29. Lila
29
LILA
I leave the estate just after sunrise, slipping out the side gate while the shift change is still underway. No security follows me. No one knows I’m gone until I’ve already cleared the property line. For the first time in weeks, I’m not being watched. There’s no one in my rearview mirror, no shadow pacing behind me down the hall.
The air feels different when I roll the windows down—cold and sharp. I leave the radio off and let the hum of the engine settle into my bones. My hands stay clenched around the wheel the entire way, knuckles pale from the tension I’m not trying to hide anymore.
Beside me in the passenger seat is the folder with the photo and the paperclipped note. It just feels so damn heavy. Every bump in the road threatens to shake something loose in my chest, but I keep driving.
Marcella agreed to meet in a church parking lot outside town—neutral ground. It’s early enough that the lot is empty, long shadows stretching across the cracked pavement. She leans against her car, posture relaxed but eyes alert, her long coat buttoned high against the wind. Her sunglasses are pushed up into her hair. She looks miserable this early in the morning, but I had to know.
I park beside her and sit still for a few moments, the engine ticking as it cools. My hand hovers over the folder on the seat like touching it again will change what it says. It won’t, but I wish it would.
When I step out, I don’t waste time on greetings. I hand her the folder and say, “Tell me what this is.”
She opens it and stops cold when she reaches the photo. Her nails tap once against the edge before falling still. Her eyes shut for a moment. A fleeting look of tension crosses her face. After a moment, she closes the folder and looks at me with something unreadable in her expression.
“Where did you get this?” she asks.
“You already know.”
Her mouth flattens, but she doesn’t deny it. She doesn’t give me a lie to soften the blow. “You shouldn’t have this,” she says.
“But I do.” My heart is pounding, throwing itself against my ribs. What the hell is going on?
Marcella holds the folder against her chest, not offering it back yet. “It’s real,” she says finally.
Even though I already knew, hearing her say it cracks something open in me. It’s not shock. It’s the gut punch of confirmation, the sickening relief of being right when you wanted so badly to be wrong.
“I want the details,” I say, keeping my voice steady.
“It was years ago,” she says. “You were getting close to Anton. The family, well…" Her eyes drop and she shakes her head. "Serafina…" Her words trail off then come back strong. "The Rossis didn't want you around him, Lila. The connection was too volatile between your mother and Anton's father." Her eyes are inky, hollow.
“Who signed off on it?”
Marcella hesitates, and that hesitation is all I need to hear. Still, I want her to say it. I deserve to hear it out loud.
“I want the name," I demand.
“Anton's father was involved,” she says quietly. “Mateo was assigned the hit.”
Her words settle in like a stone dropped into water. I don’t flinch. It's sickening, but I just nod slowly, acknowledging something I already suspected. My eyes sting, but I don’t cry.
“Why was it called off?”
“We don’t know. It just disappeared from the rotation. The order was never followed through, and no one was ever told why. That’s not unusual, but it’s rare.” She sighs and touches my hand. "I think it was your mother, Lila. She cares about you." The words bite me and I scoff.
I let the silence stretch between us. A breeze stirs the edges of my coat, and the sun catches the edge of the church’s stained glass, casting a colorful reflection across the concrete. Marcella doesn’t look away. She’s waiting for something from me, a reaction, a collapse, a scream. I don’t give her any of it.
“You came here for answers,” she says after a moment.
“No,” I reply. “I came here to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind.”
Marcella nods, then finally hands the folder back. “You’re not.”
I take it and walk away without saying goodbye. So my own family knew someone was trying to kill me but to my knowledge, they never attempted to protect me. No one ever warned me, but they knew. What the fuck kind of sick world is this?
I get back in my car and keep driving until the roads narrow and the trees start swallowing the horizon. My mother’s house is perched just outside Carmel, high above the ocean with views she paid dearly for. It’s all glass and stone, as stark and beautiful as she is. When I pull into the long drive, her assistant is already outside, phone in hand.
Mother stands on the veranda, perfectly still, holding a mug of tea and watching the road like she’s been waiting all morning. She hugs me without a word, strong arms wrapping around me like this is a welcome reunion. I'm cringing, but I don't push her away and stir the hornets' nest. I need to know her side first—before the bomb inside me detonates.
