Page 38 of The Shadow King's Brother

‘Nica…’

‘Just checking in…I wondered if you wanted to be spontaneous.’

‘Are you busy?Maybe we could meet—now? I’m just... worried.’

I sigh,the throbbing in my arm is like a dull ache that runs through me.I’m so stupid for letting him hurt me like that.I type out a quick, vague reply, my fingers hovering over the screen. I look at my phone, the screen reflecting the car’s inside lights, and sigh.

‘Now? It’s late..’

My mother answer quickly ‘Yes.A quick coffee, maybe?’

Quick,the word feels hollow. After almost a year apart, she wantsquick? But still, maybe she’s trying, maybe she’s reaching out. I type fast, trying to ignore the pain in my arm.

‘Fine.Bibas’s Coffeeshop, corner of Sixth and Sundown. On my way.’

She replies immediately,‘Great. Yes. See you there, honey.’

Honey?Really?

The word feels off, but okay, whatever makes her feel good.

Before I can stop myself, I’ve already started the engine, and I’m on my way. At the traffic light, I rub my Chi-Rho tattoo and think about my father.

A Galli never gives up. Not on your mother. He wouldn’t have wanted that.

I drive to the coffee shop. My thoughts are a whirlwind – the hooded man’s face, the Broad Company, Tuvio’s addiction, and the shadow of this meeting with my mother. It’s been over a year since I’ve seen her and we live in the same city. I can’t believe it.

I park the car outside the cafe, a strange blend of dread and anticipation making my skin crawl. The coffee shop is warm, the scent of coffee and cinnamon is heavy.

My mother is already waiting at a table near the entrance, her posture is stiff. Her eyes are hesitant as she watches me approach, a half-empty cup of tea clutched in her hands.

“Victoria,” she says softly, her tone setting my teeth on edge. “Are you okay? You seem… tired?”

Her gaze flickers to my guarded posture before she looks away.

“I am actually tired, Mother, it’s been a long day,” I reply, the words clipped. I settle into the chair opposite her, careful to keep my injured arm tucked close to my body. The small table between us is made of wood. I immediately notice the stains of old coffee cups on it.

She studies me. Her expression is difficult to read.

“How are you?” she asks. Her gaze is finally on me. She pauses as if she cannot fully form the words.

I offer her a weak, reassuring smile. “I’m fine.”

She reaches her hand across the table, lightly touching my hand, but the contact feels fleeting. It’s not that I don’t want to connect, but something feels broken between us.

As always, we try to fill the silence’s cracks with small talk. She talks about the weather, about the local news, even relays some neighborhood gossip.

“Mrs. Henderson is renovating her apartment,” she says.

“Really? What is this, her fifth?” I ask. The memory of the drilling and the smell of dust are suddenly sharp in my mind. It’s a childhood soundtrack that always marked the passage of a year. Rich dead husband, endless renovations across the hall to pass the time for poor Mrs. Henderson…

But the small talk always comes to an abrupt halt.

Finally, I can’t take it any longer.

“Why don’t you call?” I say, the question slipping out. “Why is it like… Dad’s death is some unspoken rule? Why do we pretend he never existed?”

Her eyes flinch, the light in them dimming as if a switch has been turned off. She avoids my gaze, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup, her knuckles white as she clutches it tightly.

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