I snort. "Havoc's got a basement full of guns and probably three bodies buried out back. Don't let the picket fence fool you."
Her eyes widen, and I realize too late she can't tell if I'm joking. I'm not sure I know either.
The twin boys, maybe seven or eight, come tearing around the side of the house, dirt bikes forgotten now. They stare at Savannah like she's some exotic creature that wandered out of the woods.
"That's Legion," one whispers to the other, loud enough for us to hear. "Dad says he killed a man with his thumbs once."
"Did not," the other argues. "Dad said it was with a pencil."
Fuck's sake. I'm going to have a word with Havoc about the bedtime stories he's telling his kids.
Savannah's hand finds mine, fingers threadin’ through with surprising strength. I look down at her, expecting to see fear or regret. Instead, I find something that looks almost like amusement.
"With your thumbs, huh?" she whispers.
"Apparently my reputation exceeds reality," I mutter, squeezing her hand. "You okay?"
She nods, eyes scanning the property again. "It's beautiful here," she says softly. "Peaceful."
It is. That's what makes it dangerous.
Places like this make you believe in things like normal, and safe, and forever.
They make you forget that the world is waitin’ just beyond the fence line, ready to tear it all apart.
But I don't say that.
Instead, I guide her toward the house, toward Havoc and his grill and his picture-perfect family that somehow exists alongside the man who plans our gun runs and maintains our armory.
June spots us from the arena and waves, calling something to the girls before heading our way. She's all vintage cardigan and perfect ponytail, looking like she stepped out of a 1950s housewife magazine. The only thing that gives her away is the way she walks—purposeful, alert, shoulders squared. Once military, always military.
"You made it!" she calls, smile warm but eyes assessing as we wait for her to catch up. She's checking Savannah for threats, for weakness, for anything that might endanger her family. I respect that. "Dinner's almost ready. Havoc's doing his famous ribs."
"Famous for what?" I ask. "Giving people food poisoning?"
June laughs, a genuine sound that makes the kids look over. "Only that one time, and it was your own fault for eating the ones he dropped on the ground."
"He didn't tell me he dropped them."
The easy banter feels strange with Savannah watching. Two worlds colliding that were never meant to touch. But her hand is still in mine, her shoulder pressed against my arm, and she's not running. Not yet.
The twins have crept closer. And the oldest boy, the one with Havoc's serious eyes, addresses me directly. "Did you really kill someone with a pencil?"
"Finn!" June's voice snaps like a whip. "What have we told you about appropriate questions?"
"Not to ask about Dad's work or anyone's prison time," the boy recites dutifully. "But this isn't about prison, it's about a pencil."
"The only thing I've ever killed with a pencil is a math test. And I failed that too."
The boy looks disappointed but nods. The twins—identical, but mirror images—peer around me at Savannah.
"Are you his girlfriend?" one asks.
Before I can answer, Savannah says, "I'm his," showing the fresh tattoo on her wrist.
The twins' eyes go wide. "Cool," they breathe in unison.
June clears her throat. "Boys, go wash up for dinner." Then she whistles and yells in the direction of the riding arena. "Put the ponies away, girls! Dinner time now!" She turns to us with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. They're at an age where boundaries are... theoretical."
