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Keys rattle at the door. Is he here? I sit up quickly, smoothing my hair and face. I have to appear in control when he enters, even if I’m falling apart inside.

The door creeps open, and a disappointed huff drops off my lips as Gio slides in, his shoulders hunched, his eyes down. He won’t meet my gaze. His hands fidget with the edge of his shirt, and he moves like one of my kindergarteners sneaking to their seat after they’ve broken something: slow, careful, and waiting for someone to yell.

The nasty bruise blooming on his temple is purple and yellow now. Almost a trophy from the tin plate I lobbed at him.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, his eyes avoiding mine. From his pocket, he pulls out a crisp bit of folded paper with neat handwriting. “From Enzo.”

Nerves flutter in my belly as I accept the message. For some reason, I can’t picture the man putting the actual pen to paper.

I’ve held a hundred notes from my kids’ writing practice in class, but this feels different. The paper seems heavier somehow.

I unfold it slowly and almost burst out laughing when I find only three words.

Couldn’t come. Apologies.

It’s like reading Max’s scrawlings or Aisha’s shaky letters. At least those kids wouldn’t write more words because they couldn’t.

Heat floods my face as I crumple the paper in my fist, my nails biting into my palm. I’m done seeing the funny side now.

He’s wrong if he’s hoping that his “three little words” fix anything. He needs to do more to erase the hours of waiting, of nursing a hope I shouldn’t have had.

But he did worry enough about me to send this message…and that feels kind of sweet. No matter how short or unemotional the letter is, the thought still counts, right?

After all, I would’ve found this cute if it was written by any of my kindergarteners… Shit, I’m reaching, aren’t I?

Gio clears his throat. “He said…you can eat in the mess hall this morning. With me. After, uh, a garden walk. Enzo’s orders.” He shifts his weight. “And he’ll come for you later. Same time as before.”

I get sunlight this morning and air with Enzo in the evening. It’s just a temporary relief for a prisoner. The fact that we’re going to walk together again shouldn’t excite me like this. But I still don’t understand why he blew me off last night. What’s different?

The suspicion cuts through that newfound excitement.

“Breakfast with murderers, huh?” I mutter while pocketing the crushed note. “Living the dream.”

Gio’s face falls like I slapped him. “We’re not all killers.” His voice cracks slightly as he continues. “You shouldn’t judge what you don’t know. And you’re not exactly a peacemaker yourself.”

He touches his bruised temple as the final words roll out of him.

Touché.

The boy’s gotten wary around me. Can’t blame him. The first time he trusted me, I whacked him on the head.

“Gio,” I reach out to halt him. “I’m sorry again for that.” I nod at the bruise.

Somewhere, a bird belts out a note, and suddenly I can breathe again. October sunlight warms my face.

Soon we hit the loud, chaotic mess hall. The place stretches wide, with long wooden tables arranged in rows, benches packed shoulder to shoulder, and at least fifty people crammed inside. Forks scrape against plates like a symphony. Tough guys with normal laughs but razor-sharp eyes litter the space.

Weirder still are the women scattered about. A couple of little kids weave through legs, chasing each other between benches. Somehow, the whole place smells like coffee and eggs, like just another morning in a world I barely remember.

The sight of killers sitting with wives and soldiers with sons who chase marbles across the floor unsettles me. Some live here on the compound, made men whose families occupy the smaller houses spread across the grounds. Others just work here, coming in for meals and orders before heading back to their own lives. But all of them belong to the Benedettis. A family painted in darker hues.

“Sit.” Gio gestures to a corner table.

I obey, my eyes wandering from face to face. How many of these women chose to be here?

A tray clatters nearby. A boy, maybe six, bumps it, and food spills in greasy splats, prompting him to burst into tears.

Without thought, I fold my legs beneath me and crouch low. “Hey, hey,” I keep my voice gentle. “Accidents happen. Trays can’t hold grudges.” I sandwich his small hand between mine, rubbing gently. His sobs die down, his soft giggles drying his tears.