Page 25 of The Marriage Debt

And I think about Lila—how she looked at me yesterday like I was the problem while danger stood ten feet from her son.

Back at the house, Lev kicks off his shoes and bolts for the stairs without waiting for instruction. He disappears around the corner before I can say a word, racing off for his markers and sketchpad. His voice fades down the hall, trailing into the rhythm of feet thumping against the floorboards.

I close the door behind us and lock it. Lila stands near the base of the staircase with her arms folded, watching me. Her mouth is set, and her posture looks too casual to be natural.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

I remove my jacket and lay it across the arm of the nearest chair. “Fine.”

She doesn’t move. “Did he behave?”

“He did what he was supposed to,” I say. “Unlike some people.”

The words hit their mark. Her eyes narrow, just slightly, but enough for me to see it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I face her fully and level my voice. “Why didn’t you tell me you were followed yesterday outside the courthouse?”

Her expression shifts. Not with surprise, but with guilt. She hesitates before answering, just long enough to confirm that she was never going to bring it up on her own. “I didn’t want to make it worse,” she says. “You overreact. You turn everything into a war.”

I step closer. “Not telling me is how people get killed.”

“No. Sending guards with machine guns is how people get killed.” Her chin lifts, defiant. “I’m not one of your soldiers.”

“No,” I say. “You’re worse.”

Her brows draw in. “Excuse me?”

“I'm left cleaning up after you like a dog who's not house trained."

The words land exactly how I want them to. She breathes in through her nose, jaw clenching, but doesn’t look away. She holds her ground, and I’m tired of the space between us pretending it’s not tension. The way this woman pisses me off is infuriating, and if anything had happened to her or Lev…

I reach for her without warning, slide my hand along the line of her jaw, and pull her in. I kiss her once, hard and uninvited, but not brutal. Her lips part in surprise, but she doesn’t stop me. She stands still under the pressure, breath caught between defiance and hesitation.

She pulls away first—not quickly or with violence—just enough to end it.

She doesn’t speak. She turns on her heel and walks out of the room, shoulders tight and head held high, but she never looks back.

I watch after her as I shake my head. She's getting to me. I knew she would. The first time was just animalistic lust. The second time crossed a line. And now she's weaseling her way into my fucking heart and if Bianchi comes at her, I don't know how I'll take it. The boy is hard enough to fathom losing, but her?

13

LILA

The first crack of noise cuts through the house like a warning. I pause at the kitchen sink, sponge in hand, and glance at the window. A second burst follows. Then a third. Each one is louder than the last and paced too evenly to be random. I turn off the water and wipe my hands on a towel. The sounds continue in short, brutal intervals. Voices call out in clipped commands. The shouts do not carry words I can make out, but the tone is unmistakable. Whoever is speaking is not practicing conversation. They are issuing orders.

I move through the hallway and stop at the bottom of the stairs. Lev is in the bedroom upstairs. I hear nothing from him, which means the headphones are probably still on. I told him to wear them while he worked on his drawings. He was happy enough and settled on the carpet with his notebook and markers. I should go check on him now, but I keep walking toward the back of the house.

I reach the garden door and pull it open. Heat and smoke press against my face enough to sting the back of my throat. The lawn has changed since this morning. Crates and barriers have been arranged across the yard. Men in combat gear move between them in coordinated patterns. They crouch, sprint, signal, and fire. I see one of them take cover behind the fountain, and another raises his rifle while giving a silent count with his fingers. Their movements are not exaggerated or for show. These are real tactics.

Mateo stands at the edge of the garden. His sleeves are rolled and his jaw is set. He watches the drill in complete silence. His hands rest on his hips. He does not speak or give orders. He observes as if the outcome is already known.

I walk toward him with steady steps. My shoes crunch against the gravel path that cuts between the grass and the hedges. And he snaps his head up, then looks back at his men. “What is this?” I ask.

He does not turn when he replies, “Drills.”

“You said you would keep the live training away from the house.” I cross my arms over my chest indignantly. He has no clue how this is dangerous for Lev, or he doesn’t care.

“I changed my mind.”

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