Chapter 36 #2
A movement from the kitchen caught my eye, and my heart lurched painfully as Edward and Lucia emerged.
Edward's face was a mess of butterfly bandages, his right eye swollen nearly shut.
Lucia's arm was in a pristine white cast that seemed to dwarf her small frame.
Both moved with the cautious steps of people in pain, but they were alive.
Standing. Looking at me with relief rather than blame.
"Edward," I whispered, already moving toward them. "Lucia. I'm so sorry. This happened because of me—because I didn't take the threat seriously enough, because I insisted on going out alone—"
"Basta!" Lucia interrupted, raising her uninjured hand. "This not your fault, bella. It is the fault of that evil man, no one else."
"Lucia is correct, Mrs. de Luca," Edward added. "We are simply grateful you are safe."
I reached them and carefully wrapped my arms around Lucia first, mindful of her cast, then Edward, who stood stiffly for a moment before returning the embrace with surprising tenderness.
They weren't just staff. They never had been.
They were family—people who had been hurt protecting me, who still looked at me with affection rather than resentment.
"Thank you," I said, my voice breaking. "For everything. For being there."
Lucia patted my cheek with her good hand. "Where else would we be, hmm? Now, you sit. I make tea."
"You will do no such thing," Rafe said, joining us with a gentle but firm tone. "You're injured. Both of you should be resting, not taking care of us."
Before either could protest, a sharp knock at the door silenced the room. Every head turned as tension instantly radiated through the space. I felt my pulse jump, a flash of irrational fear tightening my chest despite knowing that the man who'd attacked me was in custody.
Rafe moved instinctively in front of me, but Tristan was already striding to the door, shoulders squared. He checked the peephole, then visibly relaxed.
"It's Mac," he announced, opening the door to reveal the detective.
Mackenyu Tanaka stepped into the penthouse with the casual confidence of a predator entering unfamiliar territory. His dark eyes swept the room, taking in the assembled group, before settling on me. He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.
"Mrs. de Luca," he said, his deep voice carrying easily across the room. "Good to see you vertical." His gaze shifted to Rafe, something passing between them that I couldn't quite interpret. "Thought you'd want an update."
Rafe's hand found my shoulder, his thumb rubbing small circles against my collarbone.
"His name is Daniel Mercer," Mac said without preamble. "Works in cybersecurity for a firm that contracts with several major financial institutions. No previous criminal record, though we've found evidence of stalking behavior dating back nearly seven years."
Seven years. The room tilted slightly around me, and I found myself leaning more heavily against Rafe's solid frame. Seven years of being watched, photographed, followed. Seven years of this stranger collecting fragments of my life without my knowledge.
"No one recognizes the name?" Mac asked, glancing around at our assembled friends.
Heads shook, faces twisted in confusion or disgust. I tried to place the name, to recall any memory of this man from my past, but came up empty. He'd been a ghost, a shadow on the periphery of my life, invisible until he'd decided to step into the light.
"He claims he saw you perform in college," Mac continued, his eyes on me now. "Said it was 'love at first sight.'" His mouth twisted with distaste around the words.
Rafe's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Is he locked up?"
Mac nodded as something shifted in his expression—a flash of satisfaction that was quickly masked.
"Maximum security holding cell pending arraignment.
Interestingly, there was a mix-up with his processing.
He ended up in a cell with a guy who doesn't much like men who hurt women.
" One corner of Mac's mouth lifted in what might have been a smile.
"Beat him pretty badly before the guards intervened. Real shame about that paperwork error."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken understanding. I glanced up at Rafe, caught the dark approval in his eyes and the slight nod he gave Mac. No one in the room seemed particularly bothered by this accident.
"You'll stay for dinner." It wasn't a question. Rafe extended the invitation with the casual authority that was so fundamentally part of him. "We all need to eat, and Cecelia needs her family around her tonight."
For a moment, Mac's professional mask slipped as he seemed to consider the offer.
"Another time," he finally said, and something in his tone suggested he was genuinely regretful. "Still have paperwork to file on this one. I want everything locked down tight."
