Page 59 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
I choose the answer that belongs to Heath.
“Because right now, Stefano’s danger is pointed at your father.”
Heath looks back out the window. “That can change.”
“Yes,” I say, because lying to him would insult both of us.
His shoulders tighten.
“But if it does, I’ll be between you and him too.”
He turns on me so quickly Erin stirs on the couch.
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can promise I’ll try.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
For a second, I think he will shut down completely. I watch the wall go up behind his eyes, brick by brick, every bit of it familiar. Some children cry when they are scared. Some cling. Some rage.
Some become very, very still.
Heath goes still.
Then he says, “People who try can still leave.”
I do not know what to do with that except bleed quietly where he cannot see.
“Yes,” I say. “They can.”
That answer doesn't fix anything.
Maybe that is why he doesn't look away.
Night comes too slowly.
By the time the children are supposed to sleep, Erin has fought her own exhaustion with the dramatic determination of a tiny martyr. She refuses the bed in the room prepared for them because Heath is still in the sitting room, and Heath refuses the bedroom because Erin might need something, and Omar looks like he has considered requesting a transfer to an active warzone for the peace.
“No one is separating you,” I say for the fourth time.
Erin’s lower lip wobbles. “But what if we fall asleep?”
“Then you’ll wake up in the same place.”
Heath says nothing.
That silence answers for him.
I glance toward Omar. “Can they sleep in here tonight?”
Omar’s eyebrows lift. “In the sitting room?”
“Yes.”
“That is not what this room is for.”
