same eyes, better personality

Five years later.

“I swear, if that couch scratches the floor, I’m putting all of you in a class-action lawsuit.”

Both movers stopped at the same time.

One of them was still holding the end of a cream-colored sofa that had cost an offensive amount of money, while the other looked at me like he was trying to decide whether I was joking. I didn’t help by smiling.

“Ma’am, we’re being careful.”

“Good. I’m also very reasonable before property damage happens.”

From the foyer, Tara let out a small laugh.

Our new house still looked like a furniture catalog had suffered a minor explosion. Boxes filled half the living room, several paintings were leaning against the walls because I hadn’t decided whether I wanted to hang them or sell them to fund therapy after this move, and the dining table had arrived without two of its chairs because apparently New York also struggled with the concept of a complete set.

I stood in the middle of all of it wearing black leggings, a white T-shirt I’d half-tucked into the waistband, my long hair clipped messily on top of my head, and somehow still managed to wear gold hoops because certain standards should never collapse just because your entire life was currently wrapped in bubble wrap.

I’m twenty-seven now.

I have a law degree, a bank account that had finally stopped making Papá offer financial assistance every three months, and a job that paid me enough to spend my Saturdays threatening men who moved sofas.

Progress.

Over the last five years, Washington had taught me how to deal with judges in bad moods, opposing counsel who thought being louder made their arguments better, and rich men who walked into mediation convinced enough zeroes could make consequences lose their address.

The last category was my favorite. Not for personal reasons. Obviously.

I just happened to be very good at divorces involving complicated assets, aggressive prenups, hidden accounts, enormous egos, and husbands who had only recently discovered their wives knew how to read tax returns.

A few major cases later, my name started appearing in legal publications.

Then the media.

Then one magazine called me the woman wealthy husbands don’t want sitting across the table, which Danzel promptly framed and mailed to Mamá’s house.

Dante thought it was hilarious. Danzel considered it proof that I was finally putting my tendency to argue since the age of five to productive use.

They both still called if I didn’t respond to the family group chat for more than six hours.

Apparently being a partner-track divorce attorney did not erase the fact that, in my brothers’ eyes, I was still their little sister who might someday forget how to cross a street properly.

I’m still Maya Klein at the office.

Maya Klein in court.

Maya Klein on my business cards.

The de Castello name stayed where it belonged, on certain passports, certain family accounts, gala invitations I usually ignored, and in Mamá’s mouth whenever she felt the need to remind me that I was “not some poor immigrant who needs to work until midnight.”

Eventually, my family stopped trying to drag me back to Europe. Instead, they learned to come to America while complaining about the coffee. Diplomatic progress.

Moving from Washington to New York, however, had not been my idea. I’d already turned down the transfer once when the firm offered it six months ago.

Then the managing partner waited until my biggest case was over and asked again, this time with a salary adjustment, a corner office, and enough zeroes to make my geographical principles slightly more flexible.

So now I had a house in one of Manhattan’s most private residential enclaves, forty-three unopened boxes, and God’s sense of humor, which apparently still hadn’t recovered from the pregnancy test in Madrid five years ago.

“MAMIIII!”

I closed my eyes.

No.

Tara appeared from the hallway first, wearing the expression of a woman who had already questioned every career choice she’d ever made before breakfast.

Behind her, something small, half-naked, and extremely fast streaked past.

“RAFAEL!”

Too late.

My son tore across the living room wearing nothing but blue dinosaur boxers, no shirt, and a white tablecloth tied around his neck like a cape. His chubby little thighs were moving as fast as biology allowed, his round belly bouncing slightly with every step, while thick black bangs covered nearly his entire forehead.

“SUPERMAN IS HERE!”

One of the movers hurried out of the way while still holding the couch.

“Rafael Klein!”

He looked back while he kept running. And then, his foot caught on a roll of bubble wrap and he nearly went down, but somehow managed to catch himself, throw both arms up, and turn the near-disaster into a superhero pose.

