I looked at him.
“Real ones?”
He nodded.
“A few.”
“What colors?”
“Black. Silver. One dark green.”
Noah considered this deeply.
“Eli likes green.”
Eli touched the green toy car again, as if confirming.
“I’ll remember,” I said.
Maya’s eyes flickered.
That tiny promise seemed to frighten her more than any grand one could have.
Because small promises could become real.
Because children remembered.
Because she had spent four years surviving by making sure my absence stayed simple.
Now I was sitting across from them, learning colors and habits and names.
The server brought more napkins. Lina thanked her in a singsong voice. Noah asked if lemons were fruit. Eli carefully pushed one sugar packet toward me without meeting my eyes.
Maya stared at the packet.
“That means he likes you,” she said quietly.
My fingers closed around it.
It was ridiculous, how much that meant.
A sugar packet from a three-year-old nearly undid me in public.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted.
Maya’s face softened with exhaustion.
“Neither did I.”
That silenced me.
She had learned because she had no choice.
I had the luxury of being overwhelmed after everything was already done.
“I can help,” I said.
“With what? Money?”
“Yes, if you need it.”
Her jaw tightened.
“I don’t want your money.”
“I know. But they deserve everything.”
“They deserve peace.”
I nodded slowly.
“They do.”
“And you don’t exactly come with peace, Adrian.”
No. I didn’t.
Even now, despite the legitimate businesses, the carefully scrubbed public image, the distance I had carved between myself and Salvatore Vale’s world, shadows remained. People remembered the name. Some respected it. Some feared it. Some wanted things from it.
Maya had built a fragile safety.
My return could crack it.
“I can make arrangements,” I said. “Quiet ones. Legal ones. Nothing that touches them unless you allow it.”
Maya gave me a sad look.
“You still think life can be arranged.”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Then again.
Maya’s gaze dropped to it.
“Answer it.”
“No.”
“Adrian, answer it.”
I turned the phone over.
Unknown number.
But the message preview was visible.
You saw them.
My blood went cold.
Maya noticed.
“What is it?”
I opened the message.
No signature.
No explanation.
Just five words.
You saw them. Come alone.
Below it was an address.
And beneath the address, a photo.
My entire body locked.
The photo had been taken that afternoon.
Not years ago.
Today.
Maya at the hot dog cart in Grant Park.
The triplets in the stroller.
Me standing in the distance beside Camille.
Someone had been watching before I saw them.
Maya’s face went pale as she read over my hand.
“No,” she whispered.
“What is this?” I asked.
Her breathing changed.
“Maya.”
