33 - Isa
Sunday arrives with Miami humidity that clings to skin like wet silk. Three days since the lawyer’s office, since I signed away blood money and found forgiveness I didn’t expect.
In the car outside La Sirena, Adrian reaches into his jacket and hands me a padded envelope. Unopened. My name on it — my actual address, not the scan service.
"Came Thursday," he says. "The redirect ends Monday. Your mail arrives at your own door from now on. I'm telling you first." A beat, and then, because the new terms require the whole truth and not just the flattering part: "I called Miguel the morning after you took my chain. Released the hold."
I already know what's inside by the weight of it. I open it anyway. My own face stares up at me from the corner of a stiff navy booklet — a woman trying to disappear even in the required headshot. Renewed. Valid. Ten years of blank pages.
"How long would it have taken," I ask, "if you hadn't called off your delay?"
"Forever, mi amor." He says it without flinching, eyes steady on mine. "It would have taken forever."
I turn the passport over in my hands. Months ago this was the whole plan — Lisbon, a city I chose off a departures board because it was far and nobody would think to look. It was never a destination. It was a fire exit, and I was going to pull the alarm on my own life.
Taiwan has mountains that disappear into clouds.
The thought arrives the way it always does, sideways, in Meiling's voice.
But it doesn't cut the same way tonight.
Someday, maybe. Not as an escape — as a promise kept, with him carrying the bags and complaining about the humidity.
Her scholarship girls will get there before I do. That seems right.
I slide the passport into my inside jacket pocket, flat against my ribs, and get out of the car carrying my exit with me.
Adrian's hand finds mine as we stand outside La Sirena's private dining room. The Sunday dinner I skipped last week when I was the crack running through this family.
The private dining room smells like garlic and lime when Adrian opens the door.
My chest tightens at the threshold, uncertainty flooding through me.
Last Sunday, I didn't come. Couldn't face the family I'd fractured, the schism I'd caused.
Now Adrian's hand rests light on my lower back, not pushing, just present, as I hover at the entrance.
His thumb traces small circles through my shirt.
He knows my body tenses before entering any room, and especially this one.
"There they are." Logan's voice carries across the space, and I brace for coldness that doesn't come. "The happy couple, gracing us with their presence."
His Armani suit remains immaculate even at eleven on a Sunday night, not a hair out of place despite the long shift. When I meet his blue eyes, they hold genuine warmth. Not the calculating assessment I expected, not barely concealed judgment. Just Logan.
The knot in my chest loosens slightly, though my pulse still races like I'm walking into an ambush.
The table stretches before me, scarred wood and mismatched chairs that somehow create harmony.
Candles because Adrian insists, wine bottles already breathing.
The vintage from Ariele's, that perfect afternoon before everything shattered.
A silent promise that we can rebuild from broken things.
The familiar chaos of our friends settling into their seats. Every face turns toward us.
"About time," Logan continues, gesturing to empty chairs. "Sera's been threatening to start without you."
From the kitchen doorway, Sera calls something in Spanish that makes Gabriel laugh.
The sound pulls at something in my chest. Gabriel laughing.
The ex-priest who stood on principle against us, who chose blood over friendship when the split happened.
Now laughing at his partner's commentary like the fracture never existed.
Adrian's fingers brush mine as we move toward our seats, a touch so light it might be accidental except nothing with Adrian ever is.
The heat of his thigh against mine under the table makes me remember this morning.
His mouth between my legs, my hands in his hair, the way he made me come three times before letting me leave bed.
Even now, surrounded by other people, my pussy clenches with that familiar ache.
Sera emerges from the kitchen carrying plates, her movements efficient as always.
She sets one in front of me without ceremony.
Mofongo with the exact ratio of garlic to pork she knows I prefer, the plantains fried to that perfect point between soft and crisp.
I already know the spice will burn my tongue in the best way.
"Finally," she says, but it's directed at Adrian. "Your wine selection better be worth the wait."
Sera, who stood with Gabriel and Marisol against us, who gave me that cold look when I stumbled into the bar covered in the Lins' blood.
Now feeding me like nothing ever carved us apart.
