Chapter 2
TWO
LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA
The kitchen smelled like garlic, lemon zest, and home. Real food, not field rations, not restaurant food.
Sunlight through the windows poured across the long dining table, catching on glassware and bowls full of roasted vegetables. For once, the Olivettis weren’t negotiating legal briefings or ghosting surveillance teams, just having dinner.
Dante stood at the stove, sleeves rolled, flipping swordfish steaks with practiced ease. He looked relaxed, but that was a lie. He was never fully relaxed at his family home.
Rachel leaned on the counter beside a fresh loaf of bread, sneaking bites between smirks. Her dark curls were pulled into a messy bun, and her face glowed the way it only did when she had news she was dying to spill.
At the head of it all, crisp and commanding even in her apron, was Miriam Olivetti. She was the chief legal legend of Chase San Diego, matriarch and master of maternal interrogation. The cutting board and cross-examination table were one and the same when she was involved.
“So,” she poured herself a glass of Barolo, “what’s new in your lives?”
Dante gave a dry look. “Straight to the deposition, huh?”
Rachel laughed. “You expected appetizers first?”
“You know better,” Miriam said sweetly. “This is my kitchen. You bring updates, or you wash dishes.”
Dante sighed, plating the swordfish. “Work’s fine. Still protecting people who shouldn’t need protecting.”
Miriam arched a brow. “And your love life?”
Dante sighed. “Still classified.”
“You’re thirty-two, Dante,” she said. “You have health insurance, real estate, and a jawline that’s been called ‘architectural.’ Why am I not holding a grandchild yet?”
“Because I’m not a breeding program,” he muttered.
Rachel snorted, setting down the knife. “Dante’s allergic to vulnerability. It’s why he lives alone and owns more knives than throw pillows.”
“I’m functional,” Dante said.
“You’re emotionally feral,” Rachel countered.
Miriam sighed dramatically. “So I’m putting all my legacy eggs in your basket, Rach.”
Rachel looked sheepish but glowing. She reached for water, not wine, and that was when Dante noticed.
He frowned. “No Barolo for you?”
Rachel’s eyes sparkled. “I was wondering how long it’d take you.”
Miriam froze, mid-reach for the salad bowl. “Wait, are you…?”
Rachel grinned. “We were going to wait a few more weeks, but I suck at secrets. Scott and I are expecting.”
The kitchen erupted.
Mirriam gasped and threw her arms around her daughter, her voice catching in her throat. “Oh my God, Rachel, you’re going to be a mother!”
“I know,” Rachel’s eyes misted, “it’s terrifying and amazing, and I think I ate half the prenatal vitamin aisle.”
Dante just blinked. “Scott Waverly got you pregnant.”
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Yes. My husband, Scott. You were at the wedding, remember? You wore tactical sunglasses indoors.”
“Outdoors reception,” Dante muttered. “And I don’t trust catering staff.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Well, yes, that man got me pregnant. And he cried when we found out. Twice.”
Miriam beamed. “You’re making me a nonna. Finally.” She turned to Dante, eyes sharp. “See? One of my children delivers.”
Dante raised his glass, unbothered. “Guess that means the pressure’s off me.”
Rachel snorted. “Temporarily.”
The screen door creaked open, letting in the ocean breeze and Scott Waverly, a little windblown, a little rumpled. He carried a bottle of sparkling cider in one hand and a canvas bag in the other.
“Sorry I’m late.” He set the bottle on the counter with a sheepish grin. “One golden retriever with a tennis ball lodged in his throat didn’t think I needed to leave on time.” He leaned down to kiss Rachel on the cheek before sliding into the chair next to her.
Across the table, Dante looked up from his plate, brow raised. “So, how’s the sock-eating Saint Bernard?”
Scott grinned. “Recovering nicely. Less dramatic than the schnauzer with the engagement ring.”
Rachel laughed. “That one was my favorite.”
“You only say that because I saved the ring.”
Dante smirked into his water. “Your clients are wild.”
Scott shrugged. “It’s a living. Some people handle guns and foreign heads of state. I handle Labradoodles with trust issues.”
Miriam handed him a plate of risotto. “And you do it well, sweetheart.”
The edges had softened between him and Scott over time.
He attended the wedding, after all, standing off to the side in a sharp black suit, scanning for threats while Rachel danced like gravity didn’t exist. He knew Scott.
Trusted him in the quiet way Dante trusted anyone: through observation, not words.
But that didn’t mean he was going to go easy on him.
“So…” Dante set down his fork.
Scott gave a short laugh. “Rach, I guess you told them? Should’ve figured we wouldn’t make it through one dinner without being profiled.”
“You married into it,” Dante said, deadpan.
Rachel placed her hand over Scott’s. “I told them we were going to wait to tell the rest of the family, but… it’s hard to keep anything quiet in this house.”
Miriam’s face had softened into something radiant. “You make me proud, both of you.”
Dante raised his glass. “To future Waverly-Olivetti hybrids. May they inherit Rachel’s stubbornness and none of Scott’s client base.”
Scott raised his own with a grin. “Speak for yourself. I’m counting on a whole litter.”
Rachel groaned. “I married a pun machine.”
The wind off the ocean carried the scent of salt and eucalyptus.
