Page 212 of Rush

“I should’ve stayed closer,” Luca murmurs.

My eyes stay fixed on the leather seat in front of me. “He would’ve pushed past you.”

“Yeah, I would have liked to see him try.”

“He won’t get another chance,” Chris affirms.

The tension in the car is thick and immovable, like fog pressing in on the windows.

“You okay back there?”

“No,” I whisper.

“You want music or something?” he asks. “Or...I don’t know. Talk about something dumb?”

I let out a small, bitter laugh. My voice scrapes on the way out. “You offering small-talk now? Thought you were just my hired muscle.”

“Well, yeah,” he says, a little warmth creeping back in. “Turns out I’ve got layers. Like a lasagna.”

I huff, and it almost sounds like a real laugh. “Your mom does make some good lasagna.”

“That she does,” Chris agrees.

Luca glances at me in the mirror. “God bless Flora and her lasagna.”

“I could probably demolish an entire tray by myself right now,” I say. This time, Idolaugh—for real. It catches me off guard.

“I honestly don’t know where you put it,” he says, laughing back.

The light turns green. We move.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s softer now. A shared kind of quiet.

A few blocks pass. Then he speaks again, “You know, I’ve worked for a lot of people. Celebrities. Athletes. Rich kids with too much money and not enough self-preservation. Most of ‘em don’t even remember my name.”

I lift my eyes, watching the back of his head.

“But you?” he says, meeting my gaze in the rearview. “You say thank you. You ask how I’m doing. You make sure we’ve eaten. You remember my niece’s name.”

“I like Sofia,” I murmur. “She makes art.”

He grins. “Yeah. She does. Like Riley.”

I smile at that. If he’s bringing up Riley, maybe there’s hope for them after all.

We turn another corner. The city drifts by in wet streaks of light, unfocused.

“I’ve got your back, Elena,” Luca says finally. “Not just because I’m on payroll. You get that, right?”

“We both do, Miss Montgomery,” Chris adds.

I don’t answer. Not out loud.

But my hand presses flat against my chest. I blink, tears burning again—for a whole different reason this time.

“Thank you.”

“And if that asshole ever shows up again, I’m not asking for permission.”