11. Lila
11
LILA
T he court filing center is colder than I remember it being. Whitewashed walls, chipped tile floor, and overhead lights that hum like they’re angry to be alive create an atmosphere more sterile than secure. I keep Lev close to me, one hand wrapped tight around his as we pass through the metal detectors and into the public records office. He doesn’t complain. He hasn’t said much since I got the call from Marcella.
Her voice had that tone I hate, flat and clinical without a trace of emotion. The Varo family filed for an emergency review of the marriage license. They’re claiming coercion, obstruction, and fraud. The last one made me laugh under my breath, though nothing about it felt funny.
I step up to the clerk’s desk and slide the paperwork through the window. My counterstatement is handwritten, not because I’m sentimental, but because I no longer trust shared printers or electronic signatures. Anton taught me that.
Lev leans against my hip and blinks up at the fluorescent lighting overhead. “Are we going home now?” he asks.
“Soon, baby,” I answer, brushing his hair back with my free hand. He nods without a smile. He looks tired, and I know the city takes something from us every time we're out and about. I'd like to keep him cocooned inside his room, safe in my arms until he has to leave, but life has to go on, even after death.
I thank the clerk without meeting her eyes and turn to leave with Lev in tow. As we pass through the main doors and out into the plaza, something catches my attention. Two men are stationed across the square. One leans against the frame of a doorway with his arms folded, while the other crouches beside a motorbike with his helmet still on. Neither of them speaks. They don’t move, but they're watching.
I focus on the man near the doorway and feel my stomach drop when recognition clicks. Niko—he used to run errands for Anton. He vanished around the time Anton had his final fallout with the Bianchis. I remember the way he laughed while Anton beat a man with a paperweight, how blood spattered across the wall like a shaken can of paint and erupted.
He isn’t laughing now.
Lev tugs my hand again and whispers, “Mommy?”
I walk, not quickly enough to draw attention but with deliberate purpose. We move around the side of the building, taking the long path through a narrow walkway behind the public records office. I don't know if the cameras cover this angle, but I don’t want to risk their seeing us slip away. My hand stays deep in my coat pocket, fingers wrapped tightly around the slim blade Anton gave me on our first date. At the time, I thought it was overkill. Now I’m not convinced I was right. I had no idea what I was getting into.
I don’t look over my shoulder, but I know they’re still there. They aren’t following, only watching right now, but that alone unnerves me. I'm full of anxiety as we approach the car. We reach it, and I buckle Lev into the backseat with steady hands. My heart pounds against my ribs hard enough to echo in my ears. The driver says nothing as I close the door. He’s been paid to stay quiet and keep the engine running, and I'm glad Mateo hasn't put down orders for them to refuse to listen to me.
As we pull away from the curb, I glance back once toward the plaza. The two men are gone, but the sense of being hunted remains.
The moment the car pulls through the gate, my hands are still trembling. I thank the driver without looking at him, unbuckle Lev, and lift him into my arms. His head rests on my shoulder. He doesn’t speak. He knows something is wrong, but he’s too tired or too scared to ask what. My steps echo on the marble as we enter through the side corridor. I head for the stairs with every intention of getting him cleaned up and settled.
Mateo is waiting in the hall.
He stands near the main staircase, arms folded, expression locked in something between disdain and disbelief. His jacket is off, his shirt rolled to the elbows. His eyes land on Lev first, then on me, and the temperature in the hallway drops.
“You left the estate,” he says, voice calm but with an edge that cuts.
“I had something to take care of.” I adjust Lev in my arms and keep walking.
“You left without security.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but the authority in it fills the entire space.
I stop, keeping Lev close. “Marcella called. There was an emergency review filed on the marriage. I had to respond.”
Mateo steps toward me. “I already handled it.”
I meet his gaze. “You didn’t tell me.”
“I warned you not to leave without clearance,” he says. “Not just for you. For him.”
My grip tightens around Lev’s legs. “And what if I hadn’t gone? What if the review went through unchallenged because I sat here waiting for someone to tell me I was allowed to act?”
“You weren’t needed.” Mateo’s voice never lifts, but it doesn’t need to. “The judge rejected the filing this morning. Your presence at that building put both of you at risk.”
