Page 136 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
His eyes lift to mine.
“Even if it’s late?”
“Especially if it’s late.”
He nods once, then leans into me.
I hold both of them there in the middle of the terminal, Erin tight around my waist and Heath pressed against my shoulder, while Alex stands close enough to give us privacy but not leaving us alone.
For today, they are safe. For today, I am back. For today, that has to be enough.
Chapter Nineteen
Maya
Amonth later, Erin burns toast because she decides the toaster is “taking too long,” and Heath tells her this is why adults should be in charge of breakfast.
“I am an adult,” I say from the kitchen table.
He looks at the blackened bread in her hand.
Heath returns to his cereal with the expression of someone who has made peace with being misunderstood. It is the closest he comes to smiling before eight in the morning. Erin throws the ruined toast into the sink, then opens the freezer with enough drama to suggest she has been deeply betrayed by modern appliances.
The apartment smells like burnt toast, coffee, butter, and the faint citrus cleaner Alex uses on every surface. We have been here for three weeks, long enough for the twins to know which floorboards creak and which neighbor leaves for work at sevenfifteen every morning. Long enough for Erin to claim the window seat in the living room as hers. Long enough for Heath to stop sleeping with his shoes on. Long enough for me to think the place might hold us—at least for now.
Not long enough for any of us to call it home without checking whether the word will stay.
“Do you have to go?” Erin asks.
“I have coffee with Victor.”
“Is he the nice uncle or the scary uncle?”
“Neither,” Heath says. “He is the uncle who looks like he knows where bodies are buried.”
I lift a brow. “That is a very specific opinion.”
“He wears expensive coats indoors.”
Erin nods solemnly. “That is suspicious.”
I laugh despite myself. It comes easier lately, which feels disloyal some days. Like Leon’s death should have left a permanent bruise across every room I enter. Like Stefano’s absence should make joy impossible. Instead, life keeps insisting on small things.
Instead, life keeps insisting on small things.
Spilled cereal. Lost socks. Erin asking whether school lunches can legally contain vegetables. Heath pretending he is not waiting for me to come home before he starts his homework.
I kiss the top of Erin’s head, then ruffle Heath’s hair before he can dodge.
“Alex will be here in ten minutes,” I say. “No fighting over the television.”
“We do not fight,” Erin says.
Heath looks at me.
I look at him.
He raises his brows.
