It is a modern property on land that is anything but. When Dad inherited it, he tore down the old structure and started again. It was before my time, so I never saw what stood herebefore. My grandmother died giving birth to my dad, and my grandfather died at sixty, five months before I was born.
The new property has never felt excessive to me. It is just… solid. Calm in the way things are when they have always been this way. Pale white stone walls, tall windows that catch the light, everything is balanced and intentional. Even now, the place sits neatly against the well-manicured grass. The gravel drive curves like a roundabout, a fountain at its centre, trees and flowers lining the edges.
Parking, I step out and take a deep breath. Childhood memories flicker past my mind’s eye. Summer mornings with the doors thrown open, light spilling across the polished marble floors, my mum’s voice carrying from the kitchen to the den as my dad’s laughter followed her. Nothing was hidden in this home. It was just… peaceful.
I climb the steps and try the lock, mentally chastising them for leaving it open.Again. Stepping inside, the space opens around me in a way that feels instinctively right. The entrance hall is wide and bright, marble floors laid in careful patterns that catch the light as it pours through the tall windows. Twin staircases curve upward on either side, their ironwork delicate rather than imposing. The chandelier at the centre is crystal, casting a soft glow that feels more welcoming than grand.
I can hear music drifting in from the kitchen; Mum’s voice echoes through the rooms as she sings along to ‘Aretha Franklin’s I Say a Little Prayer.’ I smile to myself, making a detour to see her. The house always sounds alive when she is awake. The clink of cups, a tune carried through open doorways, her heels echoing through each room like my own personal orchestra.
I move further inside without hesitation, passing the seating arranged neatly at the centre of the hall and stop at the kitchen doorway. I watch her as she dances across the space, alwaysbaking something. Mum spots me just as she slides a tray into the oven and jumps, her hand flying to her chest before she breaks into a laugh.
“Jesus, Roman!” she scolds lightly as she picks up her phone and turns the music down. “You’ll be the death of me one day.”
“Augh, Mum, I hate when you say that,” I say, walking into the kitchen to give her a hug.
“I know, my sweet literal boy,” she coos as she goes up on her tiptoes to embrace me.
I meet her halfway, bending my much taller frame to meet hers without hesitation, like I am still a twelve-year-old boy and not a fully grown man. She smells like clean linen and cinnamon. Mum pulls away first, her hands moving the way they always do as she gently smooths my shirt and kisses me on the cheek.
My chest twinges, something that keeps happening lately when I take in her features. People without HSAM will never understand the curse of it. Every day I have seen her, I can picture her clearly in my mind’s eye. It means every wrinkle, sunspot, and extra grey hair is more obvious to me than it would be to anyone else. The reality that I am faced with my mum’s mortality every time I see her is a hard pill to swallow.
My mother has never chased youth. She wears her years the way she wears everything else, with quiet confidence and no apology. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes deepen when she smiles and the skin at her neck shows the soft marks of time. Her skin is rich and warm, a deep bronze that holds the light instead of reflecting it. Her brown eyes are soft and warm which is nothing like my hardened gaze, and her hair is kept in short, tight coils close to her head.
Grace lives in her posture, in the way she moves, in the way she behaves. She is beautiful, not because she is untouched by time, but because she has made peace with it. Standing in frontof her, I realise I have always known what strength looks like, because I learned it here, watching her.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she says, finally stepping back to look at me properly.
“Dad called,” I shrug, leaning against the countertop.
“Well, don’t keep him waiting. When you’re done, you can come back to collect some cinnamon buns. I’ll pack extra for the boys.”
I roll my eyes at the endearment. No matter that we are adults, living in our own home, being assassins and soon to be running businesses, somehow my mum still thinks and treats us like children. The guys love it though. All of them have complicated relationships with their parents; I think I am the only one who had a normal upbringing, so to them having a mum that cares is more precious than gold. At this point she has informally adopted them, which adds complications when I ultimately snap and stab one of them. It’s bad enough I have to think about Fae’s feelings, let alone my mum’s.
Walking through the house, I knock once on my dad’s office door and enter.
“You’re late,” he announces without any heat, carrying on typing on his keyboard.
“Blame your wife, she commandeered me,” I retort as I take a seat on the opposite side of his desk. His lips twitch as he finally looks up from his computer.
“Sounds about right,” he chuckles, leaning back in his chair.
My dad wears his age differently to my mum. It sits in the silver threaded through his hair, in the heavy lines at the corners of his blue eyes that crease when he smiles. His beard is kept trimmed deliberately, the kind of grooming done for discipline rather than vanity. He has always looked put together. Even now, in jeans, he has opted for a white shirt rather than a tee. Heis shorter than me by a couple of inches, but his pale skin is what gave me my caramel complexion.
“So…” I begin, “you needed me?” Dad clears his throat as he studies me. A quiet confidence I grew up believing was strength.
“You were difficult to reach this morning,” he states, changing the question. Interesting. It is not that I don’t trust my dad, it is just that we have clashed before when it comes to my duties to The Company.
“I was occupied,” I respond vaguely, crossing my arms across my chest as I mirror his stance.
“I could tell.” His lips twitch in a small smile. “A woman?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm, well,” Dad muses, “this is why the meeting couldn’t wait.”
Dad reaches into the top of his desk and pulls out an envelope. He chucks it across the mahogany wood, it stops sliding just before it tumbles to the floor.
“What’s this?”