Page 117 of Velvet Chains
I laughed, moving aside for her.
She took it as license, rolling up her sleeves and attacking the pile of glasses with military efficiency. Natalia’s face was flushed and beaming—lingering hangover from too much church wine, or a little holiday melancholy tamped flat by her force of will.
I handed her a soapy glass. She scrubbed. We worked in silence for a minute, the only sound the muted clink of ceramic and thefaint, echoing shrieks of Are You Ready for Science? from the living room.
“So,” she said, so casual I almost missed the edge, “what happened at church?”
I kept my eyes on the plate in my hands. I’d expected the question, and still it rattled me.
“I saw you looking,” she pressed. “I saw them looking at you.”
I dried my hands on a tea towel. “Yeah.”
“I haven’t seen you twitch like that since the bar exam.” Natalia’s dark eyes locked on me, unblinking. “What’s going on?”
For a second I thought about brushing her off, redirecting. But it was Christmas, and I was tired, and there was maybe a part of me that wanted to tell the truth. Or something like it.
“Those men,” I said, choosing my words with care. “They’re dangerous. It’s not new. I prosecuted one of their associates, ten years ago. I know them, and they don’t forget.”
Natalia waited. “But that’s not it, right?”
Something inside me flinched.
“He’s her father,” I said quietly.
She stopped scrubbing. The kitchen fan hummed overhead.
“Oh.” She wasn’t surprised. Or maybe she was, but she’d already metabolized it. “Fuck, man. I thought you just didn’t like Martin.”
“No, he’s nice,” I said. “He looks at you like he worships you.”
“He does,” she said with a quick shrug, brushing me off like she always did when I got too sentimental. Then she shot me a look. “Don’t try to change the topic.”
I stared at the countertop. The ceramic tiles. A chip in the grout.
“Does Julian know?” she asked, more gently now.
I shook my head. “No.”
Her voice lowered. “Does Rosie?”
My chest tightened. “No. She just…likes him.”
There was a beat.
“My brother?”
“Yes,” I said. The word felt heavier in the air than I meant it to.
Natalia frowned, turned back to the sink. “Alek is the only one who knows?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s the only one I told. Kieran found out on his own.”
She nodded, then leaned forward, rinsing out the glass. Her voice, when it came again, was almost an afterthought.
“And you?” she asked. “I mean—obviously, you know. But do you like him?”
I should’ve lied. Should’ve said it didn’t matter. That it was over. That I was done letting him bleed into my life. But none of that would’ve been true.
