Chapter 9
Nico looked like Isla.
That was the first thing I thought when Margaret brought him into the garden house the next morning.
Same eyes.
Same serious expression before smiling.
Different hair.
Same way of studying strangers before deciding whether they were safe.
He stopped when he saw Elena.
She did not run toward him.
That mattered.
She crouched.
Let him choose.
“Nico.”
He looked at Margaret.
She nodded.
Then he walked slowly toward Elena.
“Mommy?”
“Yes.”
He touched her cheek.
Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.
Just one small hand checking whether a person was real.
Elena began crying.
Nico looked concerned.
“Did I hurt you?”
She laughed through tears.
“No.”
Then he hugged her.
I looked away for a second because it felt private.
When I looked back, he was staring at me over Elena’s shoulder.
“Cassian?”
I nodded.
“Hi.”
He stared at my beard.
Then touched his own chin.
“You have a lot.”
I laughed.
First time in twenty-four hours.
“Yeah.”
“Do I get one?”
Elena actually laughed too.
“Not today.”
That broke something open between us.
Not healed.
Opened.
Then Isla arrived.
We had prepared her carefully that morning.
She walked into the garden holding Elena’s hand, saw Nico, and froze.
Nico froze too.
For several seconds the twins simply stared at each other.
Then Isla held up her smartwatch.
“You’re the boy Grandpa showed me.”
Nico nodded.
“You’re Isla.”
She smiled.
That was it.
Three years apart.
No mythology.
No faction.
Just recognition.
They moved toward each other and compared shoes.
Adults make everything complicated.
Children sometimes expose how unnecessary the complication was.
Then Margaret handed me something.
A small notebook.
“Matteo gave me this the first year.”
I opened it.
Payment dates.
Visit dates.
Messages.
One entry repeated every three months.
V.M. CHECKED STATUS.
Vivienne knew.
Not where.
Not exactly.
But she knew Nico was alive and being monitored.
I looked at Matteo.
“You said she didn’t know you visited.”
“She didn’t.”
“Then who checked status?”
His face changed.
Tristan looked over my shoulder.
He recognized the initials before I did.
Victor Morelli.
My father’s younger brother.
Dead ten years.
I almost laughed.
May you like
Another dead man.
Apparently Morelli graves were becoming crowded with people still breathing.
