19. Lila
19
LILA
M arcella keeps her eyes on the road, posture perfect, fingers resting lightly on the wheel as if she’s pretending this is just another afternoon errand. She hasn’t said much since the emergency petition was denied. The court ruled the marriage stands. The Varo name, tied to Rossi by ink and law, will not be easily cut loose.
She asked for a visit. Mateo agreed, with conditions—one hour, a Rossi tail behind us, no stops except for what he approved.
“I thought we could start with the bookstore,” she says. “They just stocked that graphic novel Lev asked about.” She glances at me as she drives and I try to maintain my calm. It isn't easy spending time with her after what she's done. I wonder if my mother sent her to get information.
I nod once. “Alright.”
Keeping it about Lev makes it easier. He’s the only topic we can both touch without drawing blood.
She parks two blocks from the shop along a high-end strip that’s quiet and curated, the kind of place where time costs more than the coffee. I reach for the door handle before she even cuts the engine, but she stops me with a word.
“Lila.”
I pause, hand on the frame, but I don't look at her. I keep my head down. I'm still upset that she allowed my mother to use her against me.
“You look better.”
“Better than what? The last time I saw you, you were helping my mother have me removed from my own life.”
“I didn’t know it would go that far.” The tone she uses sounds apologetic. I feel bad for snapping at her.
“You didn’t want to know.”
Marcella looks down at her hands. She wears no rings, no polish, no jewelry—just the same clean lines and clipped nails she’s always had. Everything about her appears composed, but I know the signs. Tight shoulders, shallow breath, eyes that won’t settle.
“I didn’t have a choice," she says softly.
“You had a choice,” I say as I step out. “You just didn’t choose me.”
We both climb out and walk into the store. Marcella doesn't bring up the court case again, and I think venting that small bit of emotion is enough to take the pressure off. I don't feel like smacking her anymore.
Inside, the bookstore feels calm and warm. The smells of ink and coffee cling to the air. Lev would love this place with its wooden shelves stacked with hardcovers, bins of puzzles and board games, and tables full of journals and fantasy maps. I scan a display for something he’d like and find a new copy of the book he’s been asking about—one with dragons and exploding castles. I pick it up and turn it over in my hands.
Marcella stays close, pretending to browse. She opens a book, flips through a few pages without reading them, and places it back on the shelf.
“You think I betrayed you.”
“I don’t think it,” I say, still examining the cover. “You did.”
Marcella exhales slowly. “I thought she was bluffing. I thought you’d cave. That you’d come home before it got serious.”
“That’s not faith, Marcella. That’s cowardice.”
She says nothing else. I take the book to the register and set it down. The clerk rings it up while I reach into my coat, but Marcella moves first. She pulls cash from her pocket and slides it across the counter without looking at me.
“Let me do something right.” A soft smile plays at her lips, and I can see the remorse in her gaze. I let her pay, and the cashier puts the book in a small bag and hands it to us.
We step out of the bookstore just as a delivery truck swings wide around the curb, tires cutting a wet line through the street. I pull my coat tighter. Marcella holds the door for a couple walking in behind us, murmurs something polite, and joins me on the sidewalk.
A man comes out of nowhere—jacket too big, head down. He slams into my shoulder hard enough to twist my spine. I catch myself on instinct, half-step back, one foot planted.
“Scusa,” he mutters, already past, already disappearing into the crowd.
Marcella glances back. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” I say, brushing my sleeve. “It’s fine.”
She unlocks the car with the key fob, and I slide into the passenger seat, the new book still clutched in my hands. As we pull away from the curb, I glance once over my shoulder. The man’s gone already, but I'm not sure why I feel anxious.
Ten minutes later, while Marcella talks about Lev’s school schedule, my coat vibrates.
I know the buzz. Not my phone. The other one.
My hand slips into the pocket and fits the battery in without drawing attention. The screen powers up with one message notification. I swipe to unlock my phone and read it.
