"Thanks, Detective Campbell," I say hanging up my cell, something like elation welling up in my chest. It's been four days - four whole days since the concluding statements and the jury entering into deliberations and I've been a nightmare. Unable to sleep, unable to eat much, unable to concentrate on anything. Miles kept me company in the middle of the night when I'm wide awake and the only thing that's keeping me remotely sane is binge-watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians.

As I tell Miles: it's so bad, it's good, and now he's got his Kim K impression down to a tee.

Arms wrap around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. He waits, and I appreciate that. Not instantly probing even though I know he wants to know the outcome as much as I did. I take a minute, looking at the downtown buildings, Lake Michigan in the distance, letting it sink in.

"Guilty, all charges," I say eventually. He turns me so I'm pressed against his muscled chest, hands lying flat against his pecs.

"As if there were any doubt." He kisses me. "You OK?"

"Yeah, I mean… yeah. It's good, right? I'm just relieved. Don't think I could stand it if people thought I was askin' for it. Y'know?"

"Anyone who thinks that ain't in their right mind. Nothin' can excuse what that fucker did to you," Miles says darkly. "Nothin'."

He holds me tightly and I let myself relax for a split second, feeling safe in his arms. Loved. Even if he's not said it, that's how he makes me feel.

"Thank you." I don't need to elaborate, I don't think. He knows I'm thanking him for what he did because if he had never, maybe I'd still be living in fear. I'd have never have gone to the cops myself, that's for sure.

I stand on my tiptoes to cover his mouth with mine and when I step away, I can see his concern is still there.

"Just gonna ring Char and Tara, let them know," I say stepping back, still holding his hand.

"Sure."

I do this while smoking a cigarette on the balcony, quitting long out the window. Charlotte screams down my phone so loud I have to hold it away from my ear until she's speaking at normal volumes.

"Thank fuck! That's made my whole friggin' year. Finally, that fuckin' asshole is gonna rot in a cell for the rest of his days hopefully bein' someone's bitch!"

I wince at the thought.

We make plans for later that week and I'm looking forward to it, to getting back to normal after all the emotional upheaval, finally closing the door on that chapter of my life, washing my hands of it.

Charlotte's right.

He can rot.

***

"Move in with me."

I look up at Miles from my position on the sofa; horizontal, sprawled out in a sports bra and leggings, my feet in his lap as I read the same paragraph from my GED science book for what must be the fifth time.

His feet are up on the coffee table, hand rubbing mine as he watches a Cubs game. I fold the corner of the page I'm on before abandoning the book on the floor.

"Are you serious?"

"That a no?"

"No… that's a 'are you serious'?"

His hand moves up my leg. "Why else would I ask?"

I bite my lip to stop the huge smile that wants to engulf my face from cracking it wide open.

"Have you—have you thought it through properly? Like, my stuff would be all over your place. I would be here all the time."

His eyes travel around lingering on my bag and shoes by the front door; my coat slung over one of the dining chairs; a sweater behind my head; nail polish and bobby pins scattered on the coffee table by his feet.

"It already is. And I like that you're here." He stops, and I know he's probably thinking of my clothes in his drawers, the toothbrush and shower stuff here that never left, and he never moved, even when we were apart.

We've fallen back together seamlessly. An unspoken conversation after that day in court; after that night we spent together.

"It's alright if you don't wanna. Maybe too soon." He frowns a little. It's not often he's like this—uncertain of himself.

I'm up on my knees, crawling to him over the sofa cushions until I'm straddling him, his hands coming to rub up and down my thighs.

"Not too soon. I want to," I say, smile finally breaking free. His lips curve into a big, wide, easygoing grin.

"Yeah?"

"Yes!" My lips hit his, excitement rushing through me. "Let me get this GED test done and…" I trail off thinking. We really need to get some difficult conversations out of the way.

I really need to tell him. The whole truth. About me. About who I am, before I move in otherwise it's just going to keep eating at me like it did before.

I suck my cheeks in and sit back.

"I need to tell you something, but I don't—I'm not quite there yet. Ready." The frown is back on his face, but this time mine matches it. I look down, playing with the zipper on his black hoodie.

"OK…" he draws the word out slowly and I just know he's running through a million scenarios in his head. "You ain't pregnant are you?"

"What? No! Why would you even think that?"

He shrugs. "Worst-case scenario."

I gape at him. "Really, now? Me being pregnant is your worst-case scenario?" I sweep my hair off my face a little stunned, blinking at him.

