25. Lila
25
LILA
T he house is on full lockdown. No deliveries arrive, no guests come through the gates. Two full teams rotate in twelve-hour shifts around the perimeter. I feel like a prisoner every time I walk down a hallway. He's kept no windows open, so air flows in from outside vents. The light in every room is artificial and a little too bright.
I sit on the edge of the leather couch in Mateo’s office with a book in my lap. I haven't turned a page in several minutes. I pretend to read, but I can't focus. My eyes drift to the desk across the room where Lev sits on the rug with his legs crossed. He holds a small notebook in one hand and a red pen in the other. His toy flashlight rests beside him. Every few minutes, he glances up at Mateo as if waiting for instructions.
Mateo moves through intelligence reports, focusing on the latest information about what's happening. He asked us to stay close to him after what happened following the funeral. His phone is on speaker, and his voice stays calm as he speaks in clipped Italian. He doesn't raise his voice. Nothing in his posture suggests stress or fear. I'm a wreck, but he's poised, held together by something bigger than us all. It puts me at ease.
Lev has stopped asking to go outside. He doesn’t cry. He hasn't mentioned the ambush since it happened. Instead, he follows Mateo from room to room and insists on being near him at all times.
Mateo lets him.
“Code seven is silent sweep, right?” Lev asks, his eyes still on his notebook. His chubby fingers grip the pen so tightly I don't know how he even writes well.
Mateo answers without looking away from the screen. “Yes. What’s code eight?”
“Perimeter check,” Lev says.
“Front or back?”
“Both.” Lev's eyes turn upward to Mateo, but the man still focuses on his computer screen. Still, the acknowledgement seems to be enough for my son.
Mateo nods. Lev smiles and places another red check mark on the page. His handwriting is careful and precise. He takes it seriously. Mateo never mocks the effort. He never talks down to him.
Earlier, I watched Lev in the safe room stacking empty ammo boxes like building blocks. Mateo adjusted a shelf beside him and said, “Keep these in order. That’s your job now. Like tiny little soldiers, faces go forward.” Lev had nodded without saying a word.
Now Mateo finishes the call and sets the phone aside. He leans back in the chair and glances at the security feed. Without turning toward Lev, he speaks again.
“Did you check the hallway yet?”
“Yes,” Lev says as he jumps up, “but I’ll do it again to make sure.” He picks up his flashlight and runs out of the room. His feet slap on the floor, and I watch him seem so invested in the orders that it sort of frightens me. Lev is too young to feel this way. He's not acting like a five-year-old. I'm happy he's not terrified and being traumatized, but I have to wonder if this is healthy.
“You’re letting him run missions now?” I ask. I try to sound amused, but I can't stop the edge in my voice.
“He asked to help,” Mateo replies. “I’m not going to tell him no.”
“He’s five.”
“I was five when I learned how to spot a tail.” Mateo glares at me, and I realize what's happening. My child is turning into a Rossi—not just in name, but in deed. The sickness that plagues these men, the violence… Mateo is training it into him. His voice doesn't hold pride or regret. He simply states a fact.
I don't answer. There's no point arguing with someone who sees danger as something inevitable. I grab the edge of the couch cushion and stare at the desk.
“He doesn't even want to talk about it,” I say. “Not really.” I don't understand how a child can be shot at, go through a car chase, and not be scared. It's not right. Even with a good, strong male role model showing him to be brave.
“He knows what happened,” Mateo says. “He just doesn’t want to say it out loud.”
“He hasn’t cried.”
“Crying doesn’t always mean fear.”
“Then what does?” Mateo looks toward the door Lev just ran through.
I follow his gaze. I don't hear footsteps anymore, but I know Lev is out there making rounds with that toy flashlight in hand. He treats the job like it matters.
“He asked what a bodyguard does,” Mateo says. “I told him the truth. We keep the people we care about standing.”
The words settle between us. I want to respond, but nothing I say will come out right. I feel something tighten in my chest, but I force myself to keep breathing. Before I can speak, Lev bursts back into the room. He lifts his flashlight.
“All clear!” he announces. Mateo lifts a hand, and Lev hurries over to give him a high-five.
“Good work,” Mateo says. “You want to help me with the patrol logs?”
