When Jade came out she looked drained, but saw me holding the ultrasound and made a face. “Staring at it won’t make him any cuter.”
I shrugged. “Weird, I was hoping for the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
I gave her a look. “He’s going to look like an alien either way,” I said. “But I keep thinking about if—” I stopped. Marco snored louder, filling the silence. I tapped the photo, thumb tracing the blob that would one day be a kid. “You think I’ll know what to do, when he’s here?”
She cocked her head. “I don’t think anyone knows what to do. You just learn.”
I tried to imagine that. Learning as you went. I’d always been the one with a plan, a net, a next step. The idea of just winging it was so foreign my brain pushed back. “And what if I fuck it up?”
She glanced at me from under the curve of the blanket. “That’s the gig, Dante.” She smiled, but not like it was a joke. “You fuck it up. Then you fix it. Then you fuck it up again.”
I sat with that. Let it settle. I imagined my father in this room, watching the two of us. The old man would have had something to say about failure, about letting the world run you. But that was the thing—he was in New York City, effectively gone, and with him all the old rules. I had to make the new ones.
The room was bright with the thin gray light of city morning—noisy, already alive outside the windows. Jade stood, stretched, and looked at the phone. “I’m going to find the diner,” she said. “Please, just come with?”
I took a second, then nodded. Left Marco behind, comfortable in the nest of hotel sheets and hospital tape, dreaming his own dreams. In the hall, my hand found hers. I didn’t know what to say, so I let her lead, down the corridor, out onto Queen Street, the slap of wind on our faces sharp enough to remind me—maybe for the first time—that this wasn’t hell. It was just another city. Just another chance.
The diner was a block away, all yellowed lights and sticky booths, the air thick with the smell of fry grease and burnt toast. I let Jade order for both of us. I watched her through the steam coming off her coffee, the way she cradled the mug in both hands, how she eyed the street through the window with a kind of wary gratitude.
I wanted to tell her that I was sorry. For all of it. For the stupid war, for dragging her into it, for every day she lost to a life she hadn’t picked. For the fact that, sometimes, I liked the violence. Maybe it was all I ever understood. But I didn’t know the words. I was a Moretti, and Moretti men didn’t get to be sorry.
So I said, “We’re good here, right? For a while?” I meant it, but the question was a dare, and I waited for her answer like a man facing down a firing squad.
She didn’t look away from the street. “I mean, it’s your choice. Not mine.”
“I can’t think about you being on Caruso’s firing line. And if Rodriguez or anyone in the FBI goes to you…I don’t know, Jade. How can we deal with that? For now, Canada is our best hope. I know you don’t love it, but…”
“It’s okay,” she replied. “It’s fine. Just cold. I just need you to find a way for us to be able to go home. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I believed that.
I nodded. I drank my coffee. I let the world in, a little at a time, until I thought maybe, just maybe, I could survive it.
Chapter 11: Jade
The hotel was making me crazy.
No, scratch that—the whole situation was making me crazy. Four days locked in a Toronto Marriott, watching Law & Order reruns and eating dry cereal out of paper cups… it was enough to make anyone want to put their head through a wall. My stomach burned—I didn’t know if it was heartburn or nerves. Either way, I needed out. The pharmacy I’d spotted on Queen Street the first night was starting to look like the promised land.
I told Dante I wanted to go alone, and he actually said yes.
Not right away. First, he did his usual routine: grunted, muttered that it wasn’t smart, not with the heat on, not with the world gunning for us. But I told him I needed air. Something normal. I couldn’t just be the girl who sat in hotel rooms and waited for someone else to say it was okay to live.
Dante, god help him, listened.
He kept his face turned, but his voice was rough when he said, “Five blocks. Pharmacy’s on Queen and Spadina. You don’t stop for coffee. You don’t talk to anyone. No side streets. If you think you’re being followed—”
“I know what to do,” I cut in, already zipping up my coat. My hands were jammed in my pockets, clutching the burner phone he’d made me bring. “I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were stupid.”
“Hey, we’re in Canada for a reason, right? That means I can, you know, leave. That means I can go and do things, right?”
He didn’t flinch, but something flickered in his eyes. Like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t. Like he knew if he said no, if he kept me on a leash any tighter, he’d lose me in a different way.
So he just nodded, sharp and final. “Take my scarf,” he said, not looking at me. “It’s cold.”
