CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JULIA
THE LONE LAMP PAINTED the living room in a soft, amber glow, its light swallowed by the deep shadows in the corners. I sat curled on my end of the sofa, knees drawn up, staring blankly at the television where some Netflix show murmured on.
I bit my lip, recalling the strain in his voice during our call and the odd text that followed.
I had no idea what waited on the other side of that door—which version of him would walk through it.
The twins were sound asleep upstairs, their faces smoothed of every worry in the deep slumber that somehow erased the decade since they'd been babies.
When I’d told the girls their father would be home late, they merely glanced up from their homework and nodded, pencils scratching against paper as they kept at long division and spelling practice.
No questions. No worry. The hush of the house felt almost deliberate, only the soft hum of the desk lamp and the distant tick of the wall clock filling the quiet.
Granted, it was unusual for their dad to miss dinner and the bedtime routine, but I found myself blinking back a small tide of emotion at how calmly they accepted such an ordinary adult reality. Dad was working late. He’d come home eventually, that was the end of story.
The moment I heard the front door click and the latch drop, I rose and padded barefoot through the dim hallway, my steps muffled by the wool runner.
Pale moonlight filtered through the sidelights, casting slender beams across the polished hardwood.
In the foyer, I halted just inside the glow of the overhead lantern, taking him in as he crouched at the entry bench.
His back was curved, shoulders drawn forward, as he lined up his shoes with the same precise symmetry he’d followed for years. Dark strands of hair fell forward, brushing the nape of his neck, and for a heartbeat I saw the familiar ritual in new relief.
“Hey,” I murmured, voice low enough that it felt like a secret between us.
His head lifted slowly. The tension etched around his mouth softened, if only imperceptibly.
He rose to his full height, the fabric of his jacket whispering as he straightened.
Three confident strides later, his arms circled me, warm and firm.
I inhaled deeply—his cologne, a subtle blend of cedar wood and citrus, melding with the everyday warmth of his skin.
When he eased back, his lips brushed my forehead—a gentle, lingering kiss. “Hi, bella,” he said, voice husky with fatigue and relief.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, brushing a stray hair from his forehead.
“Still full from lunch.” He pressed another soft kiss to my temple before slipping out of my embrace. “I’m going to grab some water. Give me a minute, and I’ll join you in the living room.”
I waited in the foyer as he padded away, the quiet footsteps fading toward the kitchen.
A moment later, I returned to the couch where a cozy patchwork throw lay draped over the arm.
The cushions carried the faint imprint of our afternoons together—where we’d curl up with books or laugh over a sitcom.
He arrived shortly after, holding his tall bottle of electrolyte water, condensation beading on the plastic.
As he settled beside me, the couch shifted under his weight.
He reached out, lifting one arm in that familiar, unspoken invitation.
I scooted close, tucking myself against his side.
He stretched the cashmere throw—a deep charcoal gray—over our laps, then leaned in to press a featherlight kiss to my hair.
“Girls go down okay?” he rumbled against my ear, the vibration like a comforting drumbeat.
“Mmhmm,” I replied, tilting my head up to brush my cheek against his chest. “Oh—and I signed the permission slip for that pumpkin-picking trip at Berry Farms. They have been talking about it nonstop.”
He offered a half-smile, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Think Ari will settle for just one pumpkin this year?”
I laughed softly. “At this point, I’d take that as a major victory. She’s still dead set on being ‘Thumb-Thumb’ from Spy Kids for Halloween.”
He chuckled, his arm tightening around me, and for a moment the hush of the house felt like the safest place in the world.
"Wonder where she gets that stubborn streak."
"Don't look at me. That's pure Ethan Marcelli DNA right there."
He huffed once through his nose—not quite a laugh, but close enough.
I settled deeper into his side. On the television, the muted show cycled through its scenes, casting pale flickers of blue light across the far wall.
The throw was warm. His heartbeat was slow and even beneath my cheek. Neither of us reached for the remote.
"About Lila."
My body stiffened immediately. I knew that tone. "Something happened?"
"Nothing happened with me," he stressed, and the distinction made my attention sharpen. "I ran into her when I was leaving. She knew what time I normally leave the office."
My brows pulled together. "That isn’t too unusual, is it?"
“Not really. We ran into one another on my way out. She said she hadn't intended to upset you and offered to apologize."
"How gracious."
"I told her not to approach you."
That surprised me. "You did?"
"Yes. Because you don't need an apology from her, and I'm not giving her another excuse to insert herself into our personal lives. You know I have firm boundaries between business and pleasure."
That settled some of the irritation lingering beneath my skin. Ethan stared toward the dark television for a moment before continuing.
“There is something else we need to discuss.”
My hands rose to his face, my thumbs brushing slowly along his jaw. "Hey."
His eyes found mine.
