22. Kylie #2
“Kylie.” His voice was too loud for the space. “I’m here to bring you home.”
“I am home.”
“This isn’t-” He gestured around at the water-damaged theater, the cleaning crews, the Savannah volunteers who were all now staring at us. “This isn’t your home. This is some vanity project in the middle of nowhere. Your home is with your family, where you’re safe from Ferraro filth.”
“My family is here.”
“Your blood family.” He stepped closer. “The Jordans. The people who actually care about protecting you from-”
He jerked his chin toward the back of the room.
Toward Giovanni.
Who hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Was standing completely still with his hands loose at his sides, watching.
Waiting.
Letting me handle it.
Her family, her fight, her win.
“Brendan.” I stepped toward him, putting myself directly in his path. “I appreciate that you’ve come a long way, and I understand that the family is concerned. But I’m not leaving.”
“You don’t understand what these people are capable of-”
“I spent five years living among ‘these people.’ I understand exactly what they’re capable of.
” I held his gaze. “I also understand what I’m capable of.
And right now, what I’m capable of is running you out of my theater if you don’t lower your voice and apologize to my friends for interrupting their meeting. ”
His jaw tightened.
“Declan sent me-”
“Declan sent you to make sure I was safe. I am safe. You’ve verified that. Now you can report back that Kylie Jordan is exactly where she wants to be, doing exactly what she wants to do, with the people she’s chosen to do it with.”
“But-”
“This conversation is over, Brendan.” I kept my voice cool and unhurried, the donna voice I’d learned in rooms full of dangerous men, weaponized now for my own purposes. “You can either stay for the benefit planning and make yourself useful, or you can leave. But you’re not taking me anywhere.”
He stood frozen for a moment, caught between the orders he’d been given and the woman in front of him who wasn’t following the script.
Then, slowly, his shoulders dropped.
“Uncle Declan’s going to have my ass,” he muttered.
“Uncle Declan will get over it.” I softened my voice slightly. “How do you feel about hanging lights? We could use an extra pair of hands.”
Brendan blinked at me.
Then, despite himself, he almost smiled.
“Fine,” he said. “But I’m calling in to report every hour.”
“Every two hours. I’m not running a surveillance state.”
“Hour and a half.”
“Deal.”
My mother arrived at seven.
I knew it was her before I saw her, the particular quality of silence that fell over a room when Maureen Jordan entered it. She’d always had presence. Charisma. The ability to make everyone around her feel like they were being evaluated for a position they hadn’t applied for.
“Kylie.”
She was standing in the lobby doorway, perfectly composed despite six hours of travel. Linen suit, not a wrinkle. Hair immaculate. Looking at the water-damaged theater around her with an expression that managed to convey both concern and judgment simultaneously.
“Mom.”
“Miss Dot called me.” Maureen stepped carefully around a puddle, somehow making the motion look elegant. “She said you might need reinforcements.”
“Miss Dot should mind her own business.”
“Miss Dot has been minding your business since you moved here, apparently.” My mother stopped in front of me. Studied my face. “You look tired.”
“There was a hurricane. And a fire. And my estranged mother just showed up unannounced.”
“We’re not estranged.” My mother set her bag down on my table like she was moving in.
“We haven’t spoken in three months.”
“That’s not estrangement. That’s just Irish.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
Then I remembered why we hadn’t spoken, and the almost-laugh died in my throat.
“Why are you really here, Mom?”
“I told you. Miss Dot-”
“Miss Dot called you six hours ago. You’re here because the story broke. Because you’re worried about what it means for the family. For the alliance. For the web of political arrangements you spent my entire childhood constructing.”
My mother’s expression didn’t change.
“I’m here,” she said slowly, “because my daughter is in crisis, and whatever our differences, I’m still her mother.”
“You stopped being my mother the day you traded me to Salvatore Ferraro like a broodmare.”
The words landed hard, and there was no taking them back.
“Kylie-”
“Don’t.” I stepped back. “Don’t pretend this was anything other than what it was. You were widowed and scared and the alliance offered security, and you dressed it up as opportunity but it was always about what you needed. What you chose.”
“I wanted you protected-”
“You wanted me contained.” My voice was rising now. I didn’t care. “You raised me to be furniture, Mom. Decorative and functional and silent. And when I finally escaped, you treated it like a betrayal instead of survival.”
Maureen stood very still.
“I’m done apologizing for taking up space,” I said.
“Kylie-”
“I have a life here. A son. A future I’m building with my own hands. And if you can’t support that - if you can’t see me as something other than a piece in your political game-”
I stopped.
My mother’s eyes were bright.
“Your father said you were like him,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to believe it. I thought if I trained you differently, prepared you better-”
“Better for what? For being sold?”
“For surviving.” Her voice cracked. “In a world where women like us have three choices: be decorative, be dangerous, or be dead. I chose decorative because it was safest. I pushed you toward the same choice because I was terrified of what would happen if you picked dangerous.”
I stared at her.
“You picked dangerous anyway,” Maureen said. “And you survived. And maybe-” She took a breath. “Maybe I was wrong about the only safe path.”
It wasn’t an apology.
But it was something.
“I’m not ready to forgive you,” I said.
“I know.”
“But you can stay. For the benefit. If you want to actually help instead of manage.”
My mother nodded slowly.
“I’d like that,” she said.
***
The day ended in the square.
Sunset painted the Spanish moss gold, and the volunteers were finally heading home, and Giovanni was standing at the edge of the square with Nico asleep against his shoulder.
Watching me.
Waiting.
I crossed to where he stood. Said nothing. Just stood beside him while the whole watching square observed us together.
His hand found mine.
We didn’t need words.
My phone rang at nine.
Declan’s number.
“Uncle Dec.”
“The Jordan table wants a sit-down with the don.” His voice was flat. Careful. “Tomorrow. Boston. Alone.”
I went cold.
“You know what alone means in our family, Kylie.”
I knew.
Alone meant unarmed. No backup. Walking into a room full of men who had every reason to want him dead and trusting that honor would hold.
“I’ll tell him,” I said.
“Tell him one more thing.” Declan’s voice softened slightly. “Tell him if he doesn’t show, we’ll come to him. And that version doesn’t have rules.”
The line went dead.
Giovanni was looking at me.
Waiting.
“The Jordan table,” I said. “Tomorrow. Alone.”
He nodded slowly.
Like he’d been expecting it all along.