Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Maya
Iwake up in my own bed.
That is the first problem.
The second is that I remember getting there.
Sleep has eaten pieces of the night in jagged bites, leaving behind fragments that feel softer than they should and therefore more dangerous.
Stefano’s arms beneath me. His voice low in the hallway.
My face against his jacket. The steady rhythm of his steps as he carried me away from the children’s room because I had fallen asleep beside Heath like an amateur with no discipline and too much heart.
Thank you.
I said that.
Twice, I think.
Possibly more than twice if my exhaustion decided to humiliate me thoroughly.
Then there was the reward.
I stare at the ceiling.
“No,” I whisper to the room.
The room, having been complicit in several crimes already, offers no defense.
I remember that part too. Not in a dream-blurred way.
In a painfully clear one. Stefano telling me that if I was grateful, he might expect a reward.
Me accusing him of being sneaky. Him agreeing because he has never met a self-incriminating statement he could not make sound like seduction. Me telling him he would get one.
A reward.
I close my eyes.
Idiot.
Exhausted idiot.
Emotionally compromised idiot.
I roll onto my side and immediately regret it because every muscle in my body objects.
Sleeping beside a sick child on the edge of a mattress is not something they teach at Quantico, and for good reason.
My neck hurts. My back hurts. My wrist still aches.
My pride is in worse condition than all of them, which feels fair.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
I sit up too fast, then wince. “What?”
The door opens a few inches, and Omar’s face appears in the gap.
Of course.
“Good morning,” he says.
“That was ominous.”
“Heath’s fever is down.”
I am out of bed before the rest of my body agrees to participate.
Omar steps back when I pull open the door. He looks as annoyingly awake as ever, dressed in black, expression flat, phone in hand. I hate that a part of me is relieved to see him. Hate it more because he knows.
“How much down?”
“Enough that Bellini is pleased.”
“Bellini came back?”
“At six.”
“And no one woke me?”
“The Don ordered that you sleep.”
I stare at him.
Omar stares back.
“You let him order that?”
“I enjoyed it.”
“You enjoyed denying me information about a sick child?”
“No. I enjoyed not being the one you were angry with.”
I step into the hall. “That can be corrected.”
His mouth almost moves. “Heath asked for you when he woke.”
That stops me.
The annoyance goes out of me so quickly it leaves a hollow space behind.
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“Those exact words?”
“He asked if you came back.”
Something in my chest pulls tight.
I look away first because Omar is the last man in this house I want seeing what that does to me. “And?”
“I told him you had.”
I swallow once. “Thank you.”
Omar’s expression shifts into deep suspicion. “You are welcome.”
“Don’t look so disturbed.”
“I dislike unfamiliar situations.”
“Gratitude?”
“From you, yes.”
I almost smile.
That is worse than the gratitude, so I walk past him before either of us can examine it too closely.
The children’s floor smells like toast, medicine, and something sweet that doesn't belong to the usual sterile order of this house.
Not perfume exactly. Vanilla, maybe. Cinnamon.
Coffee. Warm things. Human things. The kind of smell that belongs in a kitchen with too much noise and someone yelling lovingly at people to eat more.
I slow near the sitting room door.
There is laughter inside.
Erin’s.
A woman’s.
Not young. Not staff-polite. Real laughter, low and warm, with a rasp at the end like she has spent a lifetime telling people the truth and enjoying how often they ignored it.
I step into the doorway.
Heath is on the couch beneath a blanket, pale and tired but awake.
His cheeks are still flushed, though not like yesterday.
Erin sits beside him with Mr. Buttons tucked beneath one arm and a piece of toast in her other hand.
Stefano stands near the window in a black suit, speaking quietly into his phone while watching the room with the kind of attention he pretends is not care.
And at the low table, arranging plates with brisk authority, is an older woman I have never seen before.
She is short, round in the shoulders, with silver hair pinned in a loose knot and brown skin creased by age, sun, and the kind of expressions that leave permanent evidence.
Her dress is simple, dark blue, covered by a white apron that looks like she chose it for practicality and would use it as a weapon if necessary.
Gold hoops hang from her ears. A rosary bracelet circles one wrist. She moves around Stefano’s guarded little kingdom like she has never feared a man in it.
She looks up when I enter.
Her eyes move over me once. Not assessing like Omar. Not inventorying like Stefano. Taking measure in a way that feels older than both.
“You must be Maya,” she says.
I glance at Stefano.
His gaze lifts from the phone.
