Could have said his conscience had finally awakened. Could have claimed strategic necessity, moral fatigue, paternal transformation. All would have contained pieces of truth.
Instead, he said, “Because a woman with no reason to trust me took six bullets for my daughter and then told me not to waste it.”
Ava stared at him for a long second.
“That may be the first honest sentence I’ve ever heard about organized crime,” she said.
The deal that followed was brutal.
No immunity.
Limited consideration on sentencing in exchange for full cooperation.
Witness protection options for Sophie under another name if needed.
Asset forfeiture on a scale that would turn newsrooms feral.
Nico accepted all of it.
When Ava left the rectory, she did not look triumphant. She looked unnerved.
Because she understood what the city did not yet know: this was not one mob boss trading rivals for a lighter future.
This was a controlled demolition.
Leah was discharged to a rehabilitation unit the following week.
She hated rehab almost more than being shot.
The exercises were humiliating. The pain was sharp, stupid, and repetitive. Buttons became enemies. Stairs turned personal. Sleep came in thin, exhausted strips. Her body no longer belonged to instinct; it belonged to effort.
But Sophie visited every Sunday with homework, gossip from the estate staff, and increasingly terrible knock-knock jokes.
One afternoon, as Leah slowly worked her way through shoulder mobility exercises, Sophie sat cross-legged nearby with a notebook.
“My dad yells less now,” Sophie announced.
Leah grimaced through a stretch. “That’s probably nice for the wallpaper.”
Sophie giggled. Then her face went serious. “He watches me when I sleep sometimes.”
Leah paused.
“Not in a weird way,” Sophie added quickly, because children hear more adult caution than adults realize. “Like he’s checking.”
Leah resumed the stretch. “He’s scared.”
Sophie frowned as if the idea were foreign. “Of what?”
“Losing you.”
Sophie thought about that. “Do fathers get scared?”
