POV: Rosalind
Luca called me early in the morning and told me someone had contacted him directly asking for Daniel's location.
Six AM. My phone buzzing on the nightstand. I answered before fully waking, voice rough with sleep.
"Mom." Not Mum. Mom. The American version he only used when he was trying to sound professional. Controlled. "Someone called me an hour ago. Blocked number. Asked where Dad is."
I sat up. "What did you tell them?"
"Nothing. I said I didn't track my father's schedule. That we're not in constant contact. That I couldn't help them."
"Did they believe you?"
"No. They said it was urgent. That Dad's meeting needed to be rescheduled and they'd lost contact. That I should tell them where he is as soon as I hear from him." His voice was steady. Too steady. "They were polite. Professional. But the subtext was clear. They know I know something."
"I'm coming over."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm already getting dressed."
I drove to Luca's apartment through empty morning streets. Varied my route. Checked mirrors. The training Theo had drilled into me operating on autopilot while my mind raced through implications.
They'd contacted Luca directly. Not through official channels. Not with warrants or lawyers. Just a call asking for information they assumed he had. Which meant they were escalating. Moving from observation to interrogation. From pressure to direct extraction.
Luca's apartment was in a converted warehouse building. Industrial chic. High ceilings. Exposed brick. The kind of place young professionals rented when they wanted to feel sophisticated on entry-level salaries.
He answered the door already dressed for work. Suit. Tie. Briefcase by the door. Like this was a normal Friday morning instead of the day after someone had called asking him to betray his father's location.
"You're calm," I said.
"Externally." He gestured me inside. "Coffee?"
"No. Talk to me."
We sat on his couch. The apartment was neat. Minimal. Nothing personal except a single photo of the three of us from years ago—Daniel, me, Luca at maybe twelve, all smiling at some family event I couldn't remember.
"They called at five," Luca said. "Blocked number. Male voice. Professional tone. Said they were trying to reach Dad about a rescheduled meeting and had been unable to contact him. Asked if I knew where he was."
"What exactly did you say?"
"I said my father and I don't coordinate schedules. That I'm focused on my own work. That I hadn't heard from him in several days and couldn't help them locate him." Luca pulled out his phone. "I documented the call. Time. Duration. Exact wording of questions. My exact responses. Then I sent the documentation to a secure email account that's not connected to anything else."
"Why?"
"Because if they're asking me for information, that means Dad's strategy has failed. That they're moving to backup plans. And if backup plans involve Luca Steele, I need documentation that proves I didn't cooperate. That I maintained boundaries. That whatever happens next, I didn't facilitate it."
I stared at my son. At this young man who spoke about his father's potential murder with the clinical detachment of someone documenting evidence for future litigation.
"When did you learn to think like this?" I asked.
"I've been watching Dad prepare for crisis my entire life. I just never knew what the crisis was until recently." He set down his phone. "And now I'm being added to meetings he used to attend. People at work are treating me differently. Like they know something I don't. Like the outcome is already decided and they're just positioning themselves accordingly."
"What do you mean?"
"Senior partners who've never spoken to me are suddenly taking interest in my projects. Dad's direct reports are copying me on emails I shouldn't see. Someone from legal asked me about succession protocols and whether I understood the firm's continuity structure." His jaw tightened. "They're treating me as if Dad's already gone. As if I'm next in line. As if the transition is inevitable rather than possible."
My hands started shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs. "What did you tell them?"
"Nothing substantive. I deflected. Said Dad handles operational matters and I focus on client relationships. But they're persistent. And it's becoming harder to pretend I don't understand what they're really asking."
I reached out. Touched his face. Felt the warmth of his skin. The solidity of him. My son. Still alive. Still here. Still breathing.
"You're okay," I said. More to myself than to him.
"I'm okay." He covered my hand with his. "But I'm not safe. Neither are you. Whatever Dad thought he could control by showing up alone—that control is gone now. They're escalating. Moving faster than he anticipated. And we're both targets whether we cooperate or not."
"What do we do?"
"We survive. Separately if necessary. Together if possible." He released my hand. "I have contingencies. You have Theo. We both have exit strategies that don't depend on Dad's success. That's more than most people have."
"Luca—"
"Mom." He looked at me with too much knowledge in his eyes. "I think this is the last quiet day."
The words settled over me like stones. Heavy. Final. The kind of statement you make when you've calculated odds and accepted outcomes you can't change.
"What does that mean?"
"It means tomorrow—or the next day, or the day after—everything changes. Dad's situation resolves. One way or another. And we're either prepared for what comes next or we're not." He stood. Picked up his briefcase. "I'm choosing prepared."
I watched him move toward the door. This young man who'd learned survival from watching his father's careful paranoia. Who'd built contingencies while pretending normalcy. Who'd accepted that loving someone sometimes meant preparing to survive their death.
"Be careful," I said.
"Always." He paused in the doorway. "And Mom? Whatever happens—whatever you hear about Dad—remember that you did everything you could. That survival isn't betrayal. That choosing yourself when he chose sacrifice isn't wrong."
Theo's words. In Luca's mouth. My son had been listening more carefully than I'd realized.
Then he was gone, and I sat in his neat apartment with the single family photo and the understanding that Luca was right.
This was the last quiet day.
Tomorrow, everything would change.