Page 54 of The Silent Hour

"And hoarded it like a dragon," he added.

"Her daughter Lucia had her own connections," Mama continued. "A doctor who treated people privately when discretion mattered more than paperwork. Cash. Jewelry. Favors. Whatever payment kept questions from being asked." She gave me a pointed look. "Eventually, she married a wealthy patient's husband."

"Messy," I murmured.

"Very."

My chest tightened. "Lila doesn't have her mother's married name?"

"No. The Marino women tend to keep the family name." Mama said it neutrally this time, but I could hear the judgment simmering underneath.

"None of this means Lila is her mother or grandmother," I pointed out.

Tato looked at me. "No, it doesn't."

Glad we agreed on that. I didn’t like the woman but I wasn't about to convict her based on the sins of her bloodline when I was sitting in this kitchen with my parents. That would've been hypocrisy with a fucking bow on top.

"But," Mama continued, "history teaches you where to look."

That, I couldn't argue with.

Tato folded his hands over his chest. "If she's ambitious, if she understands what the Marcelli Group actually is, you watch."

"For what?"

"Whatever comes next,” Mama answered.

I stared at her. She sighed—the kind that came from somewhere deeper than impatience. "You gave me a name, and I am telling you what I think because she is on your mind. First, you don't panic. You don't invent enemies where there aren't any. And you don't let another woman's family history make you stupid."

Well, that was surprisingly reasonable.

"But you also don't hesitate when someone shows you what they want." Her eyes held mine over the steam still rising from the pot behind her. "You're my daughter. You know the difference."

A stool scraped softly against the tile as Tato shifted closer, reaching for my hand. "And don't leave everything to your husband because he thinks protecting you is his job." His thumb moved over my knuckles in slow, deliberate strokes. "Ethan is a good man. Smart. Capable. Loves you enough that even I eventually stopped imagining creative ways to dispose of him."

"Eventually?"

"Mostly."

I laughed lightly. His expression softened the way it only did in this kitchen, in this light—but his next words didn't.

"He sees danger the way men like him are trained to see it. Coming from outside. A client. An enemy. Someone at the gate. You were not raised that way."

No.

I wasn't.

Mama had taught me to watch rooms—the exits, the sight lines, who stood too close to whom. Tato had taught me to watch people in the ways she didn’t. Between them, I'd learned early that the person smiling across a dinner table could be more dangerous than the stranger carrying a gun, and assuming you were safe simply because you loved someone was how blind spots formed.

"I trust Ethan," I said.

Neither of them challenged me.

"I know," Mama replied, her voice quieter now, the accent more present. She reached over and tucked a loose piece of hair behind my ear unhurried, the same one Tato had just moved and the same way she had when I was small and couldn't sit still long enough to let her finish.

"This isn't about distrusting your husband, dytyna. It's about remembering yourself while you trust him."

"If trouble ever does reach your walls, don't stand around waiting for somebody else to tell you what it is. You protect your children. You protect yourself. Then you decide what deserves protecting after that."