* * *
I pack like I’m someone else. Like I’m a woman taking her child to visit family. Like this is a trip, not an ambush.
Nico watches me from the doorway, clutching his dinosaur. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling too hard. “Just for a little while.”
“Where?”
“To see… friends,” I manage, because I can’t say the truth. I can’t put that world into his mouth.
He thinks about it with the seriousness of a tiny accountant. “On a plane?”
“Yes.”
He nods once, satisfied, and goes back to his toys.
His trust in me nearly splits me in half.
* * *
I book the tickets late, when Nico is asleep and the apartment feels too small to hold my fear. Economy. Cheapest flight. Back row, because it’s the only place I can keep him contained. I click purchase and feel like I’m signing away a piece of myself.
The confirmation email lands. A soft ping.
A guillotine sound disguised as technology.
* * *
At the airport, my body does what it always does when I’m scared. It scans. Exits. Cameras. Men in suits. Men who look like they know what they’re doing. Men who could be anyone.
Nico is excited. He swings my hand, chatter pouring out of him like he’s never learned fear can live in your throat.
On the plane, he climbs into his seat and immediately starts arranging the safety card and the barf bag and the little napkin in perfect order on his tray table. Straight lines. Clean edges. Control.
Once, I would’ve smiled. Once, it would’ve felt like a harmless quirk.
Now my eyes burn.
Because I know where that need comes from.
Because I know it isn’t just mine.
I buckle him in. Then buckle myself in. My arm curls around him without thinking, protective and tight, like my body is already bracing for impact. The cabin smells like recycled air and cheap coffee and other people’s impatience. Someone coughs. Someone laughs too loud. Someone’s bag falls out of the overhead bin with a thud that makes my heart jump.
I tell myself it’s fine. I tell myself I’m overreacting. I tell myself Marco isn’t on the other side of this flight with his smile and his black eyes and his entitlement. I tell myself I’m going back because I have to, not because he’s won.
But my body doesn’t believe me. Because my body remembers.
Halfway through the flight, Nico leans into me and whispers, sleepy and trusting, “Mommy?”
“Yes, baby.”
“We’re going to be okay?”
The question is small. It still guts me. I press my lips to his hair, breathe him in like oxygen, like if I take enough of him into my lungs, I can keep him safe just by holding him close.
“Yes,” I whisper. “We’re going to be okay. I promise.”
The lie tastes bitter in my mouth.
The plane begins its descent. Nico’s fingers clutch my sleeve, tight. He doesn’t like the feeling in his stomach when the aircraft shifts. He doesn’t understand it’s normal. He just knows it’s change, and change makes him reach for order.
I tighten my hold on him, eyes forward, jaw locked. Because I understand something now with sickening clarity: I am bringing Turo Mancini’s son back into Mancini territory. I don’t know if Turo knows. I don’t know if Marco told him. I don’t know if he’ll be in that courtroom, looking up when we walk in, and if his eyes will land on Nico like a bullet finding its target.
And the thought that terrifies me most, worse than recognition, worse than rage… what if he looks at my son and feels nothing?
The wheels hit the runway. The cabin jolts. People clap because people are stupid and optimistic and think landing means safety. I hold Nico tighter and swallow down the sound that wants out of me. Because I can feel it already. The cage rising to meet us.
And I don’t know how to get us out again.
