Chapter 24
EMMA
It’s not forgiveness or even peace. But it’s a ceasefire, and right now that’s enough.
When Dad finally stands from the table and gathers his remaining men and prepares to walk out of Leo’s estate, he turns to me.
For a second we just look at each other. Father and daughter. Two people who love each other and have just spent hours negotiating around the fact that I’m choosing to stay with the man who kidnapped me.
Then he opens his arms.
I go to him without hesitation and he wraps me in a hug so tight I can barely breathe. His face buries in my hair, and I can feel him shaking slightly.
“I love you, Emma girl,” he says, his voice muffled against my hair. “Even if I don’t understand this. Even if I hate it. I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.” The words come out choked because I’m crying now, tears soaking into his shirt. “I love you so much. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts. “Don’t apologize. You made your choice. I just have to…learn to live with it.”
He pulls back enough to look at me, his hands on my shoulders. His eyes are red. I’ve never seen my father cry before. Not ever, and it shakes me to my core.
“I’m still your daughter,” I say desperately. “That doesn’t change. I’m still me. I’m still—”
“You’re a Santoro now.” There’s bitterness in his voice, sharp and cutting, along with resignation.
My stomach does this weird flip-flop thing at that. I’m not a Santoro. Leo and I have never even talked about marriage, mostly because it’s never come up.
“I’ll always be a Brennan too,” I insist. “Just like the baby will be. Half Brennan. Half Santoro. All ours.”
My father’s eyes drop to my stomach and something in his face cracks just enough for me to see the grief underneath the anger.
“Take care of yourself,” he says quietly. “And the baby. And if he”—he looks over my shoulder at where Leo is standing, watching us—“if he ever hurts you. If you ever need me. You call. Understand?”
I nod, even though I know that’ll never happen. “I understand.”
My father’s blue eyes bore into mine. “I mean it, Emma. Day or night. If you need me, I’m there. War or no war. Deal or no deal.”
My lips ghost into a small smile. “I know, Dad. I know.”
He hugs me again, quick and hard, then lets go like it physically pains him. He turns without another word and walks out, his men following. The door closes with a heavy thud that echoes through the destroyed hall.
He’s gone.
I stand there staring at the door, my arms wrapped around myself, trying to hold it together and not fall apart completely.
Leo’s arms come around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. His chin rests on top of my head. “You okay?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my hair.
“No,” I say honestly. “But I will be.”
His arms tighten and I lean back into him, letting him take my weight. I let myself have this moment of weakness because I’m so tired and emotionally wrung out. What a fucking day.
But there’s no time to break down because there’s work to do.
The bodies need to be moved. The blood needs to be cleaned up. The house needs to be, well, not fixed exactly. But at least made livable again.
I pull away from Leo and wipe my face. “Okay. Where do we start?”
Leo looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You’re not doing anything,” he says firmly. “You’re going upstairs to rest.”
I roll my eyes. “Like hell I am.”
He glares at me, his dark brows pulling in. “Emma—”
“Don’t ‘Emma’ me,” I interrupt, shooting him my best glare as I walk toward the study door and open it. “There’s work to do and I’m helping. End of discussion.”
“Not end of discussion,” Leo argues, his long legs easily catching up to me and forcing me to pause in the hallway. “You’re pregnant,” he adds, like this is a winning argument.
“I’m aware. I’m also perfectly capable of cleaning up broken glass and wiping down surfaces. What I’m not capable of is sitting upstairs while everyone else deals with this mess.”
We stare at each other. Leo’s jaw is set in that stubborn way that means he’s not backing down. My jaw is probably set the exact same way because I’m definitely not backing down.
“Dante,” Leo calls without breaking eye contact with me. “Come here.”
Dante appears from wherever he was lurking—probably making sure Dad’s men actually left the property. He looks at both of us and I see the exact moment he realizes what’s about to happen.
“What?” he asks warily.
“Help me convince Emma to go rest,” Leo says, his eyes locked on mine. He smirks at me, as if already expecting Dante to agree with him. I roll my eyes again. If I’m not listening to Leo, why would I listen to Dante?
“Nope,” Dante says immediately, shaking his head.
Leo’s head whips toward him. “What?”
“Nope,” Dante repeats, already backing away. “I want zero part of this. Zero. Zilch. Nada. You two figure it out yourselves.”
I smile widely, wanting to punch the air in triumph. Leo looks like someone kicked a puppy. “Seriously, Dante?” he asks incredulously.