"Not for the reasons you're probably thinkin'." He sits up so we're close again. "There are just… there are people out there who might… might hurt you cus of me- who I work for. Adding a kid into the mix makes everyone more vulnerable, y'know?"

I don't say there's supposedly already people out there who'd want to hurt me because of my family.

Miles mistakes my silence and brings his fingers to run up and down my sides, kissing me softly. I shiver at his touch. "You're a weakness as it is. If anyone came after you I'd lose my fuckin' shit."

I can well imagine that. He's not possessive, but he's protective. He puts me on this pedestal I'm not sure I deserve.

His dick twitches underneath me. "Are you seriously turned on right now?"

"Just somethin' about the idea of you pregnant with my kid," he grins. "Never thought 'bout it before but you'd be one hot MILF."

I roll my eyes. "Jesus."

"If you're up for it, I want you to do some regular shootin' practice at the range with me or Nate," Miles says, shifting the subject.

I'm zipping and unzipping his hoodie until I'm looking at him from under my lashes.

"Why?"

"Want you to be able to take someone out with a clean shot."

"Um, OK. Where is this coming from? You genuinely worried? Do I need to be checkin' over my shoulder or somethin'?"

"Just a few things recently got me thinkin'. I'm not keen you even being around JJ and Vince, knowin' them like I do. Sometimes people turn on each other in this business."

I'm silent, trying to take this in. "I mean, sure I'll do it. If you think it's important. You really think someone would?"

Miles thinks on this. "Maybe. As a rule... goin' after women and kids ain't accepted. They're innocent. You're innocent. It's frowned upon, but it's not like it's never happened and it'd definitely be a way of gettin' to me… Vince though, like he saw you as fair game cus he thought you were in on what Luke was doin'."

For a fleeting moment, I wonder about the possibility of Papà telling the truth. That he didn't murder my Mamma. But then his whole trial… all the evidence. It was concrete, solid. His fingerprints on the murder weapon. You can't make that shit up.

"Is it something to do with Luke?" Miles asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I shake my head.

Miles kisses me. "Just tell me when you're ready. I'm sure it ain't as big a deal as you're makin' it out to be in your head."

Somehow, I think he's wrong.

***

I'm leaving Ida's from a late evening session, rain thundering down on the sidewalk, water splashing onto my feet, flimsy flats offering little protection. I really wish I'd worn my boots instead, but they're at Tara's and it's supposed to be summer. Another positive to moving in with Miles; at least all of my stuff will be in one place.

Work beckons, only a twenty-minute walk from here, so I pull out my umbrella, glad for the time to wind down. I always find I need to; Irina's sessions are draining, she makes me think in a different way to how I'm used to and it's tiring, mentally.

The streets are still full of people but it's the persistence of movement right behind me that my ears tune into. The footsteps are almost in time with mine, slowing and speeding up as I do.

Hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end, the feeling of someone right behind me as I press the crossing button, gripping my bag and my umbrella tighter.

Unnerved, I take a detour into an open coffee shop and order myself a black coffee to go, pausing at a table by the window and taking my time putting my purse back in my bag so I can see the street.

People pass by, huddled under coats and umbrellas, but there's one person, a man, dressed in a dark jacket loitering by a phone box on the opposite side of the street. I watch him, before pulling my cell out, wondering whether I should bother Miles. I mean, maybe I'm just being paranoid after our conversation the other week?

When I look up the man's no longer there and I relax, chewing myself out for being worried over nothing.

I can't stop for long, so I head out, acutely aware I'm going to have Carter moaning if I'm late. He's already pissed off that I had time off for Luke's trial, and I don't want to rock the boat anymore.

It's another five minutes before I realize I wasn't imagining it. I turn my head and the man is behind me, hands stuffed into his pockets. The road is still busy, so stupidly or not so stupidly on the spur of the moment I whirl around.

"Are you following me?"

"You Mia?" he volleys back, keeping his hands in his pockets. I think there's an accent there, but I can't be sure.

"What the hell is it to you?"

I can see his face clearer now. He's older, greying hair around his temples, just visible underneath his black hood. His face is pitted with acne scars, his lip slightly misaligned, like it's been cut and sewn back up all wrong.

He's looking at me and then his gnarly face breaks out into a smile. "You look just like your Mom. This is from your Dad." He holds out a small folded up piece of paper between a thumb and a finger.