“Dolores,” he says. “This is Maya Reeves.”
“Don’t introduce me like I’m a tax auditor.
” Dolores wipes her hands on her apron and crosses the room before I can decide what to do with her.
She takes both my hands in hers, ignoring my bandage and my surprise with equal confidence.
“Look at you. Too thin. Too tired. And still standing like you might bite someone.”
“She might,” Omar says from behind me.
Dolores turns her head. “Then perhaps people should stop putting their fingers near her mouth.”
Omar goes silent.
I blink.
Erin giggles.
Heath’s mouth twitches beneath the blanket.
Stefano looks at Dolores with the faintest curve at his mouth, and for one strange second, the entire house feels tilted off its axis.
“I like her,” I say.
Dolores pats my hands. “Good. Eat.”
“I just woke up.”
“That is not an argument.”
“It usually is.”
“Not with me.”
She releases me and points to the chair beside Heath, as if the matter has been settled by international law. I sit because every survival instinct I have tells me arguing with this woman would be more dangerous than arguing with Stefano.
Heath watches me carefully. “You came back.”
“I keep doing that.”
“You slept.”
“I was forced.”
Stefano’s gaze cuts to mine over the phone and I look back with a level of accusation.
Dolores sets a plate in front of me. Eggs, toast, fruit, and something that looks like rice pudding but smells like cinnamon and comfort.
“Eat before you glare holes through his suit,” she says.
“I wasn’t glaring.”
“You were practicing.”
Erin laughs again, bright enough to make Heath look at her instead of the door. That alone makes Dolores worth whatever trouble she will clearly become.
Stefano ends his call and slips the phone into his pocket. “Dolores will be staying for a while.”
“With us?” Erin asks.
“For now.”
Dolores clicks her tongue. “For as long as I am needed. Men always say ‘for now’ when they are afraid to admit they have made a good decision.”
Stefano looks at her.
She looks back.
He says nothing.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
“Are you a doctor?” Erin asks Dolores.
“No, corazón. I am better. I know when doctors are being dramatic and when men are pretending not to worry.”
Omar mutters something in Italian.
Dolores points at him without looking. “And I hear perfectly.”
Heath, who has been pale and quiet since I entered, makes a small sound.
A laugh.
Not almost.
Real.
Short, weak, and immediately hidden behind the edge of his blanket, but real.
The room goes still for only a fraction of a second before everyone has the sense to pretend it didn't happen. Everyone except Erin, who beams at him so openly I have to look down at my plate to keep my face together.
Dolores keeps moving like this was always expected. She checks Heath’s water. Touches Erin’s hair. Tells Omar he is blocking light from the window. Tells Stefano he looks thinner, which is apparently an accusation. Tells me I am not eating enough after I have taken exactly one bite.
It is chaos.
Warm, bossy, impossible chaos.
And somehow, inside Stefano’s controlled, guarded, weaponized house, it works.
Breakfast becomes the most normal thing I have experienced since the auction, which is a depressing measurement but still true.
Dolores coaxes Heath into three bites of toast by insulting the toast’s feelings.
Erin eats everything placed in front of her because Dolores calls her a growing girl and says growing girls need fuel if they intend to argue properly.
Omar drinks coffee in the doorway with the expression of a man surrounded by enemy forces he cannot shoot.
Stefano stays longer than I expect.
Not sitting. Not relaxing. Stefano doesn't relax so much as choose where to aim tension. But he remains near the window, watching Heath eat, watching Erin settle, watching Dolores command the room with a power no one else in the house seems willing to challenge.
When Dolores tells him to eat, he says, “I have work.”
“You have always had work.”
“I still do.”
“And yet you remain alive despite all my attempts to feed you.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Not all.”
She lifts one brow. “Do not make me tell stories in front of company.”
The corner of Omar’s mouth twitches.
Stefano gives him one look.
Omar’s face goes blank again.
I store that away for later.
Stefano moves toward the door. Erin looks up immediately, and Heath’s eyes follow a second later. It is subtle, the way both children track him now. Not trust. Not comfort. But awareness that the room shifts when he leaves.
He notices.
“Bellini will return this afternoon,” he says. “Dolores has the schedule. Maya has authority over the children’s care.”
My head turns.
He keeps going before I can react. “Omar has authority over the house. Try not to make that conflict more than necessary.”
“Define necessary,” I say.
“Ask Omar.”
“He’ll define it wrong.”
“Then argue quietly.”
Dolores snorts. “As if anyone in this house has ever argued quietly.”