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It won’t last, this peace. It can’t. Not with Ramsey still out there gunning for us. But I try not to think about that right now. Just for a moment, life feels simple.

“So,” he begins. “It’s been two weeks, and things are still quiet.”

There goes the simplicity. “Yes.”

He studies me over the rim of his mug. “That’s good.”

I shrug. “It’s temporary.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

He sighs softly. “You don’t always have to assume the worst.”

“Ramsey is still out there,” I say, because I don’t do gentle delusion. “He didn’t vanish into thin air. And he wouldn’t wait this long to make his move unless he had an actual plan.”

Dad sets his mug down. “Lexi and Grey are handling it.”

“Of course they are.” For two weeks, I’ve sat in non-stop meetings, brainstorming ideas about how we can get to Ramsey first or reading patrol reports as our searches for him come up empty.

“And you,” my dad adds. It comes out almost like a question.

“I always handle it.”

His gaze softens in a way that makes something in my chest tighten. “How are you sleeping?” he asks.

“Fine,” I lie. “And you?”

He considers that. “Not bad.”

He says it like it’s an achievement. It probably is.

These last years under Vincenzo’s thumb have taken their toll. I can see the exhaustion behind his gaze. But I can also see relief and, for the first time in years, the faintest glimmer of hope for the future.

“I was thinking,” he says, fingers tracing the rim of his mug, “about selling the house.”

I blink.

The words hang between us.

The house. The one with the heavy drapes and lavender ghosts. The one where my mother’s laugh still echoes. The one I refuse to visit too often.

“Why?” I ask, though I already know.

“I wonder if it’s time to leave the past behind,” he admits quietly.

As if the past is something you can pack into boxes. As if a bond like theirs doesn’t leave hooks in the walls, the floorboards, the body.

I look out the window to the street below. This city moves forward whether we’re ready or not. It’s a survivor that way. So is my dad, even if he doesn’t know it.

“I don’t want you anchored to something that hurts you,” I say, turning back to him even though I feel awkward being so vulnerable. We haven’t had many honest moments between us these past years. We were too busy surviving.

Now, his gaze lifts to mine, a softness in his eyes.

“She would be so proud of who you’ve become,” he says, and the words prick at my control.

I look away, forcing myself to keep it together. Silence settles again, heavier this time, but not sharp.