"How do you feel, honey? Do you want a smoothie? I got fresh kale this morning, and I think there's still blueberries left. Oh! Or I could make you a gluten-free banana pancake. You always loved those when you were a kid."

"I'm okay, Mom," Marcus said for the fifteenth time, dropping his bag inside his bedroom. It looked the same as it had the last time he'd stayed there, after he sold his condo, right before he left for Chicago. The quilt his grandpapa had made him when he graduated high school was still draped over the bed.

His mother wrung her hands together, but her smile never faltered. "Of course, you are," she said. "You let me know if you need anything. Did you take your pain pills?"

"Yes, Mom." He bent down to let her kiss his cheek, again, and winced as the position pulled at the stitches in his leg. They were due to come out and getting more uncomfortable by the day. Even though he'd kept the area shaved, the stitches kept pulling on leg hair. He'd complained about it often enough that every morning Brendan sent him a countdown of days till he could remove the stitches.

"Look at me, talking your ear off when you must be exhausted." She bustled over to fluff the pillows on his bed, smoothing imaginary wrinkles on the faded fabric. "I'm making all your favorites for dinner, so you'd better bring your appetite."

Slipping his hand into his pocket, Marcus clenched his hand around his phone until it ached. He'd smelled the barbecue sauce as soon as he walked in the door, and ribs were Steven's favorite, not his. "Sounds great, Mom. Who else is coming?"

"Oh, everyone," she said, shooting him a sharp glance. "They've all been worried sick."

Marcus sighed. "Wonderful." He forced a smile. "I should get some rest, then."

"Right," she said, hovering next to the bed. "Did you want a glass of water? I'll get you a glass of water. I always get dehydrated on long flights."

"I'm fine, Mom. Just tired. Could you wake me up when dinner's ready?" Biting back every curse that wanted to leave his mouth, he limped over and settled down on top of the blanket, his back propped against the dark wood headboard. He'd spent the last two weeks trying and failing to cut back on the four-letter words, too much time with Gio infecting his speech until Kurt was rolling with laughter. "Love you, Mom."

"Love you, too, sweetheart. Have a nice nap." She backed out of the room, her eyes scanning over him worriedly until she had to look away to close the door.

Heaving a relieved breath, he slumped against the headboard. He loved his family, but after two weeks tying up loose ends in Chicago, he was out of patience.

By the time he'd made it back to his condo, the whole thing was wallpapered in crime scene tape. Unable to deal with it, he'd asked Kurt for help, and the stockbroker had arrived within hours.

Whatever he'd done, it had been effective, because the clean up crew had been allowed in within 48 hours, an army of vaguely familiar faces sifting through the broken pieces for anything salvageable. It wasn't until he'd seen one of the men mopping his brow with a scrap of gold cloth that he realized why they were familiar. He'd sent Carlos a gift basket.

Out of everything that had happened, and everything that he'd found out about the company, his resignation from Bainbridge and Parker had to be the most surprising. The first day he was able to walk into the building, resignation in hand, Jacob Bainbridge, Sr met him at the elevators.

Unable to speak, he'd handed the paperwork over to the 85-year-old. He smiled, his real teeth gone blue and translucent with age.

"Pity. Accounting was very impressed with your policy updates when we dug them out of the mess Parker left behind," he'd said, his voice still powerful. "But I can't accept your resignation." When Marcus had just stared at him in surprise, he'd winked. "You've missed a week of work without calling in sick, Stern. We fired you days ago."

And they had. The details of the remarkably generous severance package were delivered to his hotel room later that day, and Marcus laughed himself sick. He'd crawled into the hotel bed and stayed there until Kurt dragged him out for drinks two days later.

"How's your family?" Luke asked when Marcus broke down and called him.

"Mom made all Steven's favorites," he said, letting his head fall back against the headboard with a thunk. "Brendan says I can't have my stitches out till Friday. And all of my brothers and sisters are coming for dinner. Maybe even some aunts and uncles." His eyes popped open in horror. "Fuck, I hope Cousin Charity doesn't show up. She's awful."

"Watch your mouth," Luke said cheerfully.

"Shit." Marcus scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned. "Mom's going to kill me."

"Just remind her that you've still got a bullet wound. Maybe she'll give you a little leeway."

"You don't know her," he said, staring at the ceiling with a grimace. "That will just force her to be creative."

Luke laughed. "Speaking of bullet wounds," he said, getting serious all of a sudden, "any word?"

Marcus sucked in a deep breath, holding it until spots danced in front of him. "No," he said on a rush of air.

"Shit. I'm sorry."

"I thought about calling," Marcus said, smiling sadly at the dingy glow-in-the-dark constellations that were miraculously still intact above the bed. "What would I even say?"

Luke had always been a shy kid, soft voiced and gentle in a way that made him sound older and more mature than the rest of them despite being youngest. It showed in the careful way he asked, "What do you want to say?"

"I love you. I miss you. I don't know if I ever knew you," Marcus said immediately. "Is that bad? I don't even know the guy. Not really. What if it was just a job for him? Everything we did, I can't trust any of it."

The silence was heavy, pressing him down into the soft support of the old blanket. This wasn't the first time he'd been through this argument, but the answer never changed. He didn't want to hear that cold, FBI Agent voice tell him that there was nothing there. It was hard enough to sleep at night with the memory of those cold eyes looking through him.

"You should come visit," Luke said. "Get some sun, hang out at the beach, eat too much. Marcello has been asking about you. They'd love to have you drop into Milano's for dinner."

Marcus smiled, real and slightly painful for all that it faded quickly. "I'd have to roll out of there in a wheelbarrow. I don't understand how you eat there so often; every time I go there, they stuff me so full of lasagna that I can barely walk."

"They're Italian," Luke said cheerfully. "Come visit. Junior would love to have her Uncle Marcus to play with instead of tormenting her brother."

"I'll think about it," Marcus lied. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the offer, but whether it was in Connecticut or California, the smothering feeling of concern would be the same. At least in Connecticut, he could go to the garage and take out his frustrations on one of his cars. "I think I'm going to take a nap before dinner. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Sure. We'll keep the guest room ready, so don't worry about calling. Just let me know if you need to be picked up from the airport."

"Tell Jay that I send my love," Marcus said, disconnecting the call.

He spent the next two hours staring into space and trying to work up the mental energy to deal with his boisterous family.

* * *

"Jim!"

"What?" Looking remarkably innocent for a man with a dozen children, Marcus's dad spread his hands and ducked a swat from his wife. "I'm just saying. It's not like he has anything better to do."

"Stev—Marcus is recovering. Marcus. Sorry, dear," his mom said while Marcus ground his teeth and bit back his first three responses. "He has plenty of money, and he doesn't have to work if he doesn't want to."

"We've been through this, Dad," Marcus said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "I don't want to work at Stern Associates."

"And why the hell not? All your brothers and sisters do it." He crossed his arms and stared across the table at Marcus. "Hell, even Keenan's worked in the mailroom after school since he was a freshman."

All around the enormous table, Marcus's brothers and sisters kept their heads down. This was an old argument, and none of them wanted to rehash it. Even poor Keenan, the only other alpha at the table, was cherry red with embarrassment at being singled out.

Marcus picked at his vegetarian meatloaf with disinterest. This was the tenth family dinner he