The past fourteen days had been a beautiful, fragile lie.
In the seclusion of the Marin Headlands, the war had begun to feel like a fever dream I had finally woken up from. There were no midnight alarms, no scent of gunpowder, and no shadows lurking in the corners of my vision. For the first time in eight years, life felt... normal.
We had spent the morning at a secluded cove, a stretch of white sand tucked beneath the towering cliffs. It was the kind of family outing I used to dream about during those lonely, grey winters in Chicago. Asher was lounging on a towel, his shirt off, letting the sea breeze hit the fading bruises on his ribs. He looked younger, the permanent tension in his jaw finally relaxing into the rhythm of the waves.
Marcus was nearby in a rare moment of ease, and Nanny B was busy organizing a picnic of fresh fruit and artisanal sandwiches. It was a quiet, peaceful scene that felt light-years away from the "Godfather" life.
