Chapter 23
Lucia
Nico fallsasleep like he always does when he’s fighting it. Slow. Stubborn. As if sleep is a negotiation and he refuses to be the first one to soften.
Three stories. Two songs. One extra cup of water he doesn’t drink. One more trip to the bathroom that is absolutely not urgent.
And then his eyes finally drift shut while my hand stays on his back, steady, warm, the only thing in the world I know for sure.
“You promise?” he mumbles, half asleep.
My chest tightens. “What, baby?”
“That Papa will be there in the morning.”
The word hits the room like a dropped glass.
Papa.
He says it like it’s normal. Like it’s always been there.
I smooth Nico’s hair off his forehead carefully, like one wrong touch might wake him and make him ask another question I don’t know how to answer.
“I promise,” I whisper. “Papa will be there.”
His mouth relaxes. His hand lifts, sleepy and unconscious, and touches his ear once before falling limp against the pillow.My stomach turns. Because I’ve seen that motion twice today. In two different bodies. In the same blood.
I hold my breath until Nico’s breathing deepens into the slow rhythm that means he’s really gone. Then I stand, move to the door, check it. Deadbolt. Chain. Guards outside.
There are more layers between my son and danger tonight than there have been in his entire life.
And I still feel like I’m leaving him unprotected when I step away.
I hate that. I hate that my fear has grown teeth since I became a mother.
I look back at him one last time, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the tiny frown he wears even in sleep like his dreams are serious business.
Then I turn and slip out.
The hallway is quiet. Plush carpet that muffles sound. Warm light. Walls that feel too thick, too expensive, too permanent.
Luxury should feel like comfort. It feels like a cage with nicer locks.
I walk, anyway. Because I can’t keep pacing the edge of Nico’s bed like a ghost. Because my chest is full of something sharp and restless, and I know exactly where it’s pointing.
Turo’s study door is half closed. Light spills out in a thin line across the floor.
I push the door open.
He’s inside, standing by the desk with his back half turned to me. His tie is gone. His shirt collar is open, sleeves rolled up. One hand is braced on the desk like he needs it to stay upright.
The other hand is holding one of Nico’s toy cars. Small plastic. Bright color. Ridiculous in his fingers.
He doesn’t look like a don right now. He looks like a man caught doing something private and soft and unguarded.
He hears me. His shoulders shift. But he doesn’t turn immediately. Like he’s not sure what he’ll look like when he faces me.
When he finally does, his eyes are darker than they were this morning. Not angry. Hurt. Raw. Tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