I look at it and then up at him, eyes darting around. Slowly my hand drops my bag strap and extends to take it from him.

He watches me carefully. "You be safe now. Call me, if you aren't."

By the time my brain has caught up with what he's said, he's gone.

And I think…

I think I've just met Mauro.

I read the note before I get into work. It's short and to the point.

Parla con me, Principessa, per favore.

Speak with me, Princess, please.

Memories stir, faint snatches of conversations on the phone with him always calling me that—Princess.

There's a number at the bottom and then also the same exact words as before, the same as on that card.

If in danger call Mauro.

I'm more tempted to ring Mauro again then Papà at this point.

How can I speak to him knowing he killed my Mamma? How could he think I would change my mind? The last time we spoke I told him I hated him, and I'd never forgive him.

Nothing's changed as far as I'm concerned, but it still doesn't stop me from folding the note and carefully slipping it into the inner pocket of my bag.

***

I'm eating breakfast a week later when it comes on the news. At first, I'm not paying attention but when they name the prison my head jerks up to the screen.

The reporter is standing outside the same prison front that I stood outside not so long ago.

One inmate dead, he confirms, gesticulating at the prison, nodding seriously into the camera as the in-studio anchors probe him for more information.

Luke's face appears on the screen.

The cereal bowl slips from my fingers, smashing on the wooden floor, milk and soggy frosted flakes all over.

"... due to be sentenced after being convicted on a number of offences, including drug trafficking and domestic violence charges."

Miles appears in the doorway of his bedroom, wet hair falling into his eyes, pulling a t-shirt over his head. He looks at shattered ceramic, milk splattered up my legs, on my feet.

"What's the matter?" he says, walking over carefully. "You OK? You're pale."

My mouth moves but no words come out.

"What's wrong?"

The TV has moved to a different segment but I'm snatching up the remote and changing the channel until I find it. Until I find his face again.

"Did you do this?"

Miles glances at it and is silent for almost too long, as he watches the report.

"No," he says shortly. I sink down weakly on the sofa.

Luke is dead.

Luke is dead.

Luke is dead.

Luke is dead?

Fuck.

"Don't lie to me. I heard you."

I can't help it. It comes out before I can even think. I wasn't sure who he was talking about that night, even though it seemed likely; I told myself, naively it could've been anyone. And it wasn't like I could confront him because then I'd have had to have had the conversation I've been avoiding. I thought him being in prison was enough? Obviously not.

Miles continues his denial, oblivious. I throw up my hands feeling sick and shaky and unsure.

I know I need to tell him.

Everything, everything.

Right now.

I'm just not sure I'm ready.

This though, it's kind of forcing my hand. I discussed this with Ida, just the other day. About trust, about telling your deepest darkest secrets. I trust him more than anyone, but I know this might tear us apart again if he takes it wrong.

"This weren't anythin' to do with me. Shit like this happens. You just gotta piss off the wrong person and you're as good as dead." Miles shrugs. "Just hope it was nice and slow, fucker didn't deserve anythin' less."

I don't get to explain myself any further though because Miles' attention has been drawn by the TV. I turn back to it, and if I wasn't shocked before, I'm sucker punched now. Papà's face, his name on rolling news. They're going through the prison's reputation, listing off infamous inmates.

"Three months ago Frank Rossi was transferred to the facility. Rossi, a former mafia don, once had a criminal empire that spanned international waters. All that changed after the 1989 murders of his wife and daughter. Elena Rossi was shot multiple times at their palatial home in Queens, New York. Their daughter, Emilia, was just four years old at the time… her body has never been found, but DNA evidence at the scene was enough to convict Rossi of both their murders. Rossi has always denied responsibility for the slayings..."

They show a picture of my Mamma.

And then they show a picture of me.

Four years old, but me.

It's my Mamma though, who I look like. Too alike to possibly mistake. Miles said it himself when he saw that photo of my parents.

I'm frozen, open-mouthed.

Shit.

Miles is dotting the i's and crossing the t's. He looks at me and then back at the TV and then again. He watches me until I look away. I don't know what to do. Fear creeps on my skin, my throat closing.

He's not stupid, he's figured it out.

Panic rises, fight or flight warring. I stand, his t-shirt hanging loosely around my thighs. I need to… I need to clean up. I'm over to the cupboard in the kitchen bringing out the dustpan and brush but Miles is striding over to me and prising it out of my hands.

"Sit the fuck down."