In her world, you feed the people who matter.
The plate in front of me says everything her pride won't let her voice.
This is her apology for doubting me, and I accept.
Gabriel stands as others settle with their food, and the room naturally quiets. His priestly gravitas survived when he removed his collar. Adrian's thumb finds my wrist, a silent anchor.
"Before we eat," Gabriel says, and I tense. But his eyes find mine, steady and clear. "Paz, Isa. Peace to this table and everyone at it. We're whole tonight."
Gabriel's blessing lands different knowing who it’s coming from. Not elaborate, not dramatic. Just Gabriel offering what he withheld before. Peace extended to the woman he thought would destroy his family. The objection dissolved into grace.
"That was almost religious, Father," Sera teases, and her hand finds his, fingers interlacing.
"Old habits," Gabriel responds, sitting back down.
"Christ, Gabriel, way to make it weird." Marisol's voice cuts through the moment like champagne bubbles through solemnity. "What is this, church? Pass the wine before my brother makes us hold hands and sing 'Kumbaya.'"
The table erupts in laughter, though we all know her wine will be non-alcoholic.
Even Gabriel cracks a smile as he sits back down.
The tension cracks like ice breaking, and suddenly Marisol grins at me with that wild energy that makes her impossible to predict, raising her glass in mock toast. Her honey-colored eyes still have edges though, like she hasn't quite decided if she's forgiven us.
"To terrible decisions that work out anyway," she declares, voice bright but with something underneath.
"To my brother finally getting his head out of his ass.
To Adrian being so completely fucked he took a beating from Leonardo fucking Rosetti and still wouldn't let go.
" She pauses, studying me like she's weighing my worth.
"To Isa, who I still think could do better, but here we are. "
The food on my plate becomes possible to eat, my throat no longer closed against the fear of rejection. Adrian's cologne, tobacco and lime, mixes with the garlic and wine until I can't separate the scents, can't tell where the meal ends and he begins.
Adrian pours wine, filling glasses while conversation builds. The vintage means something to him. I can tell by how he handles the bottle.
Marisol's eyes narrow at him over the rim of her glass. "Hold on. Hold everything." She points at his open collar. "Where's the chain? You've worn that thing since before I had a fake ID. Did you lose a bet, or did she finally skin you?"
"It's in good hands," Adrian says, and his eyes find mine with a heat that has no business at a family table.
In an archive above my workbench, filed between a coffee stirrer and the ghost of my own lipstick, labeled in my handwriting. "Something like that," I say.
Marisol looks between us, visibly decides she doesn't want the details, files it under gross couple things, and moves on.
"Okay, okay, we need to address the elephant," Marisol announces, golden hair catching candlelight.
"Or maybe it's not an elephant. Could be a giraffe.
Very tall trauma with spots. Or wait, do our emotional wounds have patterns?
Mine would definitely be stripes. Prison stripes because we've all been inmates in the penitentiary of family drama and… "
"Breathe, Little Shark," Gunner rumbles from across the table. His scarred knuckles catch the candlelight as he gestures.
"I am breathing! I'm breathing great! Olympic-level breathing!
" She grabs her wine glass, takes a theatrical sip.
"What I'm saying is, we all said shit. We all picked sides like it was elementary school dodgeball except instead of balls we were throwing accusations and instead of gym class it was our entire family structure and honestly who even likes dodgeball? "
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. Marisol's insanity dissolving the last careful distance, turning the weight into something lighter. She points at me triumphantly.
"See! She laughs! The Blade laughs! Document this moment because it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event, but here we are."
"Here we are," Nico echoes, dry as ever.
He sits beside Marisol, steady where she's chaos.
His phone buzzes, the encrypted one, and he checks it quickly, jaw tightening at whatever intel just came through.
"Logan, the Zayas moved two more soldiers to the port.
After Thursday, we adjust routes. And they've stopped asking about Lito.
Which means they've given up, or they've decided who did it.
And the investigator the Lins hired took a settlement and a warning.
His files came with the deal — Logan's already burned them. "
He meets my eyes briefly, the operational report saying what his careful nature won't: we're back to business, which means we're back to being family.