EMMA

The late afternoon hung heavy over Brooklyn, a dense, gray haze blanketing the city. The kind of sky that couldn't decide whether to rain or swallow everything whole.

I sat in the passenger seat of Eric's car, watching brittle leaves skitter across the windshield, dragged and tossed by the restless wind.

This used to be my favorite season. Autumn in New York had always carried a quiet kind of magic—trees blazing gold and crimson along the streets, leaves crunching beneath my boots, the air sharp and clean, as if the whole city had paused just long enough to let you breathe.

Now, it all felt dulled, hollow. Like me.

Eric drove in silence. His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, but I could tell it was not out of rhythm but restraint, like he was holding back more than he wanted to say.

I caught him glancing at me more than once, but I couldn't meet his eyes. Couldn't manage even the smallest smile or soft assurance that I was okay. Because I wasn't.

I flipped open the visor mirror and almost winced. Blue eyes, rimmed red, stared back at me. My skin was pale, drawn tight by the weight of the past and the truths I could no longer outrun.

There was no point hiding how wrecked I was, and yet, I didn't want them to see me like this. Then again, maybe they wouldn't notice. After all, it had been years since I last stood in front of them.

They had made the call—decided we had to stay away, that it was safer for us not to be with them anymore. I understood. I still hated it.

We stayed in touch, at first. Over time, I just couldn't. I stopped making the trips, stopped carrying the weight of always being the one to reach out. I had done what I did best—pretended I didn't care and just moved on.

Eric had tried harder. Still did. His last trip to Greece was proof of that.

I let out a sigh, closed the mirror, and leaned my head back against the cold glass. I closed my eyes, memories drifting through me like ghosts, uninvited but relentless.

My parents dancing in the hallway of a seaside villa, Eric and I watching with shy smiles from the doorway. It was back in the Côte d'Azur, one of the rarest, happiest times I could remember.

My mother's laugh as she took Alycia into her arms, draping a new winter coat around her shoulders like it was a royal cloak.

My father's grin as he pointed at a safe and said, "It's all just math, baby wolf. Find the pattern, and it opens itself."

They loved us. That was the cruelest part. If they hadn't, it might have been easier to forget. But they did—fiercely, recklessly, in a way only they could. They loved us enough to disappear, to rip themselves from our lives in the name of protection.

The decision had cracked something deep inside me, a fracture that never fully healed.

Sometimes, I missed them. But more often, I missed the version of them I never truly had. The version I imagined when I watched Jake's parents—the kind who stayed, who didn't run.

"Penny for your thoughts."

Eric's voice pulled me back. I turned to find him watching me with that familiar, quiet worry.

I let out a breath, half-sigh, half-laugh. "You'd want a refund."

His lips curved into a soft, weary huff of amusement.

I studied him for a long beat before I said, "You never told me about Greece."

Eric snorted. "You were a little busy, remember?"

I didn't answer. The silence stretched, heavy between us. Finally, he sighed, his features softening. "There wasn't much to tell."

"You stayed with them for weeks."

"Yeah." His grip tightened around the wheel. "They haven't changed. Still running. Still scheming. Still... them."

I nodded, twisting a loose thread at the cuff of my sleeve. "Do you ever wonder what would've happened if they hadn't come up with the whole aunt and uncle cover? If they'd just... stayed?"

Eric's gaze stayed fixed on the road. His jaw tightened before he exhaled slowly. "We'd be rotting in some European prison, or worse. They made the best call they could."

"Doesn't make it any easier."

He finally glanced at me, shaking his head slightly. "No. It doesn't."

I stared down at my lap, contemplating asking the question already burning in my chest. "Do you think they know?"

Eric didn't have to ask what I meant. "No. I didn't tell them anything. Not about the heist. Not about Vitale. And definitely not about Jake."

I bit my lip, the tight knot in my chest refusing to loosen. They were risking too much by coming to New York. There had to be more than a family reunion. Something they wanted... or something they knew.

Eric must have read my mind. "Come on, Em. They're the ones who taught us how to read people, track patterns, survive. They'll know something's off. Maybe not everything, but enough."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because he was right. And now, the thought of walking into that house, standing in front of them and knowing I couldn't bluff my way out of this, knowing they would strip me bare before I even spoke, made me want to disappear.