I lower Lev to the floor. He doesn’t move far. His hand remains curled in the fabric of my coat. I keep my voice level, but the anger climbs with every word.
“You don’t get to control everything I do.”
“I do when your decisions endanger my family,” he answers. “And that’s what you are now.”
I take a step toward him, careful not to raise my voice in front of Lev. “This is not a real marriage. You made that clear. You don’t own me, and you don’t get to order me around like one of your men.”
“I don’t need to own you,” he says. “But if you're going to stay under my roof, you will follow the rules.”
“I went to file a legal document, not run through traffic blindfolded. I didn’t take a risk. I made a decision, and you’re furious because I did it without asking your permission.”
“I’m furious,” he says, “because I warned you not to do exactly that.”
We stare at each other in the middle of the corridor. Lev’s eyes bounce between us, wide and uncertain. I lower my voice again and speak with precision.
“I won’t be locked inside this house like a prisoner.”
“You’re not a prisoner,” he says.
“No?” I nod toward the locked cabinet in the study, the guards stationed at the gate, and the phone that only dials three numbers. “Then tell me what I am.”
“You’re the mother of my nephew,” he says. “And right now, that makes you a target.”
“I’ve always been a target.” I shift my stance to block Lev from his view. “I was a target when I was Anton’s wife, and I’m a target now. The only thing that’s changed is who’s giving the orders.”
Mateo takes one step forward. “Then you should act like you understand the danger. You went out alone. You exposed yourself and the boy to whoever might be watching.”
“I know the risk,” I snap, and this time my voice rises despite me. I’m on edge after seeing those assholes watching me. If Mateo knew…
“Then why did you go?”
“Because no one told me it was handled.” My hands are shaking again. I curl them into fists at my sides. “I’m not psychic. I don’t have your network feeding me hourly updates. If something needs to be done, I’m going to do it. I won’t ask first. I don’t answer to you.”
He doesn’t flinch, but his silence is louder than anything else. The shadows from the overhead chandelier cast sharp lines across his face. His jaw is clenched tight, but he doesn’t speak.
Lev leans into my side. His small voice breaks through the tension.
“Mommy?”
Bending to him without another word, I scoop him into my arms and turn my back on Mateo. My shoes strike the floor in steady rhythm as I head down the corridor, not stopping when I hear Mateo shift behind me. I don’t wait for an apology or another warning. I won’t hear either.
I carry Lev upstairs without speaking, one hand cradling his head, the other wrapped under his legs. His arms stay loose around my neck, and his breath is warm against my collarbone. I push open the bedroom door with my shoulder and close it behind us with my foot.
The light in the room is soft. Late afternoon has settled across the windowpanes in thin amber streaks. I pull the blanket back with one hand and lower him onto the mattress. He blinks up at me, half-awake, already fading.
I sit beside him and unlace his shoes. He doesn’t resist, just yawns and lets his arm flop over his face. I tug the comforter over his chest and smooth the edge flat along his side. His fingers curl under the fabric like he’s claiming it for himself. It's our naptime routine, or at least that's what it's become lately.
“Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” His voice is small, muffled under the blanket.
“You don’t have to if you’re not ready,” I say, brushing the hair off his forehead, “but I think you should try.” He hasn't been back since Anton died.
He nods once, slow and uncertain. “I want to bring my drawing book.”
“Of course,” I say. “You can bring whatever you want.”
He shifts and looks up at me. “Can Mateo walk me to class?”
I pause, not sure what he’s asking for. “You want him to go with you?”
He shrugs, still watching me. “He looks scarier than the other dads. But I think he’s stronger too.”
I study his face, searching for fear but finding none. He’s not worried. He’s measuring strength. He’s trying to understand the rules of this new world we’ve been thrown into, where the safest place might be the one guarded by the scariest man in the room.
I press a kiss to his temple. “We’ll see.”
He yawns again and closes his eyes without another word. His breathing evens out in seconds, soft and rhythmic. I stay there for a moment longer, listening, my hand resting lightly on the blanket. The room is quiet except for the tick of the wall clock and the sound of him settling into sleep.
I hate that he sees strength in Mateo’s violence, that he looks at a man like that and feels safer. It scares me more than anything else.