Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Christine
I hate myself for being this weak.
The thought loops in my head like a torture circle, sitting at the back of my throat like something bitter I can’t spit out or swallow, as I push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is dim in that soft, lived-in way. It has the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty, just… rested.
I hear the sound of a cartoon drifting from the living room, luminous voices dulled by distance.
I close the door behind me carefully, like noise might break something fragile.
My body feels off.
It's dulled in places that shouldn’t be. Lit up in places that should be dulled out. Like something in me got rearranged and didn’t bother putting itself back properly.
I drop my bag by the door without looking, my fingers lingering on the strap a second too long before I let it go.
I should feel tired from work, if I did any.
From the day, if it was my usual kind of day.
From running around, thinking, planning, pretending everything is normal.
But I did none of that.
After I gave Robert an ultimatum he didn’t take, he ordered something from his restaurant and made sure I ate before I left to attend to work problems.
I stayed in that van for hours, too tired to go back to work, too raw to come home.
I exhale slowly, struggling to push it out of my system.
It doesn’t go.
And it hurts in places my hands cannot reach to soothe.
The burn is in my chest, dragging lower, right where it meets my stomach like something is hooked into my insides, pulling at my organs, while my heart refuses to let go.
It's a cruel joke.
Out of everyone, it had to be him. I had to fall for the one man who comes with darkness. With history. With things I don’t understand but can already feel colliding with my life.
The one man I can’t seem to control myself around.
I drag a hand down my face, shuffling my mood before I step further in.
The living room comes into view.
And everything inside me… pauses.
Aisha is curled into the corner of the couch, swallowed halfway by a duvet she clearly didn’t bother fixing properly. Her head is tilted at an angle that’s going to hurt when she wakes up, one arm tucked under it, the other draped lazily over Blue.
Blue is folded into her. One leg thrown across Aisha’s lap, her face buried into her chest, her fingers curled in the fabric like she fell asleep holding on.
I stand there looking.
Because this is what makes sense. This is what I know how to hold.
Not chaos. Not fire. Not men who you won't stay and still manage to feel like they’re everywhere.
This.
I walk over slowly, my steps softer without trying to be.
I reach for the duvet that has slipped off Blue’s shoulder and fix it gently, pulling it up, tucking it around her, and smoothing it over Aisha after, careful not to wake either of them.
My fingers linger for a second. Long enough to feel the comfort seep through my bones.
Aisha shifts subtly, adjusting her head, her arm clasping around Blue.
I straighten immediately, shaking it off, before turning for my bedroom.
When I leave my room, I look like myself again.
Or close enough.
The kitchen light buzzes when I switch it on, casting everything in warm yellow. I move through it automatically, pulling out what I need without checking twice.
Aisha said she was under attack by microscopic demons earlier. Which means she’s sick enough to be dramatic about it.
So I make soup.
I chop, stir, taste, and adjust, letting my hands think while my mind finally… doesn’t.
For a few minutes, it’s just this. The rhythm of the spoon against the pot. The bubbling. The steam rising.
“Is it ready yet?”
I glance over my shoulder.
Aisha is leaning against the kitchen entrance like she has just woken up from a coma, her blanket still wrapped around her like a cloak she refuses to give up. Her hair is worse now, slightly lopsided, and her eyes are half-lidded.
Blue is right beside her, one hand wrapped around Aisha’s fingers, the other rubbing at her eye like she’s still halfway asleep.
“You were asleep two seconds ago,” I point out, turning back to the pot.
“I smelled food,” Aisha replies without shame, already dragging herself further into the kitchen.
“That’s not how sickness works,” I murmur.
“It does when I’m involved.”
Blue nods like that makes perfect sense.
“She said the smell woke her,” Blue adds helpfully, climbing onto one of the stools by the counter with a small grunt.
“Of course it did.” I smile.
“So…” Aisha follows, easing herself onto the stool beside her. “What are we having?” She asks, peering into the pot like she expects something extravagant.
