"Same thing."
The kitchen light's too bright. Nowhere to hide. I see every micro-expression she tries to suppress. Her fear bleeding through anger, anger covering fear.
"Then here's what I know without asking." I keep my voice steady, presenting facts rather than accusations. "He hurt you. I don't know how, and I don't know when. But something happened between you that made you flinch at sudden movements. That taught you to stand with your back against walls. That made you erase him so completely from your daughter's life that she doesn't even know his name."
Her face goes blank. Eyes flat. Jaw set. The transformation is instant, like shutters slamming over windows, every trace of vulnerability locked away behind armor I can't penetrate.
"This conversation is over." She walks toward the doorway.
"Angelina."
I close the distance between us. Not touching. Just present. Close enough that she can feel me there, close enough that she knows I'm not backing down.
"How did he hurt you?"
Silence stretches. Her shoulders rise and fall with controlled breathing, the kind that comes from practice, from years of managing reactions that would give too much away.
"I knew it was him before I looked up." Her voice goes hollow. "The shoes. He has this drag on his left foot. I used to hear it coming down the hallway and know—"
She stops. Swallows.
Know what? What did you know was coming, Firefly?
But I don't want to push too hard right now.
When she finally speaks, her voice comes out stripped bare. Raw in a way I haven't heard since college, since before whatever happened that turned my Firefly into this fortress of a woman.
"If I say yes, what happens?"
"Then diplomatic immunity becomes a very temporary problem."
She exhales, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. The sound breaks in her throat. "He never touched Chesca. I made sure of that. I left before she was born."
She was pregnant when she left him. Alone and pregnant and running from a man with diplomatic immunity, with connections, with every advantage money and power could provide.
And she still got out. She still protected her daughter.
"What did he do?"
"Enough." The word falls like a stone. Her hand moves unconsciously toward the living room, toward the stairs, toward where Chesca sleeps. "Enough that I knew staying meant oneof us wouldn't survive. Me or her. He's in the same city as my daughter now, Cole. Eight years and an ocean weren't enough distance."
She finally turns. Eyes bright with tears she refuses to let fall, jaw set with the stubborn pride I fell in love with fifteen years ago.
My hand moves before conscious thought. I touch her jaw, light, barely there. She stiffens but doesn't pull away.
Cradling. Not controlling. She needs to know the difference. She needs to know I'm not him.
"I handled it. Uncle Sal helped. Adrian's been gone eight years." Her voice goes flat. "And now he's back."
Uncle Sal. The mob connections. She called in a favor to survive. Made a deal with one devil to escape another. How much did that cost her? What does she owe for her freedom?
"If he comes near you again—" My voice drops low. A promise, not a threat. "Either of you. Diplomatic immunity won't save him."
"You can't promise that."
"I just did."
She's quiet for a long moment. Her hand rests where I touched her jaw, fingers trembling against her own skin.