My chest tightens again, sharper this time.
“She had to apologize,” I continue. “She had to explain herself. She had to tell him she loved him while she knew she was about to die.”
My voice cracks.
“She didn’t deserve that. And he shouldn’t have had to see it.”
Tears spill before I can stop them, and I swipe them away fast, angry at myself for letting them show because weakness feels dangerous right now.
Beau doesn't look at me, but something in his posture shifts.
“I’ve seen some pretty fucked up things.” His voice loses a fraction of its edge. “I know exactly where Seth’s head went. Mine would’ve gone there too.”
I turn toward him despite myself. “What happened to your parents?”
He doesn't answer right away. His grip on the wheel tightens slightly.
“You want the long story or the short one?”
I glance at the GPS. “How long until we get there?”
“About three hours.”
“Then give me the long one.”
He nods once, keeping his eyes on the road as the headlights carve a narrow path through the dark highway.
“My father ran a network,” he starts after a moment. “Not the Hollywood version of organized crime. This was the kind of operation that moved real money through real ports. Containers, weapons, people, things that disappeared into shipping routes and never showed up on a ledger.”
He adjusts his grip slightly.
“My mom came from another family that did the same kind of work on the other side of the world. Different crews, different continents, same business. Their marriage was supposed to end a war between those networks.”
His jaw shifts as if he is grinding something down.
“It didn’t.”
“There were four of us,” he continues. “Me and three younger siblings. Two brothers and a little sister. Things started getting tense when I was about ten. Deals were falling apart, shipments disappearing, people pointing fingers behind closed doors. My parents decided it would be safer if I wasn’t around while the adults figured out how not to kill each other. One of my dad’s contacts moved me out of the country.”
“Where did you go?” I ask.
“A training compound in Colombia,” he says. “Kids like me got sent there when their parents decided it was safer to turn them into weapons than leave them exposed.”
He keeps his eyes on the road.
“I spent years there learning how to survive,” he continues. “How to shoot, how to track, how to disappear. I thought maybe I’d never have to go back to the family business if I got good enough at something else.”
The tires hum against the pavement. He shifts in his seat, adjusting his grip on the wheel.
“When I was eighteen, my parents asked me to come home for a truce dinner. Both sides of the family were supposed to be there. Cameras, security, a big show of unity. The kind of thing that told the rest of the world nobody was about to start a war.”
Streetlights streak across the windshield. His thumb taps once against the steering wheel.
“I brought her with me,” he adds.
I angle toward him, resting my shoulder against the seatback. “Her?”
“My girlfriend,” he continues. “I never brought her around them. I knew better. But she wanted to meet my family. She thought if we were going to build a future, she needed to understand where I came from.”