“Soup,” I answer simply.
“Soup?” She blinks, then looks at me.
“You’re sick.” I point out.
“I’m dramatic, not dying.”
“You’re getting soup.”
“Come on.” She sighs like I’ve wronged her deeply, slumping slightly against the counter. “I wanted something fried.”
“You’ll live.”
“Barely.” She grumbles.
“Mommy…” Blue leans forward, resting her chin on the counter. “Can I have soup?”
“But you’re not sick, bunny.”
“I can still have it,” she argues.
“You can have it,” I concede, reaching for a bowl.
“No way.” Aisha gasps softly. “So she gets soup by choice and I get it by force?”
“Yes.” I clip playfully.
“That’s unfair.”
“That’s life.”
“That’s life.” Blue giggles.
“Oh, we’re on.” Aisha narrows her eyes at me.
I ladle the soup into a bowl, sliding it toward her first.
“Careful, it’s hot.”
She leans over it, blowing on it dramatically before taking a cautious sip.
“Okay, this is good,” she admits reluctantly.
“I know.”
“Is it…” Blue bobs her head from side to side, watching closely. “Is it yummy?”
Aisha nods, then leans closer to her.
“Very yummy,” she whispers, like it’s a secret.
“Me, Mommy.” Blue lights up. “I want!”
I laugh before I can stop it, the sound surprising me despite the madness in my head.
“Okay, baby.” I turn back to the pot, scooping another serving, the noise in the kitchen building now.
Aisha starts talking about something unnecessary, Blue interrupts with questions that don’t connect, and both of them pull me into it without asking.
And I let them.
I let myself blend back into this version of me until the doorbell rings, halting the moment.
Blue perks up immediately.
“I’ll get it!” she announces, already sliding off the stool.
“No…” I start, turning quickly.
But it’s too late because she’s already halfway there.
“Stop…” I bark, going after her.
Blue freezes mid-step, one hand already reaching for the door handle, her body caught between curiosity and obedience.
I close the distance quickly, stepping in front of her before she can touch anything.
“What did I say about opening the door?” I ask, lowering my voice, not harsh, but firm enough.
“Sorry, Mommy.” She frowns immediately, the kind that folds her whole face.
“Tell me what I said, not apologize.” I scold softly.
“You said I shouldn’t open doors,” she mutters.
“At your age,” I add.
“At my age,” she repeats, softer this time.
I hold her gaze for a second longer, just to make sure she gets it.
“Go be with Aunty Aisha.” I tilt my head toward the kitchen.
She huffs under her breath, but she turns anyway, dragging her feet just enough to show she’s not happy about it before disappearing back toward Aisha.
I wait until she’s fully out of reach before I turn and pull the door open.
As expected, it’s Robert.
The first thing I notice is that he looks… different. He looks stripped down.
Simpler.
He’s waering a plain T-shirt with the sleeves hugging his arms in a way that feels almost unfair, paired with blue jeans that sit low on his hips like he didn’t overthink any of it.
Dangerously casual.
My eyes drop to the takeout bags in his hand and I almost laugh. Because of course he didn’t come empty-handed.
From the faint smell of food wafting in the air, I can tell it’s from his world.
“Hi, Bon.” His voice is tired, but still holds its allure.
Instead of moving aside, I step out, pulling the door behind me until it closes.
“Robert.” I fold my arms, putting distance between us. “What are you doing here?” I ask, my firm voice not betraying the way my pulse has picked up.
“I want to talk.” He shrugs.
“Now you want to talk?”
“Are you trying to get me hard with the attitude?” His eyes drag over my body.
And suddenly, my sleep shorts and top feel like lingerie under the weight of that gaze, the way his eyes darken as he takes his time.
“Eyes up.”
He ignores me completely, only lifting them when he’s had his fill.
Then, like he’s got a hearing problem, he closes the distance and steals a kiss.
