Page 114 of Monk

David muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously liketraitor,and I grinned. Lina sighed and walked over to her father, kneeling beside his chair.

“Dad,” she said gently. “You have to do the exercises. You want to get better, don’t you?”

David’s expression softened slightly. “Of course I do.”

“Then stop being difficult,” Lina said, squeezing his hand.

David grumbled but nodded as Mrs. Patterson clapped her hands together. “Well, I’ve done my part for the day,” she said. “I’ll leave you all to it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Patterson,” Lina said, standing. “I really appreciate everything you’ve been doing.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, dear,” Mrs. Patterson said, waving her off. “Your father and I go way back. Someone’s got to keep him in line.” She shot David one last look, then headed for the door. “See you tomorrow, David,” she called over her shoulder. “And youwilldo those exercises.”

David muttered something unintelligible as the door closed behind her, and the house fell into a comfortable silence.

Tatum squirmed in my arms. “Dad, can I tell you about my painting now?”

I set her down gently. “Absolutely. Tell me everything.”

The rest of the afternoon unfolded like something out of a dream as Tatum sat on the couch beside me, her legs swinging as she told me about her day in excruciating detail. The painting she’d made of a lopsided house with a bright yellow sun. The game she’d played at recess, tag, which she won, of course. The boy in her class who’d tried to steal her favorite crayon, for which she told him off. Through it all, I listened to every word, asking questions, laughing at her stories, marveling at howeasythis felt.

Across the room, Lina was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I could hear the sounds of her moving around—the sizzle of something in a pan, the soft clink of dishes, the hum of the refrigerator. Every so often, I would glance over and catch her watching us. Her expression was soft. Tender. Like she couldn’t quite believe this was real either.

David sat in his wheelchair near the window, reading the newspaper and occasionally interjecting with a comment or a joke.

The house smelled like home. Like garlic and butter and something baking in the oven. Like family.

I’d never had this. Not really.

Growing up, it had been me and Abigail, constantly moving, constantly looking over our shoulders. No stability. No roots. No sense of belonging.

And then the club.

The brotherhood was real, but it wasn’tthis.It wasn’t soft laughter and dinner smells and a little girl telling me about her day. It wasn’t Lina glancing at me from the kitchen with that look in her eyes. It wasn’thome.But this?

This was everything.

“Dad?” Tatum’s voice pulled me back.

I looked down at her. “Yeah, kiddo?”

“Are you staying for dinner?”

I smiled. “Yeah. I’m staying.”

She beamed. “Good. Mom’s making spaghetti. It’s my favorite.”

“Mine too,” I said, ruffling her hair.

She giggled and leaned into me, her small body warm and trusting.

My chest tightened.

I would die for this kid.

I would kill for her.

I would burn the whole fucking world down to keep her safe.