But Sal's expression shifts, goes deadly serious in that way that always makes my stomach drop.
"Your father would want you protected, Angel."
Bastard.
The words hit hard. Papa's face flashes behind my eyes. Once brilliant and loving, now lost in a fog that steals more of him every day. Last visit, he called me Maria for twenty minutes before the confusion cleared. His sister. Dead forty years.
Does his brain hurt, Mamma?
"So does Chesca's great-uncle." Sal's tone gentles, but the steel underneath remains. "This isn't negotiable."
Papa. Chesca.The two people who make me swallow fury and nod like a good Castellano woman, even when everything in me screams to fight.
He knows exactly what he's doing. He's known since I was twelve years old and he figured out which buttons to push. Which levers to pull. How to make me comply without ever raising his voice.
Family, Angelina. Always.
I dig my fingers harder into my arm until my nails probably create crescents that'll bruise tomorrow. The pain grounds me when everything else spins out of control.
A muscle tenses in Cole's jaw, the only visible reaction to me reacting to him with such venom.
Good. Let him feel unwelcome. Let him feel one inch of what I feel right now—invaded, ambushed, and stripped bare in my own living room.
Sal moves toward the door, apparently satisfied that he's won this round.
"Keep her safe." It's not a request. An order, delivered to Cole like I'm not standing right here, capable of speaking for myself.
Cole nods once, sharp. A soldier receiving mission parameters.
Is that what I am now? A mission? A package to be protected?
The thought makes my skin crawl.
"Talk to him." Sal looks at me, expression softening slightly, the uncle who used to sneak me cannoli when Mamma wasn't looking, buried somewhere under the boss who just steamrolled my objections. "Hear him out. Then decide."
We both know I don't actually get to decide. Not if Sal thinks there's a threat I need to be protected from. Not with Chesca sleeping upstairs, innocent and trusting, with her stuffed rabbit and her purple pajamas and her complete faith that Mamma will keep her safe.
The door closes behind him with a thunk that echoes through the quiet house.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. Fifteen feet of hardwood and furniture create a barrier I desperately need, because when he looks at me like that—like he knows me, like twelve years dissolved the moment he walked through mydoor, like he has any goddamn right to stand in my living room—every defense I've built feels paper-thin.
The clock ticks near the kitchen. Too loud. Our breathing fills the space, and I hate that I can hear his, and hate that I'm attuned to the rhythm of it like no time has passed.
The evening wind rattles the window, and I flinch before I can stop myself.
Fantastic. Now he knows you jump at shadows. Now he knows you're not the girl he left behind; you're this broken thing that can't even handle a breeze.
Cole tenses immediately, weight shifting forward like he's ready to throw himself between me and whatever threat the wind might pose.
Stop it. Stop acting like you care. You lost the right to care when you walked away.
Chesca's backpack sits by the stairs, bright pink, covered in unicorn stickers she applied herself with painstaking concentration. A reminder that my daughter sleeps above our heads, trusting me to keep the monsters out.
And I just let one come in through the front door.
Family photos line the walls. Birthday parties and holidays. Beach trips and school plays. Just me and Chesca, building a life that doesn't include ghosts from college or nightmares from my marriage. A life I constructed from the wreckage of everything else.
Now he's standing in the middle of it like he belongs here.