“And?” I prompt.
He looks down at his hands. Turns a palm up like he’s surprised it isn’t holding something.
“I’ve been thinking.”
Thinking is dangerous for him. Thinking is where paranoia breeds. But his voice doesn’t sound sharp. It sounds… cautious. Like he’s afraid of what he might find if he looks too closely.
“I don’t want to keep being…” He gestures vaguely, as if naming the problem is too much.
A liability.
A stain.
A son I can’t trust with anything that matters.
“You can change,” I say, because sometimes you offer a rope before you decide whether someone deserves it. “If you want it.”
Marco’s jaw tightens. He swallows.
“I do,” he says. Then, quieter: “I’m taking responsibility.”
The words should come as a relief. They are such small, fragile things. Matches in a windstorm.
And then he adds, like he’s waited to see if I’ll flinch: “I have a kid.”
Silence.
“You have achild,Marco?” I demand.
Marco nods. “A son.”
A son.
In my world, that word is never innocent.
I swallow hard. “You’ve never mentioned this.”
His eyes flash with defensiveness, then he reins it in with visible effort. “I didn’t know,” he says. “Not for sure.”
I wait. Pressure without raising my voice. My father’s best trick. I learned it young.
Marco exhales hard. “It was… before. A while ago. My ex disappeared. Left. I didn’t find out until later.”
“You expect me to believe a woman had your child and you did nothing about it,” I say flatly.
“I tried,” he snaps. Then catches himself. Breathes. Replaces anger with a calmer mask. “I tried to find her.”
A mask. But masks are still something. They mean he’s aware of being watched. Awareness is the first step toward control.
“And now?”
Marco leans forward slightly, eager in a way that makes my instincts prickle. “I found her.”
Enzo shifts almost imperceptibly in the corner.
“You found her,” I repeat.
Marco nods. “I got a lead. Through people. Quiet.”
