Page 18 of Unholy Night
"Leo…"
"This is my fault." His voice breaks completely. "If I hadn't lost control, if I'd just walked away instead of putting three bullets in that Santos fuck…"
"Stop." But he's already spiraling, and Natalie's eyes are sharpening, that pressing intelligence focusing on every word.
"I'm coming," Leo says. "We'll figure this out. Maybe we can pay them off, maybe…"
"Maybe you should have thought of that before you murdered someone and let me take the blame." The words come out bitter, and I see Natalie flinch.
"I know. Christ, I know. Just… hold on. I'm maybe forty minutes out."
The line goes dead. I set the phone down carefully, but my hand is already moving to check my weapon. Old habits. The ones that keep you breathing when everyone wants you dead. I move to the window, checking angles, calculating defensive positions. The kitchen has two exits. Living room windows are too exposed. Bedroom hallway creates a natural choke point.
"Tomas." Natalie's voice is steady, but I hear the prosecutor creeping back in. "What's happening?"
"You need to pack." I'm already moving. "Light clothes only. We might have to run."
"Stop." She stands, my shirt hanging to her thighs, but her spine is straight, shoulders back. "Leonardo killed someone. You're covering for it."
Not a question. Of course she put it together. Months tracking financial crimes, she knows how to follow breadcrumbs.
"It's complicated."
"Murder usually is." Her voice goes frosty, professional. The warmth from earlier evaporating. "That's why you're here.Not some deal gone wrong. You're hiding from revenge for something you didn't even do."
"I'm protecting my family."
"By taking the blame for murder?" She steps closer, and I see it happening: the legal instinct returning, overriding everything else we've built. "This is what you do, isn't it? You're the family scapegoat. The one who cleans up their mistakes."
"Someone has to."
"Why you?" The question cracks something in her voice. "Why does it have to be you who pays for Leonardo's temper?"
Because that's what I do. What I've always done. Take the hits so others don't have to. But I can't explain that to someone who grew up believing in justice, in fair outcomes, in courts that actually punish the guilty. Not fully. Not when she already knows the worst: that I killed my own father at sixteen. That violence is written into my DNA.
"He's family," I say simply.
"He's a killer."
"So am I." I meet her gaze steadily. "You knew that when you fucked me. You know what I did to my father."
"That was different. You were protecting your mother…"
"Violence is violence, Natalie. Whether it's killing an abusive father or covering for a cousin's mistake. You knew what I was capable of."
"I thought…" She stops, runs a hand through her hair. "I thought you only killed when there was no choice. But you're covering for a murderer. You're protecting someone who killed in cold blood."
"Leo lost his temper. The Santos son pulled a gun first…"
"There's always an excuse, isn't there?" Her legal voice is fully back now, cross-examining. "Always a reason why the violence was justified. My father used to tell me that's how theythink. The crime families. Every murder is self-defense in their minds."
Her father. The one who died in prison, framed by men like us. The parallel sits between us like a loaded gun. Her father, destroyed by men like me. And here she is, choosing me anyway.
Or maybe she isn't.
"This is who I am," I say quietly.
We stare at each other across the room that still smells like pine and yesterday's Christmas morning. Just hours ago she was singing carols while we decorated. Now she looks at me like I'm evidence in a case she's building.
