I don’t say anything to that; there’s really nothing I can say. So, I keep still while Erin pulls my hair into something that is probably meant to be a braid and may legally qualify as a knot. “She used to braid mine too.”
Heath looks down at his hands.
Erin’s fingers still in my hair. “Was she always good at it?”
“Eventually,” I laugh. “She pulled too hard at first.”
“Like me?”
“Worse,” I admit.
That pleases her enough that she keeps going. By the time she finishes, my scalp hurts, Omar looks as if he has been forced to witness a ritual beyond his understanding, and Heath has moved from the chair to the floor near the table. Not beside me. Not close enough to count as trust. But closer.
I will take it.
The house changes sometime after three. Men begin moving in the hall with more purpose. Omar steps out twice for short conversations and returns with his expression flatter each time. The staff grows quieter. The children notice, and so do I.
Heath stops coloring at one point, looking to Omar for reassurance. “Is something bad happening?”
“No,” Omar says.
I glance at him. He looks at me as if daring me to contradict him. I don’t, because whatever is happening is not a weight for the children to carry. “The grown-ups in this house walk like that when they think too hard.”
Erin considers this. “Mr. Omar walks like that all the time.”
“He must think a lot.”
“He looks like thinking hurts sometimes.”
This time, Heath smiles, and I laugh. Omar closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head at the impertinence. The moment passes, but the tension stays under the floorboards. Leon, probably. Or the FBI. Or Stefano’s men realizing a federal agent with a personal vendetta is spending the next few days in their boss's house.
All valid concerns.
Late afternoon light stretches across the sitting room when Omar finally ruins the fragile peace by clearing his throat. “The Don expects you at dinner.”
I glance back at him. “The Don can expect whatever he wants.”
“He had clothes sent for you.”
“Of course he did.”
Ignoring my comment, he continues, “And asked that you make yourself presentable.”
I look down at the robe, my bruised knees, my bandaged wrist, and the disaster Erin created with my hair. Omar’s expression does not change.
Erin giggles into her juice.
That alone is enough to make me stand when Omar indicates the door. Not because Stefano summoned me. Not because I have accepted his authority. Because if I refuse the next step, I lose access to the children before I have earned enough of their trust to matter.
Erin’s smile fades. “Are you leaving?”
“I won’t be far,” I tell her.
“Are you coming back?”
I should not promise things in a house I don’t control, but I do anyway. “Yes.”
Heath watches me over the edge of his glass, quietly measuring the word.
