The upscale Italian restaurant hummed like a beehive on the verge of swarm—soft jazz coiled like snakes, crystal glasses clinking like shivs, conversations worth more than most people's souls priced out in hushed tones. Madison and I occupied a corner table, a defensible position with sightlines carved like murder holes across the dining room. Habit etched into bone since Miami: Always know who's entering. Always know who's bleeding.
Sofia's text had been a thorn in my spinal column since yesterday: "Need to talk, Babe." Three words. From a woman who wove emotional tapestries, that was a scream ripped raw.
Post-airport, her worry had curdled in my gut. Knew exactly what this was—her parents flaying her alive over some golden-boy quarterback again, shoving her toward Jack or whatever blue-blooded sociopath they'd paraded on a leash this week.
