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“Are you sure you can be patient?”

I huff out a laugh. “For you? I can be anything you want me to be.”

She smiles softly. “Sleep well, Carson.”

“Goodnight, wife.”

She swallows hard, and then she’s gone. I should be going with her, sleeping in her bed, having breakfast with both of them tomorrow.

But we’ll get there.

I’m not a patient man, but for those two I can wait.

I dial all four of my brothers, putting them on a four-way video chat.

“What’s happening?” Mateo asks.

“I’m staying for the foreseeable future. I need to call Spider next and get men over here. But she knows. And we’ll figure it out.”

“We’ve got you,” Rome says as he bounces his daughter on his shoulder. “We’ll make whatever you need happen.”

Eight

RINA

My alarm goes off, and I turn over to slap the phone to shut it up, then lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.

I didn’t sleep a wink.

I mean, I didn’t expect to after everything that happened last night. I can’t stop thinking, running through everything that happened back then and last night. How long has he been living next door? When was the last time I saw the neighbors who used to live there?

I frown. Maybe two weeks ago? Has he been living over there this long, and he didn’t say anything to me until last night?

It’s all so overwhelming. My husband, the love of my life, is not only alive but just a few feet away from me. And yet, I don’t really know him at all.

He looks the same and yet so fucking different. All the new ink is one thing, but it’s in his face. His eyes. He’s not the same man I knew.

But I’m not the same either. He’s right, we have to get to know each other all over again. And of course I want that. It’s a no-brainer.

It’s also scary as fuck. What if we don’t mesh well as the new people we are now? What if Charlie has a hard time with it all and doesn’t accept Carson?

That wouldn’t happen. My kid asks for stories about his daddy all the time.

I need to stop making myself crazy.

I get out of bed and take my shower, moving through my morning routine. This isn’t my Saturday to work, so I planned to spend it with Charlie at the park, maybe watch a movie, bake some cookies.

Should I tell him about his dad over breakfast? When is the right time to tell your six-year-old that his father is not, in fact, dead, and he lives next door?

How is this my life?

I’m staring at my reflection in the mirror, my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, when I hear Charlie’s stomping through my bedroom.

The child never pitter-patters. He’s always been a stomper.

“Mom!”

“In the bathroom.” I spit in the sink and rinse my mouth and turn to find my kiddo, hair all over the place, eyes bright, holding a cup of juice. “What’s up, buttercup?”