My breath caught in my throat when we turned off the main road and slipped into the quieter parts of Brooklyn.

Red Hook hadn't changed. Warehouses slumped against each other like old men too tired to stand on their own. Rusted street signs leaned at crooked angles, the wind snapping through them like loose teeth.

We pulled up in front of a narrow brick building. Two stories with curtains drawn tight. The kind of place you didn't find by accident. You had to know where to look—and want something you probably shouldn't.

"You good?" Eric asked softly.

I let out a long breath. "Define good."

He didn't push, just opened his door and got out.

I followed, the wind tugging at the edges of my coat like cold fingers, like a whisper of everything I wasn't ready to face.

I crossed my arms tight around myself, as if I could chase away the cold that had settled into my bones somewhere between the night Jake told me he loved me and the moment Eric's voice reminded me that love wasn't enough.

Eric climbed the stairs first. I lingered at the bottom, my feet rooted in place. I had no plan, no polished lie to wear like armor, and no energy to fake either.

I forced a deep breath and followed. Eric knocked, and everything in me braced for impact. But nothing could have prepared me for the voice that answered. Smooth, amused, and dangerously familiar.

"Well," my mother said, as if we had just dropped by for coffee. "Look what the wind blew in."

My mother, Vivienne Monroe, stood in the doorway with a glass of red wine balanced carelessly in one hand and that familiar, dangerous glint in her eye—the kind that always left you guessing whether she was about to pull you into a hug or pick your pocket.

She looked the same—effortlessly elegant, untouched by time. A long coat draped over her sleek black turtleneck. Her dark hair was pinned into a flawless twist, not a single streak of gray in sight. She could have stepped straight out of a French film noir.

Behind her, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed, stood Elias, my father. Same calm intensity, same soft eyes, and the same knowing look that suggested he already had the ending figured out and was simply waiting for us to catch up.

"Well," Mom said smoothly, "if it isn't our prodigal techie and our little wolf."

Dad's mouth curled into that slow, familiar smile as his gaze met mine. "Still got those eyes, huh? Beautiful and dangerous. Just like your old man always said."

Once, that would have made me grin. It always used to. Now it only left me raw and exposed. They could still read me—the pieces I had worked so hard to bury. The parts of me that proved just how much ruin I was capable of leaving behind.

I forced a thin, polite smile.

Eric moved first. Mom pulled him easily into a hug, her voice low and teasing as she murmured something about how he looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

Then she turned to me, arms open—but slower, cautious, maybe even giving me the choice. I let her hug me, but I didn't return it.

Dad stepped in next. His hug was firmer, warmer, but held that same calculated distance they both had perfected over the years.

"Didn't expect a knock," he said as he pulled back. "Figured you'd pick the lock for old time's sake."

"Didn't feel like showing off."

Mom laughed, low and soft, as if that were the best answer possible. Without another word, she stepped back and led us inside.

The safehouse hadn't changed. Mismatched furniture, blank walls, and that restless, sterile energy unique to places never meant to become home. Cozy, but only in the way people on the run learn to pretend.

We took our seats around the scratched table in the living room like actors falling back into old roles. Tea was poured, fruit was offered, and for once, I welcomed the silence like an old friend.

Across from me, my mother studied me over the rim of her glass, legs tucked neatly beneath her.

Our eyes locked. The knot inside me twisted tighter. I had missed them—both of them—more than I dared admit. Yet something nameless held me back. Some invisible wall that refused to let me surrender into the safety of her arms.

I busied myself pouring tea, fingers tightening around the warm mug just to keep them from twitching.

"You know," my mother said casually, swirling the dark wine in her glass, "we were just talking about that vault job in Berlin. The one with the steel shutters and the guard who thought he was God's gift to security."

Dad chuckled softly and nudged my arm. "Remember? You faked a fainting spell and lifted the keys off him in under ten seconds."

Mom's laugh followed, low and smooth. "You were the ghost with the glittering touch, Em. Still are, I'd bet. And Eric?" She grinned fondly. "The insurance policy. The kid who could hack the Pentagon with a toaster and a hairpin."

Eric and I exchanged a glance without saying anything. There was the faintest trace of a smile on both our faces—tight, forced.

