Chapter 127 The Family Table
I hit the porch steps with a heavy, rhythmic focus, my eyes scanning the shadows of the neighboring houses for any trace of the man Mila had described. The house was locked down; I could see the silhouette of the deadbolt thrown through the frosted glass. I knocked—a sharp, clear pattern—and waited. I heard the heavy thud of the bolt sliding back, and then the door opened.
Eliza stood there, holding a dish towel. She knew me well enough to see the jagged edge beneath my skin. A small, weary smile touched her lips. "Well," she muttered, stepping aside to let me in. "So much for our day without men."
I stepped into the hallway, and the scent of garlic and roasting chicken hit me—a warm, lived-in smell that felt entirely alien to the sterile air of the Salvatore building.
"Nate!" Zoe’s voice chirped from the living room. She was sitting on the floor with a box of crayons exploding around her. "You're late! The dragon's tail is still purple and I need the blue!"
"I'll be there in a minute, Zoe. I promise," I said, my voice softening despite the static in my brain.
Mila was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, her face a mask of pale exhaustion. Behind her, Grace was watching us with a quiet, sharp intelligence.
"Mila, for goodness' sake, don't just keep him standing in the hall," a woman’s voice called out.
Mila led me into the heart of the house. The kitchen was small and glowing with yellow light. Two people I’d heard of a thousand times but never met stood by the stove. Mr. Jones was a burly man with kind eyes and hands that looked like they’d spent a lifetime in a workshop; Mrs. Jones had a face etched with the sort of warmth that only comes from raising a houseful of children.
"Nate, these are the Joneses," Mila said, her voice trembling slightly. "Mr. and Mrs. Jones... This is Nathaniel."
It was the first time I’d been introduced as anything other than a Salvatore heir. I was the boyfriend. The man who had walked into Mila's life and brought the weight of the world with him.
"So, this is the man," Mr. Jones said, wiping his hand on his apron before extending it. His grip was firm and honest. "About time you showed your face, son. Zoe talks about you so much I was starting to think she’d invented a coloring buddy."
"It’s a pleasure to meet you both," I said, forcing my shoulders to drop an inch. "I apologize for the intrusion on your dinner."
"Nonsense," Mrs. Jones said, already setting a plate at the table next to Mila. "Sit. No one goes hungry on my watch."
I sat. I had to. To do anything else would be to admit to Grace and Zoe that the world was burning outside.
"Mila used to make this for us," Grace said suddenly, poking at her carrots. She looked at me with an intensity that reminded me too much of her older sister. "She’d spend all Sunday cooking so we had lunch for school. She used to tell us the steam from the pots was 'apartment magic' to keep the cold out."
"It wasn't magic, Grace," Eliza chimed in, serving the chicken. She looked at Mila with a bittersweet smile. "It was sheer stubbornness. Do you remember when the furnace broke? Mila moved the mattress into the kitchen. She kept the oven door open and stayed awake for three nights straight reading books."
"She sang, too," Zoe added, finally climbing into her chair. "The bird song. Sing it, Mila."
Mila’s face softened for a fraction of a second. "Not now, Zoe. Eat your dinner."
"She used to sing to the neighbor's kids, too," Mr. Jones added, looking at Mila with paternal pride. "To earn an extra five dollars. I’d see her walking home at ten at night in the snow, head down, clutching her backpack. She bought Grace those light-up sneakers with that money. Didn't buy herself a new coat for three years."
I looked at Mila, and the contrast was sickening. My mother was digging into her "pedigree" to find dirt, while the real story was written in the callouses on Mila's hands. She had been the parent, the provider, and the protector while I was being groomed in a boardroom.
"Mila won’t be returning to the dorms tonight," I said quietly, the statement cutting through the warmth. I wasn't asking for consensus. "But Mila is coming with me."
The table went silent. Mr. Jones’s eyes searched mine, seeing the clinical focus I was trying to hide behind a guest’s mask.
"Nate, what are you doing?" Mila whispered.
"There have been some security concerns near the Alverstone campus," I said, looking at Mr. Jones. He knew a lie when he heard one, but he also knew a man trying to protect his woman. "It’s better if she stays at my place for a few days. It’s fully secured."
Grace looked at me, her lower lip trembling. She was nine; she knew "security" meant trouble. I leaned in, meeting her gaze. "Grace, I’m making a promise to you. And to Zoe. I will bring her back every single night for dinner," I said, my voice a solemn vow. "Six o'clock. We will be at this table. Every day. I’m not taking her away. I’m just making sure she’s safe while I handle some business."
Mr. Jones looked at me for a long time. He saw the desperation I was trying to hide. "She’s been the one taking care of everyone her whole life, Nate," he said softly. "Maybe it’s time someone took care of her. Just make sure she comes home."
"She will," I said.
The tension in my chest didn’t vanish, but I forced it to stay submerged. I sat through the rest of dinner, watching the way Mila’s sisters looked at her—with a mix of adoration and a reliance that she bore without a single complaint.
I waited until the last of the plates were cleared and the conversation finally began to wind down into the comfortable, sleepy lull of a Sunday evening. Only then did I check my watch.
"It’s getting late," I said softly, catching Mila’s eye. I didn't stand up immediately; I stayed anchored at the table, keeping the promise of a peaceful exit. "The drive back toward the city is going to be a crawl, and I know you have an early start at Alverstone tomorrow."
I waited by the door while Mila said her goodbyes, the hugs lasting a few seconds longer than usual. As she stepped out onto the porch beside me, the cold night air rushed in, a sharp contrast to the warmth we were leaving behind.
"I'll be right there," I told her, gesturing toward the SUV. "I just need to make one quick call."
I stayed on the porch as she walked down the steps, watching her until she was safely inside. Only then did I pull my phone out and dial Theodore. The sanctuary was behind us now. The dinner was over, and the hunt was back on.