“Robert!” I squeak, stepping away.
He laughs then, and it’s a sound I didn’t know I wanted to hear. It's loud, full, spilling into the space like color where there was none.
He walks past me to the side.
There’s a pair of old rocking chairs by the entrance, ones that have seen too many evenings with our little family of three.
He lowers himself into one of them, dropping the takeout bag beside him.
“I was married,” he starts without a soft landing.
No buildup.
No warning.
Typical of him.
“It was to my college dream girl,” he continues, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead, not on me, not on anything specific. “Her name was Lily.”
My insides start to brim with curiosity.
“She wasn’t… what my family had planned for me,” he adds, a faint, humorless curve touching his mouth. “They had other ideas based on the family business. Arrangements. Alliances.”
Yeah, I don't need to be reminded that he's a Mafia don.
“But I fought for her,” he goes on. “I fought for us and did what I needed to do so no one could tell me no.”
There’s something in the way he says it. It's more fact than pride.
“I made space for her in a world that doesn’t make space for anything tender.”
My arms squeeze across my chest
“And it worked,” he exhales quietly. “For a while it did.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms against his thighs, his hands loosely clasped together like he’s holding something that’s already gone.
“She gave me a son,” he continues. “My beautiful boy, Ariel.”
He swallows once before continuing.
“He was five.”
Five.
Was.
Something twists in my chest.
“I was away when it happened.” His voice catches. “I went for business in Japan and I came back to a house on fire.”
“What?” I ask quietly, hoping it's figurative.
“They didn’t make it out.” He nods like that answers my question.
“Robert.” I gasp.
“My wife, my son, and most of the staff.” He continues. “I was responsible for all of them,” he adds, his voice quieter now, but not breaking. “Every single one.”
My throat shrinks, tears he won't shed building up inside of me.
“I knew it wasn’t an accident,” he continues. “Not even for a second.”
He bites his lower lip, muttering something under his breath.
“I had… provoked someone whose son crossed a line by sexually abusing Atelia.” He adds. “I made an example of him by cutting off his fingers.”
At this point I want to go to him, but I hold back.
Let him finish.
“I didn’t think he knew where my family was,” he adds. “I made sure of that. Or at least… I thought I did.”
He exhales slowly.
“But I was wrong.”
“It’s…”
“I buried them,” he cuts me off, almost absently. “And I buried everything else with them.”
He drags in a deep breath. Then exhales just as deeply.
“That’s why I wanted to stay away.” He finally looks at me. Really looks this time. “Because I don't want to hurt her.” His jaw ticks slightly,
Suddenly, everything makes sense.
Too much sense.
My arms loosen without me realizing it and my feet move, closing the distance slowly.
When I reach him, I don’t think. I just wrap my arms around him.
He stills for a second. Then his arms come around me, crushing me.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe against him.
And I mean it.
For all of it.
For something I can’t even fully carry.
He pulls back first, reaching for the bag beside him.
“I brought food.” He lifts it and places it into my hands like that’s what he came here for.
It almost makes me smile knowing he's trying to mask the moment.
“Give me another shot.” His expression melts, pleading.
I look at him.
At the man who comes with fire in his past and danger stitched into his present.
At the man who still showed up even when he's scared it will cost him everything again.
“We’ll be at the cookout.” I nod.
His shoulders drop from relief.
“But…” I tilt my head slightly, adding, “If the food is terrible, Blue will make a fuss about it.” I shrug, smiling. “She’s picky.”
“I'll keep that in mind.” He smiles.
Then he leans in and his lips meet mine in a soft, sealing kiss.
When he pulls back, there’s something different in his eyes.
Something I don’t recognize fast enough.
“I love you.” He mouths it, the words lifting between us like something fragile set loose that's too soft to catch, and too real to ignore.
Before I can even process it, he stands, stepping back.
“See you, Bun.” He turns and walks away.
What do I do with that?