Chapter 28
Turo
Morning comes quietly after violence.That’s the lie of it. The estate looks the same, polished stone, filtered light, guards posted with professional stillness, but the air carries memory. Sound lingers longer after alarms. Silence feels earned instead of assumed.
I wake before the house fully stirs. Old habit. The kind you never unlearn once danger teaches you that mornings are when things break if they’re going to.
Lucia is still asleep beside me, turned slightly toward my side of the bed like she anchored herself there sometime in the night. One hand rests open on the sheet between us, not clutching, not afraid. Present.
I don’t move it. I lie still and listen. No alarms. No radios crackling. No distant footsteps running where they shouldn’t.
Just breathing.
Eventually, I rise. Shower quickly. Dress without ceremony. I pause at the mirror long enough to note the lines at my eyes, the gray threading my hair, the bruise blooming faintly along my ribs where a doorframe caught me during the rush last night.
I look older this morning. Not weaker. Changed.
Breakfast is already set when I enter the dining room, though no one is seated yet. The staff has learned not to rush family after a night like that. They place things where they belong and then disappear into quiet efficiency.
Lucia comes in with Nico a few minutes later. He’s clean, dressed, shoes on the wrong feet again. His hair refuses obedience. He’s holding a spoon like it’s a decision he hasn’t committed to yet. He’s quieter than usual. Not withdrawn. Not shut down. Watching.
He climbs into his chair without prompting and lines his napkin parallel to the edge of the table. Adjusts his cup so the handle faces the same direction as Lucia’s.
Order, where he can make it. I recognize it immediately.
Lucia catches my eye across the table, something unspoken passing between us. She knows, too. She’s been watching him for three years. She knows the difference between tired and afraid.
I sit across from Nico, not at the head. I’ve learned quickly that where I place myself matters.
“Morning,” I say.
He glances up at me. Nods once. “Morning,” he echoes, solemn.
Lucia pours juice. Slides a plate toward him. “Eat a little,” she says gently. “Then you can go play.”
He pokes at a piece of fruit with his spoon. Doesn’t eat it. “Mama?” he says.
“Yes, love?”
“Why were the loud noises last night?”
Lucia doesn’t miss a beat. She doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t glance at me for permission. She answers like she’s been doing this all his life. Truth shaped into safety.
“The men here were practicing,” she says. “Like when we do fire drills at school. Sometimes grown-ups practice keeping people safe, just in case.”
Nico considers this. His brow creases, that familiar scowl of concentration. “Was it a real fire?”
“No,” she says calmly. “But it’s important to practice, so if there ever is one, everyone knows what to do.”
He nods. Accepts that. Then, softer, “You looked scared.”
Lucia’s hand stills for half a second on her glass. Then she reaches over and squeezes his fingers.
“I was worried,” she says honestly. “But worried doesn’t mean something bad is happening. It just means we’re paying attention.”
His hand drifts toward his ear. Stops. Drifts again. I see it. I see the calculation behind it. The internal check of whether the room is safe enough to show the tell.
I don’t interrupt. I don’t correct. I don’t rush to reassure. I watch.
