Sara Ikari Rodriguez
The car ride back to the Rodriguez estate was silent.
But not the cold kind we’d gotten used to.
It was quiet like the calm before a storm.
Like Matio was calculating something dangerous in his head and I was sitting beside him, trying to keep my heart steady.
I had the envelope in my lap, fingers brushing over the single word again and again:
Mine.
The photo was still inside.
I hadn’t looked at it again.
I didn’t need to.
I could still feel the way Matio’s hand tensed when he saw it the first time — like he wanted to break something but didn’t know
where to start.
When we reached the apartment, Maria was waiting.
She didn’t ask questions.
She just pulled me into a hug like she already knew, kissed my forehead, and said, “I’m glad you’re home.”
Home.
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