Inside, everything is dim and warm. The fireplace crackles low in the front room. She gestures for me to sit, then pours whiskey into her tea without asking if I want any.
“You left him,” she says, not unkindly.
“No,” I answer. “I left the estate.” I refuse the cup and watch her lips turn downward.
She raises a brow, sits down, and studies me with the same sharp focus she uses in every negotiation. “You came all this way to tell me that?”
“I needed to see your face…" My words fall short. I want to sling accusations at her, scream, stomp my foot. I want to make her feel the ache I've felt for years. But even in light of what I've just discovered, I know it will never affect her or make her see how badly I've been hurt. I don't even know why I came here now.
She takes a long sip and sets her cup down. “Take Lev. Come home. I’ll send the plane. I’ll call the lawyers. We’ll pull the custody paperwork before the Rossi side even knows it’s happening.”
“I’m not doing that.” I swallow the words I want to say knowing it won't even faze her. She will act like it was nothing. Like it is nothing.
Her reaction is subtle—a tilt of her head, a shift in her tone. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t run anymore,” I say. “It was something I did when I was a child, and now that I’m a woman, I'm done with that."
Mother watches me for a long time. Then she nods, slowly, and reaches for her phone. “How much do you expect me to give you?" she asks wryly, not looking at me. Her thumbnails click on her phone screen. I'm nothing more than an annoyance to her, something she has to expend energy on that she'd rather not think about.
“I’m not here for resources,” I say.
“Then what are you here for?” Her eyes rise to meet mine, and I see hostility. Not compassion or concern a mother should have for her child—anger.
I glance down at my hands, then lift my gaze back to hers. “To remember who I was before all of this started.”
For once, her expression softens without a fight. Her voice is quieter when she answers. "You are a Varo—or you were…" She doesn’t have to finish that thought. I'm a disease now, and the only redemption she wants is for herself. To take my son and make herself feel like less of a failure as a mother by getting a do-over. That's what this has always been about.
My eyes fill with tears, but I turn and walk away before she can see them. I cry so hard I'm almost tempted to call Marcella and ask her to come get me, drive me back to Lev. I'm a soul without a body now, a ghost wandering and feeling lost. I have to be with my son, but to live under the roof of a man who was hired to kill me? What then? And what if he decides to finally follow through with that?
When I pull into the drive, the sun is still high, hanging in that pale, washed-out way it does in early afternoon. The estate looks just as it always does—quiet, contained. It’s strange how something can look exactly the same when you feel completely different. I sit with the engine off for a few seconds longer than I should, staring at the front steps like they might give me the answer I need.
I gather the folder from the passenger seat and get out slowly. My legs are stiff from the drive, or maybe from the emotions I’m carrying, inside and out. There’s no one waiting on the stoop, no one at the windows. But when I push open the front door, he’s there.
Mateo stands in the entryway like he's been expecting me, like he hasn’t moved since I left. His face is calm, unreadable, and I realize I’ve never really known what’s going on behind his eyes—not when he’s angry, not when he’s soft, and not now, when everything between us is starting to feel like something fragile was growing, only to be choked out.
I don’t say anything right away. I walk up to him slowly and steadily press the folder into his chest. He takes it, doesn’t open it. He doesn’t need to. He already knows what’s inside.
“Were you ever going to tell me you were supposed to kill me?” My voice doesn’t shake, but it’s not strong either. It’s tired. All the fight drained out of it hours ago.
He holds the folder like it’s something personal, something breakable. He doesn’t try to deny it. “No.”
I don’t look away from him. “Why didn’t you?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says it in that low, unhurried way he says everything that matters. “Because I saw you. And for the first time in my life, I couldn’t do it.”
I watch his nostrils flare, then his Adam's apple bob. I swear I see his lip quiver. He reaches for me. I want to pull away, to run or scream, but the sincerity in his eyes is so intense. "I couldn't do it, Lila."
When he pulls me against his chest, I don't know how I'm supposed to feel. He couldn't do it? What does that mean, and why? Why couldn’t he?