Undeterred, Mom continued, "There's a gallery in Vienna with a Caravaggio no one's touched in fifty years. I swear it's begging for us."

Dad poured himself a glass of bourbon. "We're supposed to be lying low, Viv. Remember?"

She shrugged as if the idea barely registered. "Retirement's a myth." Her gaze landed on me again, playful but assessing. "Your safe-cracking hands still good, Em?"

I didn't answer. My fingers tightened around my mug until my knuckles turned white before I set it down harder than I meant to.

Mom's gaze narrowed. "What's that look?"

Eric gave me a subtle shake of the head, a silent warning. I ignored it.

"You're joking," I said flatly.

Her head tilted, lips curling at the edges. "Only sort of."

I stared at them both, my chest tightening. "You're talking about jobs like we didn't spend our whole lives running."

The air shifted, and the laughter vanished. But it wasn't real silence; I knew that. It was a pause, a calculated wait for me to soften, to fall back into the rhythm of their game.

I didn't.

"You always called it a game," I said, my voice sharp. "But it wasn't. Not when we were sleeping in safehouses, eating out of vending machines because takeout was too risky. That wasn't a game."

Eric froze. His eyes closed, and his hands formed tight fists in his lap.

"I remember the Côte d'Azur," I continued, softer now, the words tearing themselves loose. "That house with the orange trees. You made pancakes. Dad taught Eric how to fix the generator. I thought that was real."

I swallowed hard. "But it wasn't. It was just the eye of the storm. You couldn't stay still. You never could."

For the first time, my mother's smile faltered. Barely—but I saw it.

Dad set down his drink. "Emma," he said gently, "we did what we had to. We kept you safe."

I looked at them, really looked. "Safe?" I said, the word sharp as glass. "You think this is safe? You think lying to everyone we've ever met, never putting down roots, always looking over our shoulders—was safe?"

Dad's mouth opened, but he said nothing. Mom just kept looking at me, unblinking.

"You made us ghosts," I whispered, voice breaking. "And now you sit here like you didn't build us into this."

Mom finally moved, setting her wine glass down slowly. Her voice was soft but edged. "You think we don't know what this life did to you? You think we wanted it for you?"

I shook my head, blinked back the burning in my eyes, and stood. "I tried," I said. "I tried so hard to be something else, to be someone real. But it doesn't matter. I'm still yours. And I don't know how to live with that anymore."

I turned and walked toward the door, vision blurring, heart beating like a storm in my chest. I didn't look back.

The cold hit me like a slap the moment the door clicked shut behind me.

The air smelled of salt, rust, and the faintest trace of autumn rain. Waves lapped softly against the pier, the sound distant but anchoring. Out in the fog, the Statue of Liberty stood half-lost, a fading silhouette swallowed by gray.

My legs moved before my mind caught up. I walked past the warehouses, past the streetlights bleeding halos into the mist, until the city gave way to open sky and water.

The pier was empty. The world, silent. I let out a shaky breath and leaned hard into the rusted railing, palm pressed against my mouth as if I could physically hold the emotions back.

A part of me wanted to pull out my phone and call Jake, just to hear his voice, just to ground myself in the one place that had ever felt safe. But I didn't. I couldn't. I knew I didn't deserve that comfort.

Instead, I closed my eyes and let the tears fall unchecked, hot against my skin.

"You think you can walk away from me that easily?"

I stiffened, but didn't turn. My fingers clenched around the cold metal, gritty with sea salt and time.

"You always did have a flair for dramatic exits," Mom said, heels tapping lightly against the worn planks behind me as she closed the distance.

"Not now," I snapped, sharper than I intended.

Of course, she didn't listen. Her footsteps stopped just a few feet away. I could feel her there, solid as a second pulse.

"I'm still your mother, Emma," she said quietly. "You don't get to shut me out like that."

That made me turn. The wind caught the edges of her coat, twisting it around her frame. The unreadable expression she always wore was gone. Her eyes carried a weight I hadn't noticed before—or maybe I had never tried to.

She stepped closer, standing at my side, her coat brushing mine as she stared out across the water. "You were nine when we stayed in the Côte d'Azur. I burned the pancakes twice because you wanted them to look like Mickey Mouse."