“I took a punch to the face for you today, Leo,” Dante says, gesturing to the bruise blooming on his jaw. “And nearly got shot. Multiple times, I may add. I am not getting involved in whatever domestic dispute this is. You’re on your own.”
He walks away before Leo can argue.
Leo turns back to me, clearly irritated but now trying a different tactic.
He takes my hands in his. “Emma,” he says pleadingly.
“Please. And you know how hard that is for me to say. You’ve had a traumatic day.
You somehow escaped my panic room, stood between me and your father, and negotiated for hours. You need rest.”
“And you got shot at, fought off an assault, and negotiated just as long as I have,” I counter. “So by that logic, you should be resting too.”
Leo’s earnest expression changes into a scowl. “I’m not pregnant.”
“No, but you are bleeding,” I point out, gesturing to the blood soaking through his shirt. “So maybe you should be the one resting while I help clean up.”
We glare at each other.
“I’m helping,” I say flatly. “You can either accept that and let me do the easy stuff, or you can keep arguing and I’ll do whatever I want anyway. Your choice.”
Leo’s jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind. “Fine. But,” he holds up a finger, “you stay away from the bodies. And if you start feeling tired or sick or anything, you stop immediately. Deal?”
I nod. I didn’t want to be anywhere near the bodies anyway. “Deal.”
“And you’re not lifting anything heavy.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, Mom.”
He ignores that. “And if I say you need to rest—”
“Don’t push it, Santoro.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “Stubborn woman,” he sighs.
“You love it,” I shrug.
“I really do,” he admits, and pulls me in for a quick kiss. “Even when it’s infuriating.”
We spend the rest of the day cleaning up.
It’s exhausting work, the kind that makes you question everything because you’re literally mopping up blood and collecting bullet casings and trying not to think too hard about the fact that people died here.
People I knew. People whose families are going to get calls tonight that will destroy them.
I stick to my agreement of no bodies or heavy lifting. I clean surfaces, sweep up broken glass, and help sort through damaged furniture to see what’s salvageable. Leo keeps checking on me every fifteen minutes like he expects me to collapse.
I don’t collapse. But by the time the sun starts setting and the cleanup crews Leo called in have dealt with the worst of it, I’m so exhausted I can barely stand.
Leo finds me sitting on the stairs in the front hall, my head in my hands, trying to gather the energy to move.
“That’s it,” he says. “You’re done.”
I don’t argue. I’m too tired.
He bends down, and, before I can process what’s happening, he’s scooping me up into his arms, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
“Hey!”
“Don’t,” he says as he straightens up. “Just…let me take care of you. Please.”
I’m too tired to fight, so I rest my head against his shoulder and let him carry me up the stairs.
He’s gentle about it and takes the stairs slowly even though I know his right arm is hurting. I can see the way he’s favoring it. He’s clearly in pain with the way he grunts with every step.
Our bedroom is one of the few rooms that wasn’t damaged in the fighting. Leo lays me down on the bed gently. I feel about as limp as a noodle and I tell him so.
His laugh is soft and tired. “A noodle?”
“A very tired noodle. An overcooked noodle. The kind that just kind of…flops.” I demonstrate what I mean.
“An Italian’s worst nightmare,” he says, but he’s smiling as he sits on the edge of the bed next to me.
“Is now the wrong time to tell you that I find al dente pasta to be repulsive?”
Leo shakes his head. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. If my mother heard you, she would kick you out of this house.” His hand comes up to stroke my hair back from my face, and when I look at him I see so much love in his eyes that it makes my own eyes fill with tears.
Again with the crying. I’ve cried more in the last twenty-four hours than I have in months.
“I’m so mad at you,” I say, my voice shaking slightly. “For shoving me in that panic room and locking me away. I’m furious.”
“I know,” Leo says, but he doesn’t sound repentant. “And I’m not apologizing for it. I’d do it again. I’d do anything to keep you safe, Emma. Anything.”
I lean into his touch. “Even when it pisses me off?”
His lips quirk into a smile. “Especially when it pisses you off. Because you being pissed at me means you’re alive to be pissed. And I’ll take that every single time.”
I want to stay mad, but I’m too tired and he’s looking at me like I’m his entire world and I can’t. Plus the way he’s massaging my scalp is nearly sinful.
“You’re lucky I love you,” I mutter.
“I know.” The wonder in his voice makes my heart flip. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”