I lift a hand over my heart dramatically. “Are you practicing your proposal? Cause it needs work.”
His gaze drops to it. “If you cause problems for him, I will remove you from the equation.”
There is nothing theatrical in the threat. No raised voice. No step forward. He doesn’t need to. Omar delivers it the way anotherman might deliver a weather report. Practical. Certain. Detached from whether I like the prediction or not.
“That would be inconvenient for your Don’s five-day plan.”
“Plans change.”
“So do equations.” I step closer because men who expect women to shrink before them hate it when they don’t. “And if you ever use Erin and Heath as numbers in front of me again, I’ll show you exactly how much of a threat I can be.”
For the first time, his lips twitch, just barely. It’s not respect. Not acknowledgment. But it’s something. And I’ll take it.
“Breakfast,” he says. Then he turns and keeps walking.
The room he leads me to is smaller than the formal dining room I passed earlier, which means it only seats sixteen instead of hosting a small government. Morning light fills the space through tall windows overlooking a lawn too green to be natural. One end of the table has been set with plates, juice, coffee, eggs, toast, and fruit cut into careful pieces. A perfectly civilized meal inside a house where civilization feels like an expensive costume.
Erin sits on the edge of her chair with one knee tucked beneath her, hair brushed but not well, as if someone attempted it and lost the battle early. She has a piece of toast in both hands and strawberry jam on the corner of her mouth. Heath sits beside her, smaller than I remember from the chaos of last night andsomehow older. His plate is untouched except for one bite of egg. His chair is angled slightly toward his sister. Even here, even at breakfast, he has placed himself between her and the rest of the world.
I stop in the doorway. They are alive. Clean. Dressed in clothes that fit, though the tags have been cut recently, and one of Heath’s sleeves still has a fold from packaging. No visible bruising. No restraints. No men looming over them. Just two children at a breakfast table in a mafia don’s house, which means the bar for relief has apparently fallen through the floor.
Erin sees me first. Her eyes widen. “You’re awake.”
Heath’s head turns immediately. He does not move. His expression closes before I can read what was there, and that hurts more than it should for a child who has every reason not to trust me.
“I am,” I say with a warm smile.
Erin looks at Omar, then back to me. “Are you allowed to be here?”
“Omar and I are still discussing the definition of allowed.”
Omar makes a sound behind me that could be amusement if he had more personality. Erin’s mouth twitches in a smile around the toast. Heath’s attention sharpens.
I sit on the floor instead of taking the chair opposite them. Omar’s eyebrow shifts. Erin leans forward, looking down at me.
“Why are you sitting there?”
“Because I’m tired of chairs.”
“That’s weird,” she says before taking another bite of toast.
That makes me laugh. “A lot of things are weird right now.”
She considers this and accepts it with a small nod. Heath’s gaze stays on me, guarded and flat in a way no eight-year-old should be. I make a point to keep my hands visible in my lap.
“My name is Maya,” I say.
Erin says, “You yelled at Mr. Omar.”
“It was more of a conversation.”
“It sounded like yelling to me,” Heath interjects.
“Consider me a passionate person.”
His eyes narrow. “Who are you?”
There it is. No soft lead-in. No childlike curiosity. Just the question that matters, delivered with the seriousness of someone who has learned that adults often use names as disguises.
