Lucia
I wake up wrong. Not from a dream. From space.
The ceiling is too high. Too smooth. No familiar crack running like a scar I’ve memorized in the dark.
Light pours in from windows I didn’t choose, framed by curtains that fall perfectly, obediently, like they’ve never been yanked shut in a panic.
The bed is enormous. Heavy. Dressed in linen that smells clean and expensive and untouched by fear.
Luxury presses in from every direction.
My chest tightens. For half a second, I don’t know where I am, and that’s enough. My body reacts before my mind can catch up. Heart slamming, breath shallow, nerves screaming wrong, wrong, wrong.
Then memory rushes in all at once.
The gala.
The hotel.
The gates.
Turo.
Nico.
I sit bolt upright, scanning the room. Empty.
And then…
“Mama?”
Down the hall.
My blood turns to ice. I’m out of bed before my feet fully hit the floor, moving on pure instinct.
Fear doesn’t wait for logic. It doesn’t pause to remember there are guards and cameras and men who kill for a living stationed between my son and danger.
All it knows is that Nico isn’t where I left him.
I run. The hallway stretches longer than it should, carpet swallowing the sound of my steps, which somehow makes it worse. My mind races ahead of me, already imagining hands, doors, mistakes I can never take back.
I round the corner and skid to a stop. Nico is sitting on the floor. Alive. Upright. Fine. He’s kneeling with intense concentration, lining up his toy cars in a perfect row, explaining something very seriously to a guard crouched in front of him.
“And this one,” Nico says, pushing a green car forward exactly one inch, “is the boss. He tells the other ones where to go.”
The guard listens like this is the most important briefing of his morning. Big man. Broad shoulders. Gun visible at his side. He nods solemnly.
“Smart,” he says. “Every team needs a boss.”
Nico considers this, then adjusts the spacing between the cars so they’re perfectly even. “Yeah,” he agrees.
I stand there, frozen, my breath trapped somewhere between my lungs and my throat. This isn’t what I expected. I expected shouting. Or indifference. Or men who look at my child like he’s an inconvenience attached to a woman they barely tolerate.
Instead, I’m watching my son be treated like a person.
That doesn’t calm me. It makes my skin prickle. Because this kindness exists inside a fortress. Because we’re in the don’s private wing, surrounded by his people, absorbed completely into a world I spent three years running from with my son tucked under my arm.
The guard notices me immediately. He straightens just enough to acknowledge me without towering over Nico.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
Nico looks up, grins. “Mama! He knows about racecars.”
I drop to my knees and pull Nico into my arms, holding him too tightly, breathing him in like oxygen. My heart thunders against my ribs as I catalog him.
“I was right here,” he says, mildly confused by my reaction.
“I know,” I whisper into his hair. “I know.”
The guard steps back without being told, giving us space. I take Nico’s hand and draw him closer, my awareness flaring outward. Listening, watching, counting exits even though this place wasn’t built for escape.
The next sound is footsteps followed by the soft click of the door opening without ceremony. I tense immediately, my body reacting before my mind finishes the thought.
Turo enters carrying a tray. Not a servant. Not a guard. Him.
The sight throws me more than it should.
He’s changed out of last night’s suit into something darker, simpler.
No tie. Sleeves rolled back just enough to show forearms that look used to force, not comfort.
The tray is heavy with food—too much food, covered dishes, steam curling into the air like an offering I didn’t ask for.
“I thought it would be easier,” he says, setting it down on the low table, “if he didn’t have to move yet.”
I nod once, because my throat is tight and because Nico is already tugging my hand toward the food.
“Is that eggs?” he asks, hopeful.
“Yes,” Turo says.
Nico doesn’t wait for permission. He climbs into the chair beside Turo like it’s always been his, swings his legs, and immediately starts rearranging the silverware that came with the tray.
Fork to the left. Knife straightened. Spoon nudged closer. Order restored.
My breath catches. Turo goes very still. Like a man holding himself one inch away from panic. His gaze tracks Nico’s hands with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Fascination. Terror.
Nico hums under his breath, completely unaware he’s rearranging more than cutlery.
“He does that,” I say quietly. “Mornings are better if things stay where he expects them.”
Turo nods once, eyes still on Nico. “I can see why.”
He pours coffee for himself, but doesn’t drink it. The cup stays untouched near his hand like a habit he hasn’t had time to break yet.
We talk logistics because anything else feels too dangerous.
“What time does he wake up?” Turo asks.
“Six,” I say. “Earlier if he’s anxious.”
“What helps?”
“Routine. Toast first. Then fruit. He hates surprises before noon.”
Nico scowls faintly, concentrating as he lines the spoon exactly parallel to the plate. Turo watches intently, like the motion might carve itself into him permanently.
“Daycare?” he asks.
The word lands wrong.
“Not anymore,” I say immediately.
“No,” he agrees. No hesitation. “Not safe.”
Silence settles, thick and uneasy.
“What happens next?” I ask.
Before he can answer, a guard appears in the doorway. “Sir.”
The tone alone makes my stomach drop.
“Perimeter patrol spotted a vehicle,” the guard says. “Circled the property three times. Didn’t stop.”
My hand closes around Nico instinctively, pulling him closer.
He looks up at me, startled. “Mama?”
“I know,” I say softly. “It’s okay.”
Across from me, Turo changes. The man holding a breakfast tray vanishes. His spine straightens. His face shutters. Whatever warmth had leaked through last night is gone, replaced by something cold and lethal and fully awake.
“How long ago?” he asks.
“Ten minutes.”
“Did it stop?”
“No.”
“Increase patrols,” Turo says. “I want cameras on every approach. Log everything. If it comes back, I want to know before it finishes the first circle.”
“Yes, sir.”
The guard disappears. The room feels smaller. More real.
Turo turns back to me, his voice lower now. “This is why you’re here.”
I hate that he’s right. Hate the way my fear eases just a fraction, knowing there are gates and men and weapons standing between my son and whoever was circling. Hate that safety tastes like borrowed eggs and a man I don’t altogether trust watching my child like he’s just discovered a miracle.
I watch Turo watch Nico. The hunger. The fear. The wonder.
He wants his son as badly as I want to protect him.
And I still don’t know if that makes Turo the safest place in the world, or the most dangerous one.