Then Matteo’s gaze flicks over, and his mouth shuts mid-sentence.
Luca turns. Sees the boy. Goes rigid.
The room drops into a silence so fast, it feels like someone cut the power.
I push my chair back. Stand. The sound of it is controlled, but the movement is sharp enough that every man in the room straightens.
“Everyone out,” I say.
Matteo blinks. “Turo?—”
“Now.”
One word. The room clears like it’s on fire. Chairs scrape. Tablets are grabbed. Men move fast, eyes down, mouths shut.No one argues. No one lingers. They file out with the kind of obedience you don’t teach with speeches.
In twenty seconds, the war room is empty. Except for Nico. And me. He hasn’t moved. His hand is still near his ear. The toy car is pressed to his chest like armor.
I step around the table slowly. Not rushing. Rushing would feel like danger. I lower myself. Kneel. The don of this house folding down until I’m eye-level with a three-year-old boy who shouldn’t have to learn what shouting means.
I keep my voice low. “Hey,” I say.
Nico’s eyes flick to mine. Dark. Sharp. Watching for the catch.
“Are you okay?”
His fingers hover at his ear again, like they forgot where to go now that the noise stopped. “You were yelling,” he says quietly.
The words shouldn’t gut me. They do. Because he doesn’t sound accusatory. He sounds like a child trying to understand something.
I nod once. Honest. “I was.”
His brows pull together in that familiar scowl. Concentration so intense, it looks like anger. “Why?”
Because men are frightened,I want to say.
Because danger is circling.
Because the world is full of mouths and fists and I’ve spent my life building walls high enough to keep it out, and now the world has found a crack.
But Nico doesn’t need the truth like that. He needs something else.
“I was worried,” I tell him. “Not mad at you. Not mad at anyone here.”
Nico considers this. The way he weighs words is unsettling for someone so small.
“Mama says yelling means someone’s scared or mad,” he says.
My throat tightens.Your mama is very smart,I think.Your mama survived.
But I only say, “She’s right.”
His fingers touch his ear again, quick. “Are you scared?”
The question lands straight in my ribs. I could lie. I’ve lied for a living. I could put a smooth answer in the space, and he would accept it because children accept what they’re offered.
But Lucia’s son looks at me like he can smell lies.
Myson.
