sixty eight
Thomas.
For a single suspended heartbeat the world narrowed to the space between the doorway and his face. He looked smaller, older — the kind of smaller that was made of bad decisions and sleepless nights. His mouth opened and closed like he was searching for the right apology, the right reason, the right anything.
“Delia.” He took a step forward, and the sound of his name in his voice landed like an accusation and a plea at the same time. Relief and fury coiled in her chest and refused to be separated.
She wanted to run to him and shake him until he remembered what he’d done. She wanted to throw herself against him and slap him. The two instincts warred into a knotted mess and left her standing rigid where she was.
Frank moved between them before either of them could bridge the distance. He did not look surprised. He never did. His silhouette cut a line of certainty — the man who walked into gunfire and came back with plans.
“Keep your voice down,” Frank said, and even his lowest whisper carried a command. “We’re not alone. Not yet.”
Thomas’s eyes flicked to Frank, then back to Delia. Shame washed through his face and set his jaw. “I didn’t expect them to be that fast,” he said, as if that explained anything. “I… I meant to disappear. I thought—”
“Thought?” Delia’s laugh was thin and bitter. “Thought. There’s that word again.”
She stepped forward before she realised it, fingers clenching at the seam of her sleeve. “You thought so little of me you didn’t even imagine this would touch me,” she said. “You thought what? That you could have your life and your secret and that nothing would catch up? You used words like ‘it won’t happen’ as if life follows scripts people hand out in meetings.”
Thomas flinched, and guilt rearranged his features into something rawer. “I… I don’t have any excuses that make it right, Delia. I know that. But Samantha—she lied. She—” His voice cracked and then steadied with effort. “She built a story. She used me. I tried to stop it. I swear I did.”
Frank watched him for a long, silent second. When he spoke it was not to chide Thomas but to mark the priorities. “We don’t have the luxury of confessions here. Luca’s people are organised. They’ll circle anything that smells like leverage. Right now we survive. After that, we sort out guilt and lies.”
Delia swallowed. The anger that had wanted to swallow him whole slowed, replaced by something colder: strategy. If Thomas’s mistakes had painted a target on her back, then fury alone wouldn’t deflect bullets. She needed facts, plans, allies.
“What do they want from him?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level. It felt like bargaining — like she could buy time with words.
Frank replied, clipped and efficient. “Control. Money. His company. Samantha thinks a child will force him into signing over assets. Luca wants the leverage. They’ll take whatever secures power.”
Thomas’s shoulders bowed as if his spine suddenly had weight. “She told me the baby was mine,” he said, the words small and ashamed. “She used the story like a weapon.”
“You let her use that story,” Delia snapped, not trying to hide the hurt now. “You let her play with our lives.”
He flinched, then stepped forward, hands up in the universal gesture of remorse. “I’m sorry. I am. I never wanted any of this for you. I tried to undo it when I found out. But once the Giancarlos smelled leverage, it was too late.”
Silence thinned the air. For the first time Delia allowed herself to look past the man Thomas had been into the man he might become. The wound would take longer to heal than one conversation, she knew that. But the immediate wound — the bullet marks, the shell casings, the threat — needed action, not rhetoric.
Frank’s profile softened at the edges for a fraction of a second, then hardened again. “Delia, we can’t stay. They’ve shown they can reach into places we thought were safe. I promised your parents I’d protect you. That promise meant moving you somewhere they can’t find you quickly. An apartment I use for nights when things look like they’ll get ugly.”
“An apartment,” Delia echoed, picturing a cosy house whose beauty made it easier to remember there was a world beyond fear. The image steadied her. “And Thomas? He’s—”
Thomas’s voice, rough from confession, broke the space. “Delia… I’ll tell you everything I have. I’ll help make it right. I don’t expect forgiveness yet. I just—” He faltered, lost for words that mattered.
Delia’s anger softened just enough that she could hear the sincerity under it. “Then do it,” she said. “For her. For the baby. Not for me. Prove you mean it.”