Restricted: 11:44 AM: Nice coat. Try not to get blood on it.
My stomach drops. I lock the screen, pull the battery, and put them both away without a sound. Marcella doesn’t notice. She’s still talking. I can’t understand a word she’s saying. All I hear is the blood in my ears. All I feel is the weight of eyes I can’t see.
Marcella talks more on the way back. Not small talk—just details about the school Lev might go to next year, how advanced he is for his age, how he could skip a grade if I wanted him to. Her voice has that careful tone again, like she’s testing how much of her I’ll let through.
I nod in the right places, offer a short word here and there. I don’t hate her as much as I did this morning. That’s the best I can do.
By the time we pull through the gate, I’ve almost convinced myself the text was just a scare. Almost.
She parks and turns to say something else, but I’m already out of the car. The bag with Lev’s book is light in my hand. I tuck it under my arm and push through the front door without knocking. The second I’m inside, I freeze.
Mateo stands in the entryway like he hasn’t moved since I left. Arms crossed, jaw tight, his eyes lock on me with all the warmth of a loaded gun.
“Give me the phone.”
I don’t ask how he knows. I just stand there, one hand still on the door behind me.
“Now, Lila.”
I reach into my pocket and hand it over. His fingers close around it so hard the plastic cracks before he even looks at it. He throws it against the marble wall. The pieces scatter across the floor, battery clattering one way, screen another. Then he walks over and stomps on it with his heel.
“You should’ve known better.”
My face burns. “I’m not just some possession you get to control.”
He turns, steps in close, and says it so low I feel it in my bones. “No. You’re my wife. That’s worse.”
I don’t move. I should. I should shove him—yell—but I’m too angry and too afraid of what happens if I push harder.
His eyes stay on me like he’s daring me to try. Then he walks past, leaving nothing behind but tension and the crushed plastic of another mistake I can’t take back.
After Mateo leaves the room, I stay standing in the same spot until I can’t hear his footsteps anymore. The sharp echo of his voice stays with me longer than the sound of the door of his office slamming. I don’t pick up the shattered phone. I walk past it and head upstairs.
The second floor feels colder. Lev’s door is cracked open. I step inside, expecting to find him playing, but his bed is empty. I check the bathroom, the sitting room, and the hallway. Nothing.
I find him ten minutes later curled up on the wide velvet chair in the corner of the master bedroom, fast asleep. It's too early for his nap time, but he hasn't been sleeping well at night lately. His face is pressed to a bundle of fabric, small fingers clutching something black. I get closer and realize what it is.
One of Mateo’s button-down shirts.
The sleeves are too long. The collar hangs low on his shoulders. He’s swaddled in it like it’s his favorite blanket. Half the buttons are done, half left undone. The cotton is wrinkled and stretched where he’s been holding it too tightly.
I kneel beside him and smooth the edge of the fabric away from his face.
“Lev,” I whisper. “You want me to carry you to bed?"
He stirs but doesn’t open his eyes. His voice is low, sleepy, and mumbled against the collar. “It smells like him. I sleep better that way.”
I freeze for the second time in only a few minutes.
I look at the shirt again, then at his face. There’s no hint of worry there. No fear, no confusion. Just comfort. And I don’t ask how he got the shirt. If he's in Mateo's room, he's probably been snooping where he shouldn't be. Mateo would be furious.
I carry him to his bed without waking him fully. He folds into my arms, still clinging to the edge of the shirt. I lay him down, pull the blanket over his legs, and tuck the shirt around his shoulders like it belongs to him now. Maybe it does. Maybe this whole thing is about him now.
He shifts once, then settles, and I sit on the floor beside his bed, knees pulled up, arms resting on the mattress. The room is dark but still enough that I can hear every breath he takes.
He didn’t ask for safety in words. He found it in the scent of a man who doesn’t say much but leaves a shadow big enough to sleep inside.
If I tell Mateo, he'll let it go to his head, which will make his already overinflated ego worse.