22. Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Go finish getting ready for school,” she tells the twins.
They protest.
I promise to drive them instead of making them take the bus.
That buys their cooperation.
Marley kisses my cheek.
Josh punches my arm with enough force to express both affection and resentment.
Then they run upstairs.
The moment they disappear, Mom crosses the room and throws her arms around me.
Her body shakes.
Quiet sobs break against my chest.
I close my eyes and hold her.
I missed this.
The warmth of her.
The smell of bread and lavender.
The feeling that, in this small house, I have never needed to earn my place.
“Jesus Christ.”
She pulls back and wipes angrily at her face.
“I thought I lost you.”
“I’m okay.”
“It was so difficult holding myself together for the children.”
Her French returns as her control disappears.
“I already lost your father because of a job. I couldn’t survive losing you the same way.”
The words land harder in French.
They always do when she’s afraid.
I pull her against me again.
“I’m here.”
“You could have died.”
“But I didn’t.”
“That doesn’t make me less frightened.”
“No.”
I kiss the top of her head.
“It doesn’t.”
For years, I dismissed her fear because admitting it was reasonable would have forced me to question the life I built.
My father died doing work for Francis.
I almost followed him.
Mom shouldn’t have to wait for history to repeat itself.
She steps back and inspects me with both hands on my face.
“You’re thinner.”
“I’ve been gone three days.”
“You’re thinner.”
“Fine.”
“What did you eat?”
“Fish. Bread. Rabbit.”
And Simone, though mentioning that to my mother would end this reunion violently.
“Not enough.”
Mom grabs my arm and drags me toward the kitchen.
“I’ll feed you before you disappear entirely.”
My first genuine smile since leaving the island appears.
“I missed your cooking.”
“You say that because you want extra portions.”
“That too.”
She places an enormous plate in front of me.
Eggs.
Potatoes.
Bread still warm from the oven.
I eat while she moves around the kitchen, pretending not to watch me every few seconds.
After a while, she sits across from me.
“You’re leaving that job.”
It isn’t a question.
“Yes.”
Her eyes widen.
“Yes?”
“I’m resigning tomorrow.”
Mom stares.
For years, she has asked me to consider something safer.
Something mine.
I always told her the work mattered.
That Francis depended on me.
That this was what Dad would have wanted.
Now I’m no longer sure any of that was true.
“What will you do?” she asks.
“I don’t know yet.”
“That frightens you.”
“Yes.”
She reaches across the table and covers my hand.
“Good.”
I raise one eyebrow.
“Being frightened means you finally chose something instead of allowing it to be chosen for you.”
My throat tightens.
“You sound like Simone.”
Mom becomes very still.
“Who is Simone?”
I look down at my plate.
“No one.”
My fingers move toward my eyebrow.
Mom notices.
“Luca.”
I lower my hand.
“We’ll discuss it later.”
Her eyes narrow with immediate interest.
“Is she why you’re leaving?”
“No.”
Not entirely.
“I’m leaving because I should have left years ago.”
“But there is a woman.”
I return to my breakfast.
Mom smiles.
For the first time since opening the door, there are no tears in her eyes.
“You don’t expect me to accept this.”
Francis sits behind his desk the following morning.
My resignation letter lies open before him.
I wrote it by hand.
Not because I don’t understand professional etiquette.
Because this isn’t a resignation from an ordinary employer.
Francis has known me since I was a child.
He gave me my first official position.
He paid for training I could never have afforded.
He offered stability after my father’s death.
A printed template felt dishonest.
So I wrote the truth.
I’m grateful.
I’ve fulfilled every obligation required of me.
And I’m finished.
Francis taps one finger against the page.
“You delivered this to my secretary?”
“Yes.”
“It isn’t even typed.”
“I wanted it to be personal.”
“It’s impulsive.”
“It isn’t.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Why?”
“I want something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He leans back.
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Francis studies me as though searching for signs of concussion.
I remain standing in front of the desk.
My weapon is no longer beneath my jacket.
My communication earpiece is gone.
For the first time in years, nothing on my body identifies me as his employee.
It feels strange.
Exposed.
Free.
“I asked you here to discuss a promotion,” he says.
“I know.”
“I’m considering placing you in charge of executive protection across several divisions.”
“That’s generous.”
“It’s earned.”
He gestures toward the letter.
“And you respond with this?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m declining.”
“You haven’t heard the compensation.”
“It wouldn’t change my answer.”
His expression hardens.
“You don’t want to work for me.”
“No.”
The word hangs between us.
I don’t soften it.
Francis stands.
“After everything this family has done for you?”
There it is.
The debt.
The invisible leash I have felt around my neck since I was sixteen.
“I’m grateful for what you did for my mother and siblings.”
“Your father—”
“I’m not my father.”
My voice cuts across his.
Francis becomes still.
Neither of us speaks for several seconds.
I force myself to continue more calmly.
“My father chose his life.”
I touch the edge of the desk.
“I inherited it before I was old enough to decide whether I wanted it.”
“You were proud of his work.”
“I was proud of him.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”