After Mac left, promising to check in tomorrow with any updates, Lucia insisted on overseeing dinner preparations despite Rafe's protests. "My arm is broken, not my head," she informed him with the kind of authority only a lifelong cook could muster. "I tell others what to do. Is simple."
And somehow, despite the trauma of the day, despite the lingering fear and the pain that medication couldn't quite erase, we found ourselves gathered around the dining table with plates of Lucia's famous pasta steaming in front of us.
I looked around at the protective circle that had formed around me—Evie sitting close enough that our shoulders touched, Rafe's hand resting on my thigh beneath the table.
Tristan and Kate sat across from us, their bodies angled toward each other in that unconscious way of couples who've found their center of gravity in another person.
Izzy had taken it upon herself to keep the conversation light, her inappropriate jokes drawing reluctant laughter even from Edward, who'd insisted on serving the meal despite his own injuries.
"So anyway," Izzy said, gesturing with her wine glass, "I told him that if he wanted his painting hung at that particular angle, he'd need to hire someone with a degree in advanced geometry, because I wasn't about to break the laws of physics for his ego."
"You did not say that to a client," Kate groaned, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.
"I absolutely did. Life's too short to coddle pretentious assholes. Right, Cece?"
Before I could answer, a small weight landed in my lap as Millie, who'd been quietly eating her dinner beside Kate, climbed onto me with the uninhibited confidence of a child who knows she's loved. She settled herself carefully, studying my bruised face with solemn eyes.
"Aunt Cece?" she whispered, her small hand reaching up to hover just above the darkest bruise on my cheek. "Does it hurt a lot?"
"Not too much," I lied, smiling down at her. "The doctors gave me special medicine."
She nodded seriously. "When I fell off the monkey bars, Tristan gave me ice cream. It helped more than the Band-Aid."
"Tristan’s a very wise man," I told her, catching his eye over her head. He looked momentarily flustered by the compliment.
"I'm going to draw you a picture of Jimin," Millie announced, as if conferring a great honor. "He's the best dancer in the whole wide world. Even better than Wooyoung, and he's really, really good."
"Wow, even better than Wooyoung?" I managed to keep my face appropriately impressed, though I had only the vaguest idea who these people were. "That's quite something."
Millie nodded vigorously. "You can put the picture by your bed, and when you look at it, you'll feel better right away. That's what happens when I look at my Jimin poster before bedtime. All the bad dreams stay away."
The simple, earnest kindness of her offer—this child offering the protection of her beloved K-pop idol against nightmares—made my throat tighten painfully. I pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
"That sounds perfect," I told her. "Thank you."
As conversation flowed around me, I took a moment to simply look at each person around the table.
At Edward, who'd put aside his butler formality to sit among us as an equal.
At Lucia, directing the serving of second helpings with her good arm.
At Tristan and Kate, so clearly in love despite the complicated beginning of their relationship.
At Liam, whose hand rested protectively on Evie's rounded belly.
At Izzy, whose bright laugh filled the room like a shield against darkness.
And finally at Rafe, whose eyes hadn't left me all evening. When our gazes met, he didn't even try to hide the depth of emotion in his. The raw vulnerability I saw there—the love, the fear, the fierce determination to protect what was his—made my breath catch.
In that moment, surrounded by these people who had dropped everything to be here when I needed them most, I felt something unexpected break open inside my chest. Not fear or pain or the lingering trauma of the day.
But gratitude. Pure, overwhelming gratitude for this patchwork family we'd created—some bound by blood, others by choice, all tied together by something stronger than either.
I'd always thought of myself as someone who stood apart. The dancer, the second sister, the one who didn't quite fit. But looking around this table, I realized I'd been wrong. I belonged here. With them. With him.
"What are you thinking?" Rafe asked quietly as his fingers threaded through mine beneath the table.
I smiled, ignoring the pull of my split lip. "That I'm the luckiest person alive."
His eyes darkened, and he leaned in to press the gentlest of kisses against my temple. "No, tesoro," he whispered against my skin. "That would be me."