Chapter 11
Protective custody was quieter than prison and harder than war.
No staff.
No guards in black suits.
No marble halls.
Just a small house near the coast, two federal agents outside, and a kitchen where I burned eggs three mornings in a row.
Leo loved it.
At first, I thought he was pretending.
Then I saw him running barefoot across the backyard, laughing because nobody told him to stand straight.
Nobody corrected his shoulders.
Nobody called him heir.
Sofia stayed with us.
She said it was temporary.
Then she bought pink dish towels and argued with the neighbor about tomato plants.
That was when I knew she was staying.
One evening, Leo found me reading Elena’s notebook again.
“Does it make you sad?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then why read it?”
“Because it makes me remember the truth.”
He sat beside me.
“Can I know more about Mom?”
I closed the notebook.
Not because I wanted to hide it.
Because Elena was more than evidence.
“She danced when she cooked,” I said.
Leo smiled.
“Really?”
“Badly.”
He laughed.
“She used to put lemon in everything. Tea. Soup. Cake. Once, pasta.”
“That sounds gross.”
“It was terrible.”
He leaned into me.
“Tell me more.”
So I did.
Every night, one memory.
Some hurt.
Some healed.
Sometimes both.
The trial moved slowly.
The investigation widened.
Men disappeared.
Accounts froze.
Old allies sent messages.
Threats disguised as concern.
Then one afternoon, Agent Quinn arrived with a face I did not like.
“Dante,” she said. “We found something in Victor’s files.”
“What?”
She looked at Leo playing outside.
“Elena may have left more than the notebook.”
My pulse changed.
“Where?”
Quinn placed a photo on the table.
May you like
A storage locker.
On the door, written in Elena’s hand, was Leo’s full name.
