Chapter 19
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 seven fifteen 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.
“Fine,” I say. “No arguing about whether cartoons count as educational programming.”
“They do,” Erin says.
“They do not,” Heath says.
I leave before breakfast becomes a federal case.
The café Victor chose is three blocks from the apartment, warm and overcrowded, full of laptops and people who look like they sleep eight hours because no one has ever tried to sell them.
I spot him near the back, seated beneath a row of framed black-and-white city photographs with an espresso in front of him and a newspaper folded beside his hand.
He does wear an expensive coat indoors.
Heath may have a point.
Victor rises when I approach. He is handsome in the quiet, unsettling way of men who have spent years learning not to reveal much. His smile is polite. His eyes aren’t.
“Agent Reeves.”
“Maya is fine.”
“I know.”
“Then use it.”
He sits again. “You sound like Stefano.”
The name catches in my chest before I can stop it.
Victor notices. But, he says nothing about it.
A server appears, and I order coffee because I need something to hold. The menu is written in looping chalk across a wall behind the counter. There are pastries arranged beneath glass. Cinnamon rolls, almond croissants, tiny fruit tarts.
The smell of butter hits me first. Then sugar. Then something turns hard beneath my ribs. I look away too quickly. Victor is watching me.
I pick up the water glass in front of me. “You called this meeting. What did you want?”
He lets me have the redirect.
“The twins’ placement is moving through the final approvals.”
My fingers tighten around the glass.
“Victor and Alex—”
“Are still committed,” he says. “Nothing has changed.”
I nod once, though my stomach twists anyway.
I know this is right. I know they need a home that is not built on my unfinished life or borrowed FBI protection.
Alex is steady. Victor is patient in the way Heath understands.
They have a house with a yard, spare bedrooms, school districts, routines.
All the things I can offer in pieces, and the reason this meeting matters.
All the things I can offer in pieces.
“They will still see me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“That was not a question.”
“No,” Victor says. “It was not.”
His voice softens slightly. “Maya, no one is taking them from you.”
The phrase is careful.
Too careful.
I stare at the table. “That is what everyone says right before a child loses someone.”
Victor does not rush to deny it. He has known enough loss to understand cheap reassurance.
“They need you,” he says after a moment. “They also need more than one person who would burn the world down for them.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “That sounds like a criticism.”
“It is an observation.”
“From a man wearing a wool coat in a heated café.”
His mouth shifts.
Then he reaches inside his jacket and places a sealed envelope on the table.
My pulse stumbles.
“What is that?”
“Information.”
I do not touch it.
“From whom?”
Victor looks toward the window, where rain has begun ticking softly against the glass.
“Stefano.”
The room narrows.
I hate that one name still has the power to do that.
“He contacted you?”
“Not directly.”
“Victor.”
“He made certain arrangements before Boston,” he says. “For the twins. For you.”
My throat tightens. “What arrangements?”
“He has people watching the house. Discreetly.”
Anger rises first. Familiar. Easy.
“He also had legal counsel prepared to support the placement. Quietly. No Savarese name attached. No pressure on the court. No leverage against you.”
I look down at the envelope.
“He could have told me.”
“He could have.”
“He should have.”
“Yes.”
The agreement makes me angrier because it leaves nowhere for the argument to go.
Victor watches me for a moment. “He didn't leave the twins unprotected.”
“No,” I say. “He left me.”
The words come out before I can stop them.
Victor’s gaze shifts.
I want to take them back. I do not.
“He thinks you hate him,” Victor says.
“Maybe I do.”
“Do you?”
The question lands with more force than it deserves.
I look toward the pastry case instead of answering. The cinnamon rolls blur behind the glass. My stomach rolls again, sudden and hard enough that I have to press a hand beneath the table.
Victor notices.
“Maya.”
“I am fine.”
“You are turning gray.”
“I said I am fine.”
The server passes near our table carrying a tray of warm croissants. Butter fills the air.
I stand too fast.
The chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
Victor rises with me. “Do you need—”
“No.”
I make it three steps toward the restroom before the nausea forces me to stop. I catch the edge of the wall with one hand and breathe through my nose, willing the room to settle.
It does not.
A month.
The number hits me without warning. A month since Boston. A month since the last night with Stefano. My hand slides to my lower stomach. The gesture is instinctive, protective, and sudden enough to scare me.
No. Not yet. Not here.
Behind me, Victor’s voice is quieter. “Should I call Alex?”
“No.” I swallow hard. “No. I just need air.”