I think of her now. I remember her in the small, dirty, hot, smelly place we called home, and I remember how hard she worked to make it a home, to make it comfortable. I remember her cooking for me. I remember her leaving in the earliest hours of dawn to go to her first job, coming back to check on me and going to her second job, her third job—all so she could provide a few morsels of food for me.
She fought ferociously for me, my mother. Not with guns, but with love. She was a warrior—all mothers are warriors, I think. I don't really know why she is in my mind right now, as I look around at these people who have so quickly become my family. Perhaps it is the notion of love. I love Sophia, of course. But with her comes everyone else—an entire family.
It's a lot for a poor orphan boy from the favelas of Rio. A lot of love. A lot of people who accept me, who understand the life I have lived. That is a rare thing, to be understood and accepted. Not everyone finds that. Yet here we are, eleven men and nine women, who have found that acceptance and belonging in each other.
Seems like a miracle, and not one any of us is taking for granted.
INEZ
Back in the common room, everyone is comparing brands, laughing, hanging on to each other, teasing, playfully shoving. Even the Cabot boys, once so cold, shut down, and reclusive even with each other, are grinning and cracking jokes and being openly silly.
Case in point: Silas is chasing Naomi around the room with a piece of sliced ham, which she, for some reason, finds utterlyhorrifying. So far he's thrown it at her like a frisbee twice, and she's alternating between hysterical cackles and disgusted shrieks. Solomon and Maria are on the sectional, facing each other with her legs around his waist, making out like teenagers. Saxon and Terra are on the floor of the kitchen engaged in what appears to be a tickle-fight to the death, and Saxon seems to be losing.
Lash is the only one who seems somber. Tatiana murmurs something to him, a question, perhaps. He shrugs, murmurs in response, shaking his head.
I leave Lorenzo to a fiery and impassioned debate with Toro as to whether the Flamengo FC is better than Real Madrid and join Lash, standing with my back to the glass wall separating the gym from the common area. "Alright, Nico?"
He lets out a sigh, nodding his head at an angle. "I suppose."
Tatiana nuzzles her nose and lips into his throat. "Tell the truth, my heart."
He rakes his hand over his hair. "It is hard to feel as joyful as they are, with Pugli still out there. I am glad, truly, that all of you have found your freedoms from your enemies and the evils of the past. But I…I cannot rest and I will not breathe freely until Roberto Pugli is in the ground. Until I see the life bleed out of him with my own two eyes."
I hand him a small rectangle of heavy black metal—an exclusive, ultra-rare line of credit. "This traces to a shell corporation which is in turn owned by a nesting doll of umbrella companies. Anyone seeking to trace it will spend years untangling the threads. It is not literally unlimited, but as good as, for all intents and purposes."
He takes the card from me, turning it this way and that. "What is it for, and why are you giving it to me?”
"Because Jakob, so far as I know, is not trained in combat. He is elusive, clever, and an expert at avoiding detectionand identification. But evading and combating direct, personal efforts to kill him? That is, perhaps, a different story. He needs an ally out there. He may not be pleased that I am doing this, but I, more than perhaps any of you, owe him my life. And you are, truly, the best and only option. If the dead cannot die, then perhaps a ghost is the only one who can find and protect him." I close his fingers over the card. "If anyone deserves the right to hunt down and kill that man once and for all, it is you."
He nods, slipping the card into his hip pocket. "I thank you, Sophia."
I clap him on the shoulder. "Do what you must, Nicolai. We are with you. And you know, should you need backup…"
He nods again, gaze hardening. "I know it." He glances at Tatiana, his expression momentarily softening. "I must do this alone, Lovely One."
Tatiana nods somberly. "I know it. Do what you must and come home to me."
He kisses her, softly, gently. "I must prepare. I shall depart in the morning."
"I'll help you pack," Tatiana says, and then mutters something to him in Croatian.
A small, private smile drifts across his face, and he answers in Croatian, cupping her cheek and then taking her hand.
Something tells me “packing” is going to take a while.
I watch them go, vanishing into their room, his hands busily clutching at her backside as she fumbles blindly for the doorknob with one hand, tugging at his fly with the other.
Someone wolf whistles, and Tatiana's hand appears from around the edge of the door, middle finger lifted—to much laughter.
I pour myself a drink and take a seat on the sectional next to Lorenzo, who has moved his football debate—now Messi versus Ronaldo—to the couch.
Solomon glances at me. "Going after Pugli?" he murmurs quietly.
I nod. "Yes. He can't be truly happy or free until Pugli is dead."
"How is Jakob, do you think?"
I shrug. "Who knows? He is a bit of a cipher, even to me. I just hope this turns out for him like it has for the rest of us."