"What else has that mind spinning? The potential client you mentioned?"
His hands came up and covered mine, holding them against his face like he needed the anchor.
"Potential," he corrected quietly.
Something in his tone made my stomach dip. "Who?"
"Dominic Cortez."
I knew that name and I knew he was in deep shit. I hadn’t cared enough to look into what. I waited for him to continue. "He's being held at Coleman."
"What's he facing?"
"Racketeering. Narcotics trafficking. Four homicides tied to his organization, although the government hasn't connected them directly to him yet. Then there's the laundering. Offshore accounts. Shell corporations. Money moving through churches, charities, foundations. The works."
His voice had shifted, the timbre sharpening like metal drawn across a whetstone. There it was—the same cutting edge that flickered to life whenever Ethan began arranging a chessboard of facts and figures inside his mind.
“He’s got enough stacked against him to bury him twice over,” he explained, tone low and as he settled deeper into the velvet cushions of our sofa. “Which is probably why his son and grandfather came to see me earlier. They want us on it—me, Knox, Rafa.”
I glanced up from the coffee table, where a single lamp cast a warm pool of light across scattered case files. “Why isn’t his current attorney handling it?”
Ethan shrugged, his broad shoulder brushing against mine. “Exactly my question. Cortez already has solid counsel in place. Something went sideways.”
“This wasn’t a quick takedown, either,” I replied, leaning forward, the fabric of my sweater soft under my fingertips.
“No.” He paused, eyes narrowing as though replaying years of evidence in his head.
“This has been building for years. Agents living under false identities. Informants in every port. Handed-off recordings in deserted parking garages at 2 a.m. Financial analysts threading blood money through spreadsheets until each dollar sprouts a family tree.”
He reached out, his fingertips tangling gently in my hair. The warmth of him grounded me, even as his words sketched a map of danger. “If they’ve got him where they do,” he murmured, voice hushed but unwavering, “someone spent years threading a hundred tiny needles to get him here.”
I watched the familiar fire in my husband’s eyes. That restless hunger. Not for payoff—rarely for the money, at least, but for the lock that needed picking, the code that needed cracking.
“Say the word, and I walk away,” he offered, his voice a rough promise in the hush of our living room.
I met his gaze in the dim light. “You’d do that?”
“Without hesitation.”
My pulse stuttered. I could’ve said no right then—bolted every door, locked away our peace.
Part of me longed to. But I knew Ethan too well.
I’d listened in the dead stillness of 3 a.m. as he paced our bedroom, whispering case law like prayers.
I’d found half-eaten dinners on the counter, forgotten when he’d spotted a single inconsistency buried in thousands of pages of discovery.
And Knox and Rafa weren’t any different. Give those three men an impossible case and they turned into bloodhounds on a scent trail. Ethan thrived on these—on the sleepless nights of prosecutors and the judges shifting uneasily behind their benches.
Ethan needed monsters everyone else thought unbeatable.
“Meet him first,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.
Ethan’s brow softened. “That’s not a yes.”
“I know.” I traced the line of his collarbone with a gentle fingertip. The smooth skin under my touch was a promise and a plea both. “Meet him. Talk to your father. Talk to whoever else you trust. Find out why he’s changing counsel and what demons you’re about to wake. Then we decide.”
“We?” he asked, half-amused, half-wary.
I gave him a pointed look. “Did I stutter?”
A slow smile curved his lips. “No, bella.”
I tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, then straightened. “But if your gut warns that taking him on slaps a target on this house or on our girls, you walk away. I don’t give a damn how fascinating the case is.”
He stepped closer, his hand cradling the small of my back. “I’d never let anything touch you or the girls.”
“I know that, Rambo.” I pressed my lips to the hollow of his throat, feeling his heartbeat quicken. “Your hero complex is... well, legendary.”
He chuckled, the sound rich and genuine, like sunlight breaking through a storm. But in his eyes I saw the spark I sometimes feared, the unquenchable hunger for the next impossible fight.
I let him linger there, safe in my arms, but as I did, I wondered if he had forgotten that I didn’t need him to shield me from every peril. I’d learned long ago that I was more than capable of standing on my own, no matter how dark the world outside our gates might be.
My father had made sure of that long before Ethan ever put a ring on my finger.
I knew what kind of men existed beyond our gates.
I'd grown up learning when to smile at them, when to avoid them, and when smiling was simply another way of showing your teeth.
Women like me survived by learning when to smile, and when to bury the body.
Still, I understood Ethan's need to protect us. It was woven into him. And if believing he could keep every shadow on his side of the door helped him sleep at night, I wasn't going to take that from him.
Not tonight.
I settled against him again, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear. Whatever choice he made about Cortez would leave marks on all of us.
I just didn't know yet which decision would cut deepest.