My eyes stung harder. I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back the tears, wiping the ones that had already fallen.

"It was real. Don't you dare say it wasn't." She finally looked at me, and for the first time, her own eyes were misty.

She took a slow breath before continuing, "You've always thought I wasn't watching, but I was. Every step." Her gaze didn't waver. "I know about the heist. I know how deep you and Eric got yourselves this time. I know about Vitale. And I know about Jake."

The name hit like a punch to the ribs. She didn't say it casually. She said it like she knew, like she understood what he meant and how badly it hurt.

I turned away, staring back out at the water. I couldn't meet her eyes anymore.

"I didn't mean for it to go this far," I whispered, startled to hear the words leave my mouth at all.

"No one ever does," she said. "But you made choices, Emma. You don't get to play the victim now."

The words stung sharper than any accusation. I forced myself to look at her, my throat burning. "You think I'm playing the victim?"

"I think you're pretending you didn't want this," she replied. "But you did. You wanted the thrill, the adrenaline, the chase. You were addicted to it."

Her voice didn't accuse. It simply was. And somehow, that was worse.

"You were Laverna," she went on, softer now, as if saying the name out loud might break me. "You pulled off things I never dreamed of at your age. You became something terrifying and beautiful."

Her hands tightened around the railing as her gaze drifted out into the dark water. "And then you tried to disappear into something respectable, a job at the MoMA, a quiet life."

The words sliced through me, but I couldn't argue with her. She wasn't saying anything wrong.

"You only had that chance because of us," she said, voice tight and almost wistful. "We burned every bridge. We stayed away. We let you build a perfect little lie about who we are." Her voice broke, just faintly. "You think that didn't destroy us?"

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her she couldn't possibly understand—but she did. She always had. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

She turned her head slightly toward me. "You think we didn't want to stay? That we didn't dream of raising you both in the Côte d'Azur, under orange trees and soft morning sun?"

Her hand brushed her cheek. A single tear had fallen, one she hadn't meant to let go. "We did," she said. "More than anything. But we couldn't."

The silence stretched between us, broken only by the soft slap of waves against the pier. And then she said it—the words I had known were coming, the ones I still wasn't ready for.

"There's no happy ending to this, Emma. Not for people like us. Not with people like Jake."

I clenched my jaw. My grip on the railing tightened until my knuckles turned white.

"I know you're terrified," she said. "Because you know what's coming. You've always known."

I didn't speak. I couldn't, feeling myself unraveling, fragile piece by fragile piece.

"You've always had a weakness for dangerous men, Emma."

That made my head snap toward her. "He's not like him."

"Did I say he was?" She arched a single brow. "But this one? He's the kind that doesn't survive in our world. And if you try to make him... you'll break both of you."

My voice came out cracked, frayed. "I love him."

Mom studied me for a long beat, then, without judgment, she placed her hands over mine, soft but steady. "Then leave him. You know you have to."

I tried. I tried so hard to hold it together. But the weight inside me finally gave way, crumbling like a sandcastle swallowed by a wave.

"For a while, I thought I could have him," I whispered, barely breathing. "I thought if I was careful enough, good enough..."

Her voice softened, almost tender. "You were never going to outrun the truth, baby."

A sob escaped my mouth. I felt conned, outplayed cruelly and mercilessly by the universe itself. For the first time in my life, I had been handed everything I needed. Not wanted—needed. Safety, love, belonging, and the man who made me feel alive in a way I never experienced before.

All of it had fallen into my lap like some impossible dream I never earned. And now I was about to lose it. All of it.

Maybe that was justice. Maybe I was never meant to be this happy.

Her touch made me flinch. I startled, the reaction instinctive, but she didn't pull away. Slowly, deliberately, she wrapped her arms around me.

And I let her. For the first time in what felt like forever, I let her hold me, and I broke.

The sobs came hard and fast, wrenching and ugly. I cried like I hadn't in years. Like I was twelve again, small and lost and terrified of who I was supposed to be.

She stayed silent and just tightened her hold around me. And that, somehow, was worse than I told you so. Because I knew. I knew she was right.

There was no way out of this that didn't end in heartbreak.

The pretending was over.

The dream was over.

And the nightmare was just beginning.