Alive.
Breathing.
Loud.
Beautiful.
Mine.
I stand in the doorway of the sitting room and watch Olivia hold court from the sofa, her broken arm propped carefully on a pillow.
The cast is pink.
Bright pink.
Offensively pink.
She chose it herself, then acted like the doctor had presented her with royal armor instead of plaster and fiberglass.
Since then, everyone has signed it.
And I meaneveryone.
Every Moretti guard.
Every Shadow.
Every teacher at school.
Every kid in her class.
Rosa.
Marcello, the gardener.
The mailman, who looked terrified when Olivia marched outside and informed him he was “part of history now.”
She gets it removed next week and has already decided it will be displayed on her dresser.
“Because,” she told me this morning, “some girls get trophies, but I survived a kidnapping, so I get a cast museum.”
Stefano sits beside her now, looking healthier than he has in weeks.
Color back in his face.
Eyes clear.
Mouth running.
The bullet went through clean enough to terrify us, but not cruel enough to take him. No lasting damage. No organ hit. Nopermanent weakness. Just pain, stitches, and more drama than any one man should be allowed to carry into a recovery room.
He’s used the word “heroic” at least twelve times since breakfast.
Olivia keeps calling him Uncle Bulletproof.
He pretends to hate it.
He does not.
