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Did I just sign Vincent’s death warrant?

I shake my head. Surely Enzo wouldn’t hurt my father…or Vincent, as I typically refer to him in my head. He’d just… I don’t know, scare him back into hiding? Force him to confess? My dad deserves to pay for what he did to Mama, to me, to everyone he betrayed. But I can’t stomach the thought of his demise. Monster or not, he’s still my father.

I pretend all is well and that this is just another morning.

A notebook lies open on the coffee table, filled with half-scribbled lesson ideas for the Benedetti children and little stars drawn in the margins. Apparently, old habits die hard.

I wonder who’s replaced me at Little Scholars. Probably some bright-eyed graduate who still believes gold stars fix everything. I used to be that person.

If I escaped here, would I even still have a life to return to? Could I teach five-year-olds about kindness and sharing after everything I’ve seen and done?

Truthfully, I don’t know if I even want to go back. And that terrifies me.

A few weeks ago, escape was all I thought about. Every smile was strategy. Now I’m planning a school for children whose fathers carry guns. The strangest part of all is that I want to. I’m not doing it for survival.

And then there’s Enzo.

I close the notebook. I can’t think about him and think straight at the same time. Because when I imagine leaving, it isn’t the compound I’d miss. It’s that dark-eyed enforcer with blood on his hands and tenderness he tries to hide. The man who’s become my anchor without either of us meaning for it to happen.

Somewhere along the way, this stopped feeling like captivity. I’m not sure what that makes me.

I stare at the closed notebook until the doorbell slices through my memories.

Marco’s voice crackles from the gate. Polite, steady, and just formal enough to remind me he’s Enzo’s man before he’s my friend. “Ready, signora? We should move soon.” He says it as if we’re evacuating a war zone, not heading to a hospital.

“Two minutes.” My tea has gone cold.

For the first part of the drive, Marco’s too perceptive to fill the silence. Then he starts talking, not about strategy or the family, but about Enzo. He shares things that Dante apparently told him, like the way Enzo used to fix broken toys as a kid. “Dante said he’d sit cross-legged like a monk, muttering that everything deserved a second chance. Even plastic soldiers.”

“That doesn’t sound like him.”

Marco glances at me, amused. “It was him. Before the war got personal.”

“What changed?” I turn to study his face while he answers.

Marco goes quiet for a moment. “Everything. His parents. Dante. This life…takes pieces of you until there’s nothing soft left.” He pauses. “Or that’s what Enzo thought. Until you showed up.”

The street outside blurs. Brick and glass roll past the window like memories I can’t touch. When we pass my old school, I press my hand against the window. I’ve seen it before. Every time I visit Mama, we take this route. But today, the sight stops me. The playground is empty and weekend-quiet, the slide rusting, the colors faded by weather and neglect. The place looks abandoned. Like how I feel.

This used to be my whole world. Scraped knees and crayon fights and loud, petty arguments I thought were catastrophes. Those were simpler days.

Inside the hospital, the receptionist recognizes me. Her tired smile suggests she knows too much and shares too little. Marco handles the talking. He’s good at logistics and making dangerous operations look easy.

We walk down the corridor lined with bright lights and soft antiseptics. Marco mentions nurse rotations and new security checks. I focus on his voice because facts are safer than feelings.

Mama’s door is open just enough for a glimpse. She’s sitting upright, pale but alert.

The nurse offers me a small nod. I smooth my skirt with clammy hands, then I walk in.

My mom aims a bright, genuine smile at me. “Look at you.” Her voice is real and warm, just like the last time I saw her, and the relief of that almost undoes me.

“Mama.”

Her hand reaches for mine, and I grip her tighter than I should, glad to feel her squeeze back. But her eyes remain serious.

“This is why I called you here.” She slides a burner phone across the blanket.

Vincent.