Chapter 25
Lucia
Nico doesn’t go downeasy tonight. Not because he isn’t tired. He’s exhausted. I can see it in the way his words get soft around the edges, the way his eyelids droop and then fight back up stubbornly.
But he’s got questions now. Questions he didn’t have yesterday. Questions he didn’t have these last three years, because I built a world small enough that loud voices couldn’t reach him.
“Why were the men mad?” he asks for the third time, curled under the blankets in a bed too big for him.
“They weren’t mad at you,” I say, smoothing his hair back. My fingers shake even though I’m trying to keep my voice steady.
Nico’s scowl appears, the little crease between his brows like a stamp. “But they were loud.”
I swallow. Because he’s right. Because loud isn’t neutral. Loud is a warning in my body. Loud is Marco slamming cabinets and laughing like it was my fault the air in the room turned sharp. Loud meanssomething is about to happen.
“Turo told them not to yell,” I say carefully.
Nico’s eyes flick up to mine. “He promised.”
“I know,” I whisper.
He touches his ear once, small fingers brushing the spot like he’s checking something. Like he’s remembering. My chest tightens.
“Is Turo… my papa?” he asks, like the word is a puzzle piece he’s been turning over in his hands all day.
Everything in me freezes. My mouth goes dry so fast, it feels like my tongue sticks to my teeth. I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to say yes. I don’t want to say no. Because yes makes it real. And no feels like ripping something out of him when he hasn’t even decided if he wants it yet.
So I do the only thing I’ve learned that works when you’re standing on the edge of something too big.
I buy time.
“Turo is… Nico,” I start, and I hate how my voice wobbles.
His eyes stay on my face, sharp and unfairly perceptive for a three-year-old.
“He’s family,” I finish.
Nico considers that, as solemn as a judge. Then he nods once. As if he’s filed it away. As if he’ll come back to it later.
“Okay,” he says, not in relief or acceptance. It’sdecision postponed.A child’s mercy.
I lean down and kiss his forehead. “I’m right here.”
He catches my wrist as I pull back, grip small but strong. “No yelling,” he says.
“I know,” I whisper. “No yelling.”
His fingers loosen. His lashes flutter. His breath deepens.
And I wait. I wait until the tension drains from his body and he sinks into sleep like it finally wins. Only then do I stand. Only then do I let my own breath come out shaky.
Because the second he’s asleep, the fear doesn’t disappear. It just changes shape.
I step out into the hall quietly, closing the door until it clicks. The sound makes my pulse spike. Always. My body never forgets what doors mean.
There are guards posted down the hall. Calm, still, not looking at me like I owe them anything. That should comfort me. It doesn’t. It just reminds me I’m inside someone else’s world. Someone else’s rules. Someone else’s protection.
And I hate how much I need it.