La Jolla was quiet, the waves below murmuring against the cliffs like old gods sleeping.
Dante sat on the rooftop terrace, elbows on his knees, a glass of cold water sweating in his hand.
He hadn’t gone back inside after dinner. Too full of thoughts.
The door creaked behind him. Rachel appeared, wrapped in a hoodie that used to be his. She padded over barefoot and dropped into the chair beside him with a sigh.
They sat in silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder, staring out over the rooftops and moonlit water. The kind of silence built by blood, time, and the things they’d lost together.
“He would’ve loved tonight,” Rachel said eventually.
Dante didn’t answer right away.
“Dad,” she added softly, like he didn’t already know.
Dante’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”
Rachel smiled. “He would’ve been all over the grill. Trying to cut the fish before it finished resting. Arguing with Mom over wine pairings.”
“Wearing that stupid apron that said Kiss the Chef or Else.”
Rachel let out a quiet laugh. “He would’ve spoiled the hell out of this kid.”
Dante’s gaze flicked over to her belly, then back to the sky. “He’d be proud of you.”
Rachel’s voice wavered, just a little. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Another silence settled, heavier this time.
Rachel looked over at him. “You ever think about it? Having kids?”
Dante exhaled through his nose. “Sometimes.”
She tilted her head. “And?”
He was quiet for a beat. “And I don’t know what I’d give them. Not like Dad did.”
Rachel frowned. “You’d give them safety. Loyalty. A spine.”
“Dad gave us more than that,” Dante said. “He gave us a name that meant something.”
Rachel looked at him. “You think you haven’t carried that forward?”
He didn’t answer.
She reached over and squeezed his hand. “You protect people who don’t even know they need it. You walk into danger without a second thought. And tonight? You sat there and interrogated my husband like a CIA recruiter because you care. That’s not failing your legacy. That’s living it.”
Dante swallowed, jaw working. “Still doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It wouldn’t to him either,” Rachel said. “That’s why he’d be proud. Because we get it. The work. The responsibility. We still show up.”
Dante leaned back in his chair, staring at the stars.
Rachel bumped his shoulder. “You’d be a good dad, you know.”
He shook his head. “Not the soft kind.”
“Neither was he.”
Dante smiled, small but real. “You’re just saying that so I’ll babysit.”
Rachel grinned. “Obviously. You’re already on the hook for midnight feedings and teenage rage control.”
He sighed. “Better get more ammo.”
MCCLEAN, VIRGINIA
The smell of dinner greeted him at the door. Real dinner, not takeout cartons or pizza boxes. Mike was at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pot of sauce like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sam sat at the table doing homework, his brow furrowed but calm.
Shannon was leaning against the counter, barefoot, teasing her brother. Her sharp, unguarded laugh carried across the kitchen, and for the first time in months, it didn’t sound like a weapon.
Ford walked through the doorway. “Mmm, smells good.” He took in the scene. “Hey, kids. Dad invited me. What’s the special occasion?”
Mike turned, spotting him. “You’re just in time. Grab a plate.”
Ford raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you cook?”
“Since two weeks ago.” There was no edge in his voice, no hollow echo. Just a man who finally decided to show up.
Shannon glanced over, and instead of the tight-lipped defiance she usually threw his way, she gave him the faintest nod. Ford stepped in, rolled up his sleeves, and took the knife Mike handed him to start slicing tomatoes for the salad.
The storm in the Johnson house had passed for now. For the first time in a long time, the air didn’t feel like it might break at any second.
It was late evening, the kind of quiet that only settled once homework was finished and the TV muted.
Sam was sprawled on the couch with a controller in his hands, but he wasn’t really playing.
Shannon sat cross-legged on the rug, her Academy appointment letter spread out in front of her like it might change if she read it one more time.
Mike was in the armchair, his scotch half-touched on the side table. He was watching her more than the paperwork sitting in his lap.
Shannon let out a long breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Sam looked up. “You can do anything.”
She gave him a half smile. “You’re supposed to say that. You’re my brother.”
“I mean it.” His voice cracked. “You’re the one who always figures it out. You don’t let anyone push you around. Not even Dad.”
Mike lifted an eyebrow at that but didn’t argue.
Shannon looked back down at the letter. “It’s not just school, though. It’s… everything. Discipline, rules, people telling me who to be. What if I screw it up?”
Mike leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Then you get back up. That’s all the Air Force ever asked of me. Not perfection. Just getting back up when I fell.”
Her eyes flicked to him, softer now. “Mom wanted this so badly.”
“She’d be proud of any choice you make.” Her father’s eyes locked with hers.
“Shan, I can’t tell you what to choose. You’ve got the grades, the offers, every option in the world.
But this one, this one is bigger than us.
Bigger than me or Mom. If you want it, I’ll back you all the way.
If you don’t… I’ll back you and still be proud. ”
Sam nudged her knee with his foot. “Come on. You in a cockpit? You’d scare the crap out of everyone.” He tilted his head and smiled. “In a good way.”
Shannon picked up the letter, folded it carefully, and held it against her chest. “I’m gonna do it. I’ll go.”
Mike let out a breath. “Then that’s it, you’re going to be a cadet.”
She looked at him, almost shy. “You really think I can handle it?”
“I know you can,” he said.
And this time, she believed him.