“I’m flying.”

“You almost kissed the floor.”

“That was landing.”

Tara caught up carrying a tiny pair of shorts in one hand and a T-shirt in the other. “El, sweetheart, we need clothes first.”

“Superman doesn’t wear clothes.”

“Superman wears clothes.”

“This is my clothes.” He pointed at the tablecloth around his neck.

“That’s a tablecloth.”

“Now cape.”

I looked at the tablecloth, then at the dining table, which was now completely naked. “Rafael.”

He immediately put on an innocent expression that never worked because his cheeks were too round and his dark eyes held far too much criminal intent. “Mami.”

“Why is the tablecloth around your neck?”

He looked behind himself like he’d only just noticed it. “This?”

“No, the other tablecloth you’re wearing.”

Rafael thought about that for a second. “I’m saving the city.”

“With Spanish linen?”

“The city is danger.”

“I’m the danger now.”

Rafael took one step back.

I pointed at him. “Don’t.”

He took another step back.

“Rafael Alejandro Klein.”

“Mami, I’m busy.” Then he turned and ran.

“OH, YOU LITTLE SHIT.”

“MAYA!” Tara laughed.

“What? He’s not allowed to repeat it.”

“I heard you!” Rafael yelled from the hallway.

“No, you didn’t!”

“I heard little shit!”

I covered my face with both hands.

Four years.

I’d been raising this human for four years, and not one parenting book had been brave enough to address what to do when your child started quoting your profanity with perfect pronunciation.

A few seconds later, Rafael appeared again, this time walking backward because Tara had finally managed to pull a white T-shirt over his head. His head popped through the collar, his hair somehow even messier than before, and he immediately started protesting when Tara tried to pull the linen cape from around his neck.

“NO!”

“EL.”

“I need it.”

“For?”

He looked at me like that was an incredibly stupid question. “To fly to Madrid.”

I fought back a smile. “You know airplanes exist, right?”

“I’m faster.”

“Of course you are.”

“Abuela said I can come anytime.”

“Abuela also gives you chocolate cake for breakfast.”

“Because Abuela loves me.”

That, sadly, was impossible to argue with.

Rafael had grown up with an amount of love that probably required government approval.

Mamá sent packages almost every week. Papá had more pictures of Rafael in his office than he did of all his actual children combined. Dante had once flown the family jet to Washington because Rafael had a fever of thirty-eight degrees Celsius. Danzel bought him a miniature electric Lamborghini for his third birthday, then looked genuinely confused when I threatened to run him over with it.

Even my grandmother, a woman who had once made a Spanish diplomat cry with nothing but a look, had let Rafael draw a mustache on her face while she was asleep.

The kid wasn’t just spoiled. He was surrounded by grown adults who collectively lost all common sense the second he blinked at them sweetly.

Rafael finally let Tara take off the tablecloth after she promised him pancakes, then ran straight toward me and crashed into my thigh with the full force of his tiny body.

My hand automatically went to his head. “Easy.”

“Mami.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m hungry.”

“You ate forty minutes ago.”

“That was before.”

I looked down at him.

And there it was.

It always happened like this.

Beneath the chubby cheeks, the bangs desperately in need of a haircut, the nonstop mouth that had very clearly come from me, and the dramatic expressions that were almost definitely a de Castello contribution, there was a face I’d spent years teaching myself not to study for too long whenever Rafael went quiet.

His nose.

The shape of his brows.

Those blue eyes.

Even the tiny crease between his eyebrows when he was thinking about something he considered serious.

Rafael looked up at me. “Why Mami looking at me like that?”

I brushed his bangs aside.

And for a fraction of a second, the four-year-old standing in front of me disappeared.

All I saw was a twenty-five-year-old man in a black tuxedo, holding a glass of whiskey and telling me that women like me didn’t belong in his family.

I let his bangs fall back into place. “Nothing,” I said.

Rafael immediately smiled.

And damn it, that smile belonged to another man too.