Mafia Princess

Chapter 15: Sleep

Zack’s POV

11:42pm. Sunday.

The knock is soft. Barely there. Like she’s not sure she’s allowed.

I’m already at the door before she knocks again. I always am. Since she got here, I sleep less than usual. Which is saying something, because usual is zero.

I open it.

Jane.

Bare feet on cold marble. My hoodie again. The black one this time. It hits her mid-thigh. Hair down. Wet, like she just showered. Droplets hitting the collar. Peanut’s ear sticking out of the pocket. The stuffed dog lost an eye last week. Jake said it made him “more intimidating.” Jane cried anyway.

She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me with those eyes. Big. Tired. Rimmed red.

Elena’s eyes, Sandro says. I wouldn’t know. I never met Elena. I showed up after. After the funeral. After the blood dried.

But I know Jane’s eyes. And right now they’re saying _please_ without her mouth moving.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask. Stupid question. Of course she can’t.

She shakes her head. “Tried. Room’s too… big. And quiet. And tomorrow’s school and I don’t know anyone and what if someone’s mean and what if they ask about Mom and what if—”

“Stop,” I say. Not harsh. Just _stop_. Like a brake. “Get in.”

She slips past me. She smells like my shampoo. She used it again. The expensive stuff Marta buys because it “helps with tactical awareness.” Whatever that means. Smells like cedar. Now it smells like her.

I lock the door. Deadbolt. Chain. Double check. Force of habit. Check the window. Check the closet. Check under the bed. Old habits from before Sandro. Some habits keep you alive.

She’s standing in the middle of my room like she doesn’t know where to go. Which is stupid. She’s been here twice already. Both times after nightmares. Both times at 2am.

“Bed,” I say, nodding at it. “Same as last time.”

“I can take the chair,” she mumbles. Eyes on the floor. “You didn’t sleep last time either. ‘Cause of me. You kept opening your eyes every time I moved.”

“I don’t sleep anyway,” I say. “Not your fault. I haven’t since before you were born.”

“That’s worse,” she says. Quiet. “That means you’re always tired. That means I make it worse.”

I don’t answer. Because she’s right.

She climbs onto the bed. Sits cross-legged. My blanket in her lap. She looks small. Smaller than she is. Which is already small. 5’2”. Ninety pounds soaking wet. Viktor says she needs to gain ten pounds or she’ll break the first time someone hits her.

“Zack?” she says.

“What.”

“Can you… can you sit here? Just for a minute? Until I’m asleep? I won’t take long. I promise.”

I’ve been shot. Twice. I’ve been stabbed. Three times. I’ve killed men. I stopped counting at twelve.

This is harder.

I sit on the edge of the bed. Not close. Not touching. Just there. Two feet of space between us. I could reach her if I had to. I always can.

“Thanks,” she whispers.

“Don’t thank me,” I say. Automatic. Rule #2: Don’t let her thank you for your job. It makes it personal. It’s already too personal.

“It’s my job.”

“It’s not your job to be my teddy bear,” she says.

That hits somewhere weird. Somewhere under the ribs.

“No,” I say. “But I’m better at it than Peanut. I’m bigger. And I don’t squeak when you squeeze me.”

She laughs. Tiny. Snorts a little through her nose. Then covers her mouth like she didn’t mean to. Like laughing is illegal.

“Sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be,” I say. “I liked it. Do it again sometime.”

Her face goes red. She ducks her head. Hair falls forward. Hides her.

We sit there. Silent. The AC hums. The city’s out the window. Forty floors down. Too high to hear anything but wind. Too high for anyone to climb. I checked.

“Zack?” she says after a minute.

“What.”

“I’m scared of school.”

“I know.”

“What if they ask about my family? What do I say? My dad’s a businessman? That’s what Jake said to say.”

“Lie,” I say. “Say you’re a Lopez. Say your dad works at a factory. Say your mom’s dead and you don’t talk about it. Say nothing. Nothing is safest.”

“What if they ask why you follow me everywhere? Seniors don’t hang out with freshmen. It’s weird.”

“Then I’m your overprotective brother,” I say. “Which I am. Tell them I failed twice. Tell them I’m stupid. I don’t care what they think.”

She picks at the blanket. Pulls a thread loose. “You don’t have to do that. Follow me. You should be at college. Or… or doing mafia stuff. Sandro said you run the south side. That’s important.”

