Chapter 87 Saint
Saint
Idon’t celebrate arrests.
I count reactions.
“She’s in custody,” Marco says. “Financial seizure is live. Properties are locked. She didn’t fight it.”
“Yet,” I say.
There’s a pause. He knows what I mean.
“Not over,” he agrees.
“No,” I say. “It’s just louder now.”
I hang up and look at the board.
Routes. Times. Faces. Layers.
Wolf is already adjusting rotations.
Havoc is on the phone, rerouting a delivery truck that doesn’t exist.
“Laney doesn’t know,” Wolf says.
“She will,” I reply. “Just not like this.”
We move as if the building were made of glass.
I go upstairs.
Laney is in the rocker with Emmy, humming something soft and off-key.
It hits me harder than any firefight ever did.
“Hey,” she says when she sees me. “Everything okay?”
“For now,” I say.
I sit on the edge of the bed. And reach my hand over and tickle the baby’s tummy.
Emmy grips my finger like she will never let go.
Laney watches and chuckles.
“It’s getting better, isn’t it?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
Not a lie.
Not the whole truth.
“What aren’t you saying?” she asks quietly.
I study her.
Strong. Tired. Braver than she knows.
“Marco’s mother’s been arrested.”
The words land.
She goes still.
“Marco’s… mother?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “I still find it hard to believe that she hated us so much.”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God…”
“I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else.”
She looks down at Emmy.
“Does that mean it’s over?”
“No,” I say gently. “It means she can’t touch you anymore.”
She looks back at me. “That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I agree. “But it’s a start.”
She nods slowly. “What do we do now?”
“We keep you safe. We keep Emmy safe. And we let Marco burn the rest of it down.”
“And you?” she asks.
“I stay right here with you and Emmy.”
Her eyes soften.
“Saint…”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
She exhales like she’s been holding her breath.
Downstairs, Havoc’s voice carries faintly.
“Movement flagged.”
Wolf answers something I can’t hear.
I stand.
“That’s my cue.”
She reaches for my hand.
Just for a second.
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
I lean down and press my lips to her forehead. Then I touch Emmy’s tiny hand.
“Nothing will get past us,” I promise.
It’s not bravado.
It’s a vow.
Because someone else always panics when the queen falls.