27. Lila
27
LILA
I sit on the floor of the panic room with Lev curled in my lap, his head tucked under my chin. My arms are wrapped around him like I can shield him from anything—like holding him tightly enough might keep the world outside from getting in.
The door sealed shut twenty minutes ago, but my heart’s still racing like I hear gunfire in the walls. I can’t tell if it’s real or imagined. I listen for every sound. Every footstep. Every breath.
Lev shifts a little. “Is Mateo okay?” he whispers.
I don’t answer right away. My throat is too tight.
He looks up at me with those wide, honest eyes, waiting. He doesn’t cry, just stares like I’ll know something he doesn’t. I wish I did. I want to lie to him. I want to tell him yes, of course, everything’s fine. Mateo’s invincible. We’re safe now.
But I don’t say anything.
I just stroke his hair and whisper, “It’s almost over.”
I hope I’m right.
The panic room is silent except for the soft hum of the backup systems. Red emergency lights glow along the walls, and I stare at them until my vision blurs. I keep counting seconds, then lose track and start again.
When the door finally hisses open, I flinch.
Rafe stands in the frame, breathing hard, his clothes streaked with blood that I know isn’t his.
“It’s over,” he says, but I don't believe him. This will never be over. Anton's enemies are going to keep coming unless Mateo kills them all.
On shaking legs, I carry Lev upstairs with his arms wrapped tight around my neck and his face pressed against my collarbone. He hasn’t said a word since the panic room. He’s awake but quiet, heavy in my arms like he’s trying to disappear into me.
The house feels wrong. Not just quiet—hollow. Like something passed through and took all the air with it.
Rafe led the way up, then peeled off, saying something about cleaning the west corridor. I don’t ask what he has to clean. I don’t want to know. If it's over, that means death, and it probably means a cover up of some kind and more violence in the future.
I turn the corner toward Mateo’s bedroom and hesitate just long enough to hear the water running in the bathroom. Not the shower. The sink. He's in the bathroom when I walk into his bedroom, and I nudge the door open with my shoulder.
Mateo’s shirtless, standing at the mirror with his side turned just enough for me to see the blood. It streaks down his ribs, dried in places, fresh in others. A small open med kit sits on the counter, half-used gauze and butterfly bandages laid out in neat rows.
He’s moving slowly, like pain’s something he can schedule for later. I don't know how bad it is, but if it were life threatening, he wouldn't be cleaning it himself. It makes me feel strangely calm. He's okay.
He meets my eyes in the mirror but doesn’t speak, and I step back into the bedroom and press Lev’s face deeper into my shoulder so he won’t see. “We’re sleeping in Mommy's bed,” I tell him softly. “Just for tonight.”
He nods against my neck as I carry him across the room and pull the blanket down with one hand and settle Lev in the center. He curls up instantly, pulling the covers over his shoulder. His thumb finds the hem of the blanket, and he rubs it between his fingers like he used to when he was smaller.
“I’m thirsty,” he mumbles.
“I’ll get you water.” I kiss the top of his head. “Just stay here, baby. I’ll be right back.” I hate leaving him after all of that, even for a second. I don’t know how Mateo expects us to go back to sleep like nothing happened. I'm wired. I won't sleep for months.
I tiptoe to the bathroom again. Mateo’s finishing the last bandage, his side patched with rough care. Blood still rims the edges. His expression doesn’t change as I enter.
“You’re bleeding through it,” I say quietly.
He looks down like it’s news. “It’ll hold.”
“You’re insane.”
He finally meets my eyes. “You just figured that out?”
I wet a towel and hand it to him without speaking. He presses it to the wound with a short breath through his nose. Nothing dramatic. He just endures it.
“Lev doesn’t know you’re hurt,” I say. “Don’t let him see it.”
“I won’t," he grunts quietly, avoiding eye contact. It's the first time I've ever seen him be anything other than a beast. He's letting me see him vulnerable. I'm not sure what to think of that.
There’s nothing else to say that can be said within earshot of my son, so I grab the cup from the sink and fill it with water. Then I walk back into the bedroom and settle onto the bed beside Lev. He reaches for the cup without opening his eyes and sips from it. When he's done drinking, I curl around him, stroking his hair until his breathing deepens and evens out. He’s asleep within minutes, his small hand resting against my side, legs tucked in close.
Mateo steps into the room and doesn’t say a word. He’s still shirtless, but he moves quietly, carefully, and lies down on the other side of Lev. The boy shifts slightly, then presses into him like gravity pulls him there. As much as I want to tear him away from this family and run somewhere safe, I see how much Lev loves Mateo. It's like he worships the man.
Mateo rests one hand on Lev’s back, just above the blanket in a protective posture, and I sigh softly as I watch them. I lie still, listening to the silence stretch. Mateo stares at the ceiling. His face doesn’t move. His eyes don’t blink. I see the pain etched on his face, and he's too much of an egomaniac to ask for help.
Eventually, I slip out of bed, muttering, "I'll be back."
The first aid kit is still in the bathroom, but I don’t go there. I make my way down the stairs to look for pain medicine, knowing Mateo won’t ask for it himself. The gauze was already bleeding through when I left the room, and no matter how calm he looks, he’s hurting. The bathroom upstairs had nothing useful. I figure if he keeps anything stronger, it’ll be here.
Mateo’s office is dim, lit only by the soft red hum of the baseboard lights. I move straight to the desk, pulling open the top drawer. I find spare rounds, a pen, and a few folded receipts. The second drawer holds a lighter, a spare phone, and an old notebook. Still nothing useful.
I crouch to check the bottom drawer and notice it’s not fully closed. The edge is slightly warped, like it was rattled loose during the shooting. I pull it open slowly.
There’s only one folder inside.
It’s thin, deliberately placed, nothing else around it. That alone makes me pause. I glance at the doorway, wondering what Mateo will think if he knows I've been in his office. But I don’t stop snooping now. When I slide it free, I recognize what’s on top before I fully process it.
A photo.
Of me.
I’m outside a café, mid-step, holding a paper cup. And I'm young. This was early on, before I married Anton. My face is angled just enough for the camera to catch it clearly. I don’t remember the moment, which means I didn’t know it was taken. The grain of the image and the slight blur at the edge make it obvious—surveillance.
Clipped behind the photo is a note. I unfold it, already dreading what I’ll see. A name is printed at the top in clear handwriting. Lila Varo .
There’s no context, no date, no message. Just my name. A target? Was someone hired to kill me?
I press the photo flat against my thigh for a second, then slide both it and the paper into the waistband of my shorts. I close the drawer with slow, steady pressure, making sure it latches, and rise slowly. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and my hands shake.
I came looking for something to ease the pain. Something to help a man who has been helping me. Because I care about him. But that photo means something and I don't know what.
Now I have more questions than answers and no excuse to ask any of them.