“Can’t do mafia stuff if you’re dead,” I say. “Can’t run the south side if Sandro puts a bullet in me for letting Cruz touch you. So I follow you. School. Bathroom. Lunch. Hell, if I have to.”

“That’s dark,” she says.

“That’s true,” I say. “Your dad hired me to keep you breathing. That’s the job. Everything else is extra.”

She’s quiet again. Then she lays down. Slow. Like she’s testing if I’ll leave. Like she thinks I have better things to do.

I don’t.

She pulls the blanket up to her chin. Peanut’s under her arm. Her eyes are still open. Watching me. Waiting for me to vanish.

“Zack?”

“Jesus, Jane. What.”

“Can you… can you lay down too? Just… not in the chair. It creaks. I can hear it. Every time you shift I wake up. And it makes me think you’re gonna leave. That you’re gonna get called away. That I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”

I stare at her.

She’s 15. I’m 18. She’s Sandro’s daughter. She’s my job. She’s the reason I don’t drink. She’s the reason I check my gun twice.

She’s also a kid who can’t sleep without her sister. And I’m the closest thing she’s got to one with a pulse.

I lay down. On top of the blanket. Not under. Never under. On my back. Hands behind my head. Not touching her. Feet hanging off the end of the bed because I’m 6’1” and this is a California king and I still don’t fit. My whole life doesn’t fit.

“Better?” I ask the ceiling.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Thank you.”

“Stop thanking me.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry—” She cuts herself off. Laughs again. Quieter this time. “You’re hard to talk to.”

“You’re easy to protect,” I say before I can stop it. Before I can think.

She goes quiet.

Then she shifts. Just a little. An inch. Until her shoulder is touching my arm. Through the hoodie. Through my shirt. Barely anything. Fabric and skin and warmth.

But it’s… something. It’s a perimeter I didn’t set.

“You’re warm,” she mumbles.

“You’re small,” I say back. Automatic defense.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

She doesn’t. She just breathes. Slow. Then slower. Evens out.

I count them. One. Two. Three. At seventeen, she’s out. Mouth open a little. Face finally slack. No fear. No nightmares. Just a kid.

I should get up. Go back to the chair. Do my job. Watch the door. Check the halls. Run the cameras.

I don’t.

Because for the first time since I was 10, my eyes are heavy. Not because I’m tired. I’m always tired.

But because it’s quiet. And she’s safe. And she’s here. And for some reason my brain thinks _“don’t die, she’s touching you”_ means _“you can rest now.”_

I close my eyes. Just for a second.

Just to see what it feels like.

---

5:00am. Monday.

I wake up.

Not snap awake. Not jolt awake like when the gunfire starts. Not choke awake like when the nightmares come.

Wake up. Slow. Warm.

Because there’s weight on my chest. And hair in my face. Smells like cedar. Like my shampoo. And breathing that isn’t mine. Even. Steady.

Jane.

She migrated in her sleep. She’s half on me, half on the bed. Head on my chest. Right over my heart. One hand fisted in my shirt. Like she was falling. Peanut squished between us, one-eyed and lopsided.

My arm is around her. Over the blanket. Around her shoulders. I don’t remember doing that. I don’t remember moving.

I should move. I should panic. I should do my job. I should put her back on her side and get up and check the perimeter.

I don’t.

Because I slept. Really slept. First time in eight years. No dreams. No blood. No closet. Just… nothing. Black. Quiet.

And she’s the reason.

“Zack,” she mumbles. Not awake. Still dreaming. “Don’t go.”

“’m not,” I say. Quiet. So quiet it’s not even a sound. It’s breath. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She sighs. Burrows closer. Like I’m a pillow. Like I’m safe.

I stare at the ceiling. 5:01am. School in two hours. Sandro will be up. Viktor will be up. The house will be moving.

Rule #12: Wilson girls don’t sleep alone. Ever. Even if it kills me.

No.

Rule #12: Wilson girls don’t sleep alone. Ever. Even if it saves me.

Yeah. That one. That’s the one.

I don’t move. Let the school wait. Let Sandro wait. Let the world wait.

She’s sleeping. I’m awake.

And for once, both those things are true at the same time.

I close my eyes again. Just for a minute.