home is these days. My voice cuts through whatever Enzo was about to ask next. Not pleading. Just done.
Enzo studies me for a beat longer, then nods once. "Max will take you."
I turn away before Bello can say anything else. Before he can try to explain or apologize or—worse—pretend none of this mattered. I walk down the corridor and feel it again. That familiar pressure behind my eyes. The ache that comes from holding too much inside for too long. Behind me, voices resume.Low. Controlled. Dangerous. But I don't look back. I've had enough ghosts for one night.
The distancebetween Caracas and us is growing as the jet takes us back home. I don't relax. I won't. Not yet. A doctor hovers near Whitford, already fussing, checking vitals, murmuring reassurances, and cataloging damage like a man afraid of what he'll find.
"Look at the boy first," I order.
It's not loud. It doesn't need to be. The doctor blinks, startled, then nods and pivots immediately. Smart man.
Amauri sits on one of the seats, legs dangling, hands folded tightly in his lap like he's afraid to touch anything. His eyes track everything—the doctor, the equipment, me—quiet, observant, too old for ten. Too much like me. The doctor moves gently, methodically. Checks pupils. Palpates ribs. Notes the bruises blooming along his arms and shins. Old fingerprints. Careless ones. My jaw locks.
"No broken bones," the doctor assures me. "Some superficial bruising. Dehydration. No signs of internal injury." He hesitates, then adds more carefully, "Psychological trauma, most likely. Nightmares. Hypervigilance. But physically, he's unharmed."
Unharmed.
The word lands wrong. Like calling a house intact after it's burned down.
"Thank you," I tell him anyway.
He nods and turns back toward Whitford, who is already complaining loudly.
"My back," Whitford snaps. "My legs—check my legs. I can't feel anything. I need to know they're intact."
He hasn't changed. The accident didn't humble him in any way. If anything, it made it worse. It's always about him.
I don't wait. If I do, I might finish the job I started ten years ago.
"Come," I invite softly, crouching in front of Amauri. I keep my voice even, calm, the way Enzo taught me to speak to skittish animals and frightened men. "There's a shower in the back. Hot water. Clean clothes."
He studies my face with interest. Interest. As if he's deciding something. After a second of deliberation, he slides off the seat and follows me without a word.
The back cabin is quieter. Smaller. Private. I open the bathroom door and show him how everything works, controls, towels, and where the clothes are laid out. Sweatpants. A soft shirt. Sneakers. Things that won't itch or bind.
"Do you need help?" He shakes his head, and I assure him, "You can take your time. No one will rush you."
He nods. After a moment of consideration, he looks up at me.
"My mummy?" he asks.
