Flat. Unconvinced. I swallow. Look back out the window. Pete would have said something. Something light. Something that made it easier. He always did. He had a way of… diffusing her. Calming her when she got like this. And when he couldn't, he'd look at me. Just a glance. A tiny shift of his mouth. And I'd know.We're in this together.My heart lurches painfully in my chest.Shit.I miss him. Not just the big things. But the small things. The teamwork. The quiet understanding. The way we handled her together. Now it's just me. And I don't feel like enough.
The car pulls up to the hospital. We don't even have to get out. The doors slide open, and there she is. Two men, Mario and Jack, I assume, on either side of her. Like bodyguards. Like she's someone important. Which, to her, she is. She beams at them. Actually beams.
"Oh, you two are just wonderful," she gushes, patting one of their arms. "Such nice young men."
She hugs them. Like they're old friends. Like she didn't just tear me apart over the phone five minutes ago. Nogoodmorning.No,are you okay?Nothing when she slides into the car. Settles in and looks around.
"How are my cats?"
Of course, that's the first thing. I close my eyes for a second. Just one. Because there it is. That look. That tight, pursed expression around her lips. The one I know too well. The one that means she's already decided how this is going to go. Her presence fills the car. Consumes it. Suddenly, there's less oxygen. Like everything has to make room for her. I feel myself shrink just a little. Instinct. Old habit. I hate that. I straighten slightly. Force myself not to fold.
"They're fine," I tell her, keeping my voice even. "They have food. Water."
She nods, but I can tell she's already dissatisfied. Already finding fault.
Beside me, Gabe says nothing. But I can feel him. Watching. Taking it all in. Every word. Every shift. Every crack.
Mom talks the entire way back. She always does that, unable to stand the silence, making me wonder if she's trying to escape her own head. Sometimes at night, I can hear her talking to herself, and good grief, it's like a sieve with leaks. Totally random and all over the place. Her mind has to be a tornado of unfinished thoughts. Or maybe she's just trying to avoid being forced to think about anything but herself and her cats.
"My kidneys hurt," she complains for what feels like the tenth time. "I told those idiots to only give me half of that contrast concoction. Now it's all in my system. It'll take weeks before I feel normal again."
I nod, having heard it all before. "Mm-hm."
"I have no energy left," she continues. "None. Completely drained. And that food, don't even get me started. Disgusting. I barely touched it."
"Okay."
"They don't know what they're doing. None of them. Just pushing pills and tests like they get paid per procedure."
"Maybe—"
"I told them?—"
Her voice keeps going. And going. And going. A steady stream ofIandmyandmethat fills every inch of the car. There's no space left. Not for me. Not for Pete. Not for anything real. I answer where expected. Little things. Automatic. Because no one else is. Because someone has to. Gabe says nothing. I don't dare look at him. I don't want to see it. The regret. The second thoughts.Why the hell did I bring these two into my life?I swallow hard. Because honestly? I wouldn't blame him if he stopped the car right here and kicked us out.
My mind starts running again. Faster now. Louder. We can't go home. Not with the cartel. Not with what happened. But I've got to go back to work. I have to. Bills don't just… disappear. The hospital… oh God. A private room. Tests. Doctors. Machines. How much is that going to cost? More than I make in a year? Two? I feel it then. The pressure. Closing in from all sides. Money. Pete. Mom. The cartel. Everything. All at once. Too much. Way too much?—
I press my lips together. Try to breathe. But it's like the air is getting thinner. Like the car is shrinking. Like… A hand closes around mine. Warm. Strong. Certain. I freeze. Look down. Gabe.
His fingers engulf my hand fully. He's not asking. A slow squeeze. Not tight. Just… there. Solid. Grounding. And just like that, something inside me cracks. My vision blurs. Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink hard. Once. Twice. But they don't go away. I don't pull my hand back. I can't. Right now, that hand is the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
By the time we reach the casino, I feel like I'm held together by threads. Thin ones. The kind that snaps if you pull too hard. Gabe doesn't let go of my hand until we're inside. All throughthe casino, Mom huffs beside me. I keep supporting her elbow, stopping every so often to give her a break. Past people who stare at him, at us. At whatever it is we must look like right now. A broken woman. A man who looks like he owns the world. Or could burn it down. We don't stop until we're upstairs. Safe. Or at least… safer. He turns to me.
"I have to go to a meeting," he explains, back to his controlled, distant tone. The one that doesn't belong to the man who held my hand a few seconds ago. "But I have men here. You'll be safe." His hand rests on my lower back. The contact is warm and electric in a way it shouldn't be. In a way I shouldn't be aware of the hand of another man on me.
"Mauro is here. If you need anything, you tell him." I nod. Because what else is there to do? "Call the kitchen," he adds. "They'll bring up whatever you want."
Mom is already moving past us, talking about tea, about blankets, about how cold she still is. I barely hear her. Because Gabe hasn't moved. He's still standing in front of me. Watching me. Trying to read my expression, which I'm sure is that of utter exhaustion. My breath stops when his hand lifts. His knuckles brush under my chin. Tilting my face up. His thumb moves against my cheek. Soft. Too soft for a man like him. Too intimate for a man I barely know.
"It'll be okay," he promises quietly.
I don't know where he draws his confidence from, but I wish I had some of it. I take a slow breath and watch him return to the elevator.
I'm over an hour late,and the others are already in the conference room. Massimo doesn't call meetings that people stroll into late. Alessio cuts off whatever he was saying mid-sentence when I enter. I didn't have a chance to clean up yet. Some of the Mexican's blood got onto my shirt. I don't give a shit, I'm not the first to arrive to a meeting in less-than-pristine clothing. It comes with the job. We all know that.
Enzo stands by the window, drink in hand, staring out over the city. Aloof in a way that announces the meeting has nothing to do with him, but I know from past experiences that nothing goes by the old goat. Damiano is half-sitting on the table, spinning a pen between his fingers, keeping his always-present restless energy barely contained. In stark contrast, Alessio leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp, tracking everything without looking like he cares.
Massimo stands at the head of the table. Four sets of eyes lock onto me as I enter. Measuring and assessing. Massimo's gaze hits hardest. Sharp. Unforgiving.
