Page 51 of The Marriage Debt

25

LILA

The house is on full lockdown. No deliveries arrive, no guests come through the gates. Two full teams rotate in twelve-hour shifts around the perimeter. I feel like a prisoner every time I walk down a hallway. He's kept no windows open, so air flows in from outside vents. The light in every room is artificial and a little too bright.

I sit on the edge of the leather couch in Mateo’s office with a book in my lap. I haven't turned a page in several minutes. I pretend to read, but I can't focus. My eyes drift to the desk across the room where Lev sits on the rug with his legs crossed. He holds a small notebook in one hand and a red pen in the other. His toy flashlight rests beside him. Every few minutes, he glances up at Mateo as if waiting for instructions.

Mateo moves through intelligence reports, focusing on the latest information about what's happening. He asked us to stay close to him after what happened following the funeral. His phone is on speaker, and his voice stays calm as he speaks in clipped Italian. He doesn't raise his voice. Nothing in his posture suggests stress or fear. I'm a wreck, but he's poised, held together by something bigger than us all. It puts me at ease.

Lev has stopped asking to go outside. He doesn’t cry. He hasn't mentioned the ambush since it happened. Instead, he follows Mateo from room to room and insists on being near him at all times.

Mateo lets him.

“Code seven is silent sweep, right?” Lev asks, his eyes still on his notebook. His chubby fingers grip the pen so tightly I don't know how he even writes well.

Mateo answers without looking away from the screen. “Yes. What’s code eight?”

“Perimeter check,” Lev says.

“Front or back?”

“Both.” Lev's eyes turn upward to Mateo, but the man still focuses on his computer screen. Still, the acknowledgement seems to be enough for my son.

Mateo nods. Lev smiles and places another red check mark on the page. His handwriting is careful and precise. He takes it seriously. Mateo never mocks the effort. He never talks down to him.

Earlier, I watched Lev in the safe room stacking empty ammo boxes like building blocks. Mateo adjusted a shelf beside him and said, “Keep these in order. That’s your job now. Like tiny little soldiers, faces go forward.” Lev had nodded without saying a word.

Now Mateo finishes the call and sets the phone aside. He leans back in the chair and glances at the security feed. Without turning toward Lev, he speaks again.

“Did you check the hallway yet?”

“Yes,” Lev says as he jumps up, “but I’ll do it again to make sure.” He picks up his flashlight and runs out of the room. His feet slap on the floor, and I watch him seem so invested in the orders that it sort of frightens me. Lev is too young to feel this way. He's not acting like a five-year-old. I'm happy he's not terrified and being traumatized, but I have to wonder if this is healthy.

“You’re letting him run missions now?” I ask. I try to sound amused, but I can't stop the edge in my voice.

“He asked to help,” Mateo replies. “I’m not going to tell him no.”

“He’s five.”

“I was five when I learned how to spot a tail.” Mateo glares at me, and I realize what's happening. My child is turning into a Rossi—not just in name, but in deed. The sickness that plagues these men, the violence… Mateo is training it into him. His voice doesn't hold pride or regret. He simply states a fact.

I don't answer. There's no point arguing with someone who sees danger as something inevitable. I grab the edge of the couch cushion and stare at the desk.

“He doesn't even want to talk about it,” I say. “Not really.” I don't understand how a child can be shot at, go through a car chase, and not be scared. It's not right. Even with a good, strong male role model showing him to be brave.

“He knows what happened,” Mateo says. “He just doesn’t want to say it out loud.”

“He hasn’t cried.”

“Crying doesn’t always mean fear.”

“Then what does?” Mateo looks toward the door Lev just ran through.

I follow his gaze. I don't hear footsteps anymore, but I know Lev is out there making rounds with that toy flashlight in hand. He treats the job like it matters.

“He asked what a bodyguard does,” Mateo says. “I told him the truth. We keep the people we care about standing.”

The words settle between us. I want to respond, but nothing I say will come out right. I feel something tighten in my chest, but I force myself to keep breathing. Before I can speak, Lev bursts back into the room. He lifts his flashlight.

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