Chapter 7
“Luca,” she said, her voice softer now, stripped of the defensive barbs.
“Yeah?”
“Tell me about Sophie.”
The Escalade swerved slightly, just an inch, before Luca corrected the wheel. His hands tightened on the leather until his knuckles shone white under the pale morning light.
“Who told you that name?”
“Gus. That first night. He said nobody sat here since her.”
Luca stared straight ahead at the wet gray asphalt of Belmont Avenue. For several blocks, the only sound was the steady slap-slap of the windshield wipers against the glass. Nina didn't push. In the ER, when a patient went into shock, you didn't yell; you kept your voice level and waited for the vital signs to stabilize.
Finally, Luca spoke.
“She’s twelve now,” he said. The words sounded like they were being dragged over broken glass. “She lives in San Diego. Her mother remarried an architect. Nice guy. Builds eco-friendly houses. Doesn't have three warrants pending with the Department of Justice. Doesn't check under his car for magnetic explosives before taking his kid to soccer practice.”
“You don't see her?”
“I send money through a blind trust. I get school pictures twice a year from an attorney in La Jolla.” He swallowed, his throat moving hard. “She had a bullet in her shoulder when she was six years old because she was sitting where you're sitting right now. When she woke up in the trauma ward, she was screaming because she thought the blood on her party dress was mine. I promised her mother that night: if she took Sophie away from this city, I would never let my shadow fall on them again.”
Nina looked down at her hands, then reached across the console.
She didn't grab his hand with dramatic flair. She simply laid her palm flat over his right wrist, right where his pulse hammered against the bone—quick, hard, and undeniably alive.
Luca stiffened at the contact. He didn't pull away, but he didn't lean in either. He held his breath, like an animal bracing for impact.
“You saved her life,” Nina said quietly. “Even if it meant tearing your own out by the roots.”
“I became a ghost,” Luca murmured.
“No,” Nina said, giving his wrist a firm, grounding squeeze before pulling her hand back. “Ghosts don't buy stale biscotti, Luca. And they don't sit in the rain waiting for exhausted nurses just to make sure they get home in one piece.”