I nod once because speaking becomes difficult. For years, I turned Clara’s death into structure and routines. Those felt easier to survive than grief. Security systems. Protocols. Walls strong enough to convince me that nothing like that could happen again.
I built Black Tide into an empire large enough to shield Ivy from every corner of the world I came from because guilt became easier to survive when attached to purpose.
“I built Black Tide Logistics after she died,” I tell her. “Before Clara, I handled more direct operations for my brother.”
Maggie studies me carefully. “Operations.”
“Yes.”
The word hangs there with all its ugliness exposed.
“I wanted distance after Clara.” My eyes move toward the storm outside again while old memories claw their way back up harder than I want them to. “After the shooting. After the hospital. After learning what it feels like waking up every day wondering whether your daughter will grow up without you.” I drag a hand across my jaw slowly. “Once I healed enough to stand on my own again, I knew I needed legitimate infrastructure strong enough that Ivy would never depend on bratva ties to survive.”
“How long were you in the hospital?” she whispers.
“One month.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
I stare at my lap. “Four bullet wounds.” I exhale quietly through my nose. “Two through the shoulder. One through my side. One missed my spine by less than an inch.” My stomach turns at the memory. “Roman thought he was planning my funeral for three days.”
I feel Maggie’s attention move over my face before her fingers slide gently across my hand resting on the sofa cushion between us.
“You built an entire empire for your daughter.”
“I built it so the world I came from could never own her.”
Maggie swallows hard, her eyes never leaving mine. I wait for fear, questions, and doubt that usually follow when people understand what my family truly is.
Instead, she asks gently, “Did Clara know?”
“She knew enough.”
“Enough?”
I lean back against the sofa and stare at the ceiling for before answering.
“She knew my family had dangerous connections. She understood power. Influence. Violence.” A bitter smile touches my mouth briefly. “What she didn’t understand was how difficult it becomes to leave that world entirely once you are born inside it.”
Maggie watches me carefully. “You love her.”
She says it in the present tense instead of the past, and the distinction punches straight through me.
“Yes,” I say honestly.
I always will. Love doesn’t disappear because a person dies. It just changes shape until it becomes grief you learn to carry.
A strand of warm brown hair slips loose near her cheek. Without thinking, I reach toward her. My fingers brush across her skin as I tuck the strand behind her ear.
“What about Clara’s family?” she asks, fidgeting with the hem of her T-shirt.
“Ivy doesn’t know them.”
“By choice?”
“Yes.”
Maggie studies my expression. “You don’t trust them.”
