Page 107 of Dial F for Finance

“Nobody is separating you and Hannah,” he says. “I promise you.”

“You can’t promise⁠—”

“Dusty,” Dominic says. “You know me. If I make a promise, I keep it. I’m not letting them split you two up. Whatever it takes, I’ll fix this.”

Dustin looks at him for a long moment. Then he nods. “OK, Nicky. I believe you.” Then he looks past Dominic to me. “Oh, hi, Jenny. Did you know I’m a criminal now?”

“I heard,” I say. “Ten in a twenty-five. Truly lawless.”

The corner of his mouth twitches for what I’d guess is the first time since this happened. “There was a line of cars,” he says, puffing out his chest, “because I was being safe.”

Dominic claps a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder, the solid thud echoing in the cavernous foyer. “Safety first. Always. Now, let’s get you back to bed. We’ll talk through everything in the morning so we’re ready for Thursday’s meeting.”

Dustin nods, casting one last anxious glance at the rest of us before turning to ascend the rest of the stairs. Dominic shoots me a look over his shoulder—a silent, loaded, You good?—and I give him a crisp, microscopic nod.

As soon as the upstairs landing swallows them, the heavy silence of the foyer presses down on me. I slowly pivot to face Helena and Esteban and my confidence wobbles. I’ve brokered nine-figure mergers without breaking a sweat, but standing in my husband’s childhood home, under the intense, dual scrutiny of his emotional parents, is an entirely different level of risk assessment.

“So,” I say, folding my hands neatly in front of my blazer. “Tea?”

Helena’s red-rimmed eyes soften, and she suddenly surges forward, wrapping me in a fierce, cinnamon-and-sugar-scented hug. I freeze, calculating the appropriate reciprocal squeeze ratio, before tentatively patting her back.

“Thank you for coming,” she whispers into my collarbone.

“It’s really no trouble,” I say, my voice perfectly level despite the fact I’m being submerged in the kind of maternal affection I can only dream of from my own mother. I adjust my grip, committing to a solid two-second squeeze before gently disengaging to maintain my composure.

Esteban gestures broadly toward the hallway, his theatrical flair entirely undiminished by the hour. “Come, come. To the kitchen. We’ll feed you.”

I follow them into their massive kitchen where trays of freshly baked empanadas line the granite counters. I immediately step in to help, navigating the organized chaos to locate mugs and prep the kettle for tea. It’s a small, manageable task that provides a much-needed anchor.

“I don’t know what we would do without him, Jenna,” Helena sighs, sliding a plate of warm, golden pastries toward me. She wipes her hands on her apron, the adrenaline of the crisis visibly draining from her posture. “Dustin gets so anxious. He spirals, and he won’t sleep. He’ll pace the floor all night. No one else can reach him when he gets like that. But Nicky . . . he always gets through to him.”

Esteban nods solemnly, stirring honey into his mug. “It is true. He always knows exactly what to do. Always so calm, even when the rest of us are losing our minds.”

The observation aligns perfectly with my own findings. I always saw Dominic as a hurricane wrapped in a designer suit, but underneath, he’s the most structurally sound person I’ve ever met.

Heavy footsteps echo on the hardwood in the hall. Dominic enters the kitchen, his posture shifting from comforting brother to ruthless crisis manager. He pulls out a chair at the head of the oak table, sits down, and folds his large hands over the wood.

“OK,” he says, his eyes sweeping over his parents. “Dustin’s calm. Tell me everything we’re dealing with.”

Esteban clears his throat. “Legally, the officer cited him for impeding traffic and driving without a license. I confirmed it was a family vehicle and declined to make a theft complaint, so the report only reflects the traffic stop.”

I mentally log the data. Two traffic infractions. Easily negotiated with the right representation.

“The real problem is Round Hill House,” Helena interjects, twisting her dish towel into a tight knot. “The program director called at midnight. They have strict safety protocols for their supported-independence tier. Dustin and Hannah left the grounds without signing out, bypassing the front desk and the evening residential advisor.”

“A breach of facility security,” I murmur, my corporate instincts kicking in automatically.

“Exactly,” Dominic says, his jaw locking tight. “Which gives Hannah’s parents all the ammunition they need.”

“They are terrified, Nicky,” Helena says pleadingly. “They say if Round Hill cannot ensure Hannah’s physical safety—if Dustin can just wander off with her and gain access to a two-ton vehicle he isn’t legally cleared to operate—they will pull her from the program entirely. They want to move her to a higher-supervision facility in upstate New York.”

Dominic’s knuckles turn white where his hands are clasped over the oak table. “So it’s not just a schedule separation. It’s a forced relocation.”

“They’re calling it a ‘necessary care adjustment due to unmitigated risk factors,’” Esteban quotes bitterly.

“Bureaucratic nonsense,” I say, the words clipping sharply off my tongue. The kitchen goes quiet, all three Cruzes looking at me. I sit up straighter, pulling my phone from my blazer pocket. “It’s a liability defense. Round Hill is terrified of a negligence lawsuit from Hannah’s parents, so they’re shifting the blame entirely onto Dustin to prove their facility protocols weren’t at fault.”

Dominic’s gaze snaps to mine, a flare of pure, unadulterated heat cutting through his exhaustion. If we weren’t sitting in his childhood kitchen, I’m fairly certain he would drag me onto the granite counter.