Livia decided at six seventeen in the morning.
Not because of Dante's agreement. Not because Mateus spent half the night adding protections. Not because Helena, with pain in her eyes, admitted that shelter was sometimes a wiser choice than pride.
Livia decided because Noah stood at the window with toothpaste on his chin and said:
— Mommy, that man is taking pictures.
Across the street, a man leaned against a parked car with a coffee cup in his hand. Ordinary clothes. Ordinary posture. Ordinary cruelty. He lifted his phone every time someone entered or left the building. When Livia pulled the curtain aside, he looked up at their window.
By seven, Dante was inside the apartment with two security specialists downstairs and a fury so controlled it seemed colder than calm.
Mateus arrived
