Genetics never lie. Anatomy leaves a permanent paper trail.
The math runs in the background. The precise timelines. The physical similarities. A pull I can’t fully name drags me toward this child. A pressure builds inside my sternum.
The complete picture remains obscured. Missing variables frustrate me. But the biological connection anchors me to the floorboards. It rewires my priorities in real-time. Every instinct fires a fierce, confusing need to put my body between this child and the world.
Soft footsteps sound in the hallway.
Lucia steps into the sitting room.
A pale silk robe hangs loosely over her frame. The smooth fabric slips off one bare shoulder. Golden skin catches the faint amber light. Dark hair is sleep-tousled and wild. The Costa arrogance is gone.
Softness replaces the armor. Vulnerability radiates from her tired posture.
Her gaze locks onto the rug.
She freezes. The rapid rise and fall of her chest tells me her heart rate spiked hard.
A heavily armed killer sits on her expensive rug building a block tower with her daughter. The visual juxtaposition defies all cartel logic.
Rosa walks into the room a second later. The nanny wears a crisp, pressed uniform.
“Good morning.” Rosa speaks cheerfully. “Time for breakfast, Tyra. Pancakes today.”
Tyra knocks the wooden tower over with a loud giggle. The blocks clatter against the floor. Small hands grab the stuffed wolf. The tiny girl runs toward the kitchen. Rosa follows right behind her.
The child is gone.
Lucia and I are alone.
She starts tossing scattered blocks back into the wooden box. I follow her as she moves from the sitting room into the nursery,my massive frame making the small room feel like a cage. I drop back to my knees beside her on the hardwood floor, the soft yellow light of the nursery catching the sweat on her skin. I pick up a bright green block from the floor.
“You do not have to do that.” The breathy whisper barely reaches my ears.
“I finish tasks.”
We both reach for the same red block. My rough, calloused knuckles brush against soft, pale skin.
The contact detonates up my arm. My muscles lock. My legendary control fractures into jagged pieces. The frantic flutter of her pulse point at the base of her throat demands my attention. Her heart hammers against her ribs.
She pulls her hand back fast. She clutches the wooden block to her chest.
She doesn’t make eye contact. Her gaze locks onto the small nursery window. The early morning sun casts long shadows across the manicured lawn.
The heavy guard drops. The quiet intimacy of the room strips her armor.
“It was nice.” The words are quiet. “Seeing her play with you.”
I don’t fill the silence. I let it pull the truth out of the dark.
“She does not have a father.” A hard swallow sounds loud in the quiet room. “She does not have a man to protect her. She just has me. And I am trapped.”
She turns her head. Her eyes find mine. Deep, agonizing guilt swims in her irises.
“Dominic controls everything.” The tremor in her voice is undeniable. “I play the obedient sister. I wear the expensive silk dresses. I smile for his cameras. But I am a disposable pawn on his board.”
She grips the red block tighter. Her knuckles strain against the smooth wood.
“I am terrified of what he plans to do with me.” Her deepest fear bleeds into the air. “He will use me. He will use Tyra. Maybe throwing us abroad to some remote estate. Maybe selling me to a rival boss to secure a treaty. Or keeping me on the sidelines my whole life as a permanent, silent prisoner.”