Lev nods and climbs into the chair next to him. I watch them as they sit side by side. Lev kicks his legs beneath the desk and leans in when Mateo pulls up the reports. The two of them talk like they've done this for years. The pages in front of me blur, and I close the book in my lap without realizing it.
This isn't the kind of peace I ever imagined, but I feel safer in this room than anywhere else in the house. That thought scares me more than the silence outside.
Lev leans into Mateo’s side, eyes flicking between the screen and his own little checklist. He’s quiet for a while, focused, content in a way I haven’t seen in days.
Then, without looking up, he asks, “Are we gonna live here forever?”
The words stop everything.
Mateo’s hand stills on the tablet. I feel my breath catch without meaning to. It’s not a question about bedtime or dinner. It’s the kind that has weight, the kind kids only ask when they think the grown-ups already know the answer. But neither of us says anything.
Mateo shifts the focus and points at the ledgers, showing Lev the logs, and that quiets him. But it doesn't quiet my hammering pulse.
Am I going to live here forever?
* * *
That night, I go to Mateo’s room like I have every night for the past few weeks.
I don’t knock. I never have. He told me once, “If I didn’t want you here, the door would be locked.” It never is.
I’m wearing one of his shirts—soft cotton, a little big, sleeves rolled up to my elbows. My hair’s still damp from the shower, and I haven’t bothered with anything else. It’s late. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels thick. Even the guards seem to move softer after midnight.
He’s not in bed yet, but the lights are off except for the lamp by the window. He’s standing near it, checking the lock on the case where he keeps his sidearm. Routine. He does it the same way every night, like double-checking makes the world a little less dangerous.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull the blanket back. He glances over his shoulder when he hears the sheets shift.
“Everything quiet downstairs?” he asks.
I nod. “Rosa put on one of those nature shows. Lev was asleep before they even finished narrating the opening scene.”
Mateo closes the case and shuts off the lamp. The room drops into soft shadow as he walks toward the bed. He peels off his shirt and drops it onto the chair, then sinks down beside me with a sigh that sounds more bone-deep than tired.
He leans back against the pillows, one arm behind his head. I can tell by the way he shifts that he’s not comfortable. His body’s restless even when his voice isn’t. Maybe it’s the day. Maybe it’s just him.
I slide in beside him, tugging the blanket up over both of us. He doesn’t move for a long time.
Then he turns his head toward me and kisses me—slow, nothing urgent, just a warm press of lips. I kiss him back and feel the tension ease out of his shoulders. When he pulls away, he wraps his arm around me and pulls me against his chest like that’s where I belong.
Neither of us says anything right away.
His hand settles on my hip, fingers flexing gently, like he’s grounding himself more than holding me. I nestle closer, resting my chin just above his collarbone. The warmth of him, the weight of the blanket, the soft sound of his breathing—this is the safest I’ve felt in days, and I hate that it comes with guilt.
“He asked if this was forever,” I say after a while.
Mateo doesn’t need to ask who I mean. His thumb traces a slow arc along my waist. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.” I exhale. “I froze.”
“That’s reasonable," he says, hand gripping me harder.
“Is it?” I shift slightly so I can see his face. “Because I’ve been freezing a lot lately. He’s looking at you like this is permanent. Like we’re not just passing through.”
Mateo doesn’t look surprised. “He wants to believe it’s safe here. That’s not a bad thing.”
“It’s not a true thing, either,” I say quietly, and as I do, bitterness touches my heart. I hate those words on my tongue because they make this more real than I want it to be. If I leave, Lev stays. Mateo made it clear. And I don't hate it here, as much as I pretend to.
“It is for now.” Mateo's calm reassurance, coupled with the way he doesn't pull away or make me leave his bed, is encouraging. He really meant it. He really does intend to keep Lev here, and by doing so, he'll allow me to stay. But what does that make me? His whore, or something else?
I rest my forehead against his chest. His skin is warm, heartbeat steady. He makes everything sound so simple. I envy that about him.
“He trusts you,” I whisper.
“I know.” The way he says it isn’t cocky. It’s just honest.
“You’d burn everything down for him,” I say, repeating the words before I can think too hard about them.
Mateo doesn’t answer right away. His hand slides up my spine, one slow stroke. “I already have.”
I close my eyes. That answer scares me more than if he’d said no.
Not because I don’t believe him. But because I do.
We don’t talk after that. He holds me like he means to stay that way, and I let myself believe it’ll last.