Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty 

Henry’s POV

Weeks after the docks, life settled into something I could almost call normal—if normal’s a word for a house built on sand. The sun creeps in every morning, spilling through the blinds of my shitty apartment, lighting up Felicia’s textbooks and Sophia’s sketches. We’re a patched-up family, held together by grit and dumb luck, pretending the past isn’t still breathing down our necks.

Felicia’s turned routine into a war she’s determined to win. She’s up before me, coffee brewing while she spreads her books across the kitchen table—Anatomy, Chemistry, flashcards piled like ammo. Her med school entrance exams are six weeks out, and she’s fighting for it, scribbling notes ’til her hands cramp, the lamp glowing late into the night. I watch her from the doorway, coffee in hand, amazed at how she bends chaos into something solid.

“You’re gonna ace it,” I tell her, leaning there, trying to sound like I believe in something clean for once.

She looks up, her smile faint, exhaustion carving lines under her eyes. “If I don’t collapse first. This stuff’s brutal.”

“Better you than me,” I say, kissing her forehead, but my mind’s already drifting—out the door, into the shadows I can’t shake. She laughs, soft and quick, then dives back in, oblivious to the weight I carry.

Me, I’ve got my own rhythm. Up at dawn, check on Sophia crashed on the pull-out—her breathing steady, thank God—then off to the garage. The shop’s my lifeline, oil and metal keeping my hands busy while Tommy and the guys keep it humming. It’s honest work, or it’s supposed to be. Underneath, though, I’m still dirty. The mafia didn’t let go—not after Vito, not after the docks.

It came one night—a burner phone buzzing in my toolbox, a voice I didn’t know offering a deal: one last run, cash, no blood. “You’re too good to waste, Markov,” they said. “Do this, and you’re free.” I wanted to smash it, walk away, but the threat was there—Felicia, Sophia, this fragile life I’d clawed out. So I said yes, quiet and cold, and buried it. Felicia can’t know. Sophia can’t know. No one can.

Days are a mask—fixing engines, cracking jokes with Jake, coming home to Felicia’s books and Sophia’s slow climb back. Nights, I’m gone—late shifts, I tell them, or errands, meeting faceless guys in alleys, moving cash I don’t count. The job’s simple: one drop, across state lines, no trace. But every lie to Felicia cuts deeper, every meet tightens the noose I’ve tied myself.

Sophia’s a shadow, piecing herself together. She’s in outpatient rehab now, mornings with group, afternoons sketching—dark, jagged stuff that says what she won’t. I watch her too close, guilt eating me every time she smiles, weak but real. She doesn’t know about the runs, the phone I hide. I swore she’d never touch that world again, and I’ll lie through my teeth to keep it that way.

One night, it cracks. I come in late, grease on my hands hiding the smoke from a meet. Felicia’s at the table, flashcards everywhere, her hair a mess. Sophia’s doodling, the TV droning.

“You’re late again,” Felicia says, not looking up, her voice sharp with exhaustion.

“Customer held me up,” I lie, smooth as ever, dropping my keys. “Old Chevy wouldn’t start.”

She nods, flipping a card—mitochondria—but her jaw’s tight. “Third time this week.”

I shrug, grabbing a beer. “Business is good. Keeps us going.”

Sophia looks up, her eyes too sharp for someone on meds. “You smell like smoke. Since when do you smoke?”

I freeze, the bottle cold against my lips. “Don’t,” I say, too fast. “Tommy does. Must’ve rubbed off.”

She frowns, not buying it, but goes back to her sketch. Felicia doesn’t push, but the air’s heavy, a gap I can’t close. I chug the beer, the chill doing nothing for the heat in my chest.

Later, Sophia’s out cold, and Felicia corners me in the bedroom. She shuts the door, arms crossed, voice low. “What’s going on, Henry?”

I sit on the bed, peeling off my shirt, dodging her gaze. “Nothing. Just work.”

“Bullshit,” she says, stepping closer. “You’re distracted. You’re out late. You’re lying—I feel it.”

My heart’s pounding, guilt and fear clawing at me. “I’m fine, Felicia. You’re stressed—exams are messing with you.”

Her eyes flare, hurt cutting through her tiredness. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this on me. I know you. Something’s wrong.”

I stand, closing the gap, hands on her shoulders. “I’m here, with you, with Sophia. That’s what counts.”

She searches my face, her resolve cracking. “Is it the mafia? Are they back?”

“No,” I lie, the word bitter. “They’re gone. I told you—it’s over.”

She doesn’t believe me—I see it in her tight lips—but she nods, stepping back. “Okay. But if you’re hiding something, it’ll come out. Always does.”

I pull her into a hug, burying my face in her hair, hating myself. “I love you,” I say, clinging to that truth.

“I love you too,” she whispers, but it’s hollow, strained.

She goes back to her books, and I lie awake, the burner phone a ghost in my pocket. The drop’s tomorrow—midnight, a truck stop two hours out. One last run, then I’m free. I’ll bury it, and they’ll never know.

Next day’s a slog. Felicia’s locked in her study zone, Sophia’s at a session. I work the garage, hands steady but mind racing. Tommy tosses me a rag. “You’re off, man. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I say, wiping grease. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t push, but his look lingers. That night, I kiss Felicia goodbye—“Late oil change”—and drive out, the duffel in the trunk a dead weight.

The truck stop’s empty, neon flickering over cracked pavement. The contact’s a wiry guy, eyes dead. I hand over the cash, get a nod. “You’re square,” he says, gone in the dark.

I breathe out, the knot easing. Done. Free. I drive back, the lie lifting, but the guilt stays—Felicia’s words echoing: “It’ll come out.”

I slip in at 3 a.m., quiet. Felicia’s asleep at the table, head on a book, flashcards scattered. Sophia’s snoring. I stand there, watching them, my chest tight. They deserve better than me, better than secrets.

I carry Felicia to bed, her weight light, and tuck her in. She stirs, mumbling, “You’re late.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, kissing her forehead. “Go back.”

She drifts off, and I sit by Sophia, brushing hair from her face. She looks peaceful—fighting, fragile. I almost lost them both, and I’ll be damned if I let it happen again.

Morning comes, Felicia quizzing herself over breakfast, her focus sharp. “Two weeks ’til the exam,” she says, sipping coffee. “I’m terrified.”

“You’ll kill it,” I say, meaning it, my voice softer. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

She smiles, real now, and squeezes my hand. Sophia shuffles in, grabbing toast, sketchbook tucked under her arm. “You two are gross,” she teases, but her eyes are brighter—alive.

I laugh, the sound easing the ache. Routine settles in, a thin cover over the truth I’ve buried. The mafia’s done—I made sure—but the lie’s mine to carry. For now, it’s enough—Felicia’s dream, Sophia’s fight, our hard-won peace.

I’ll keep it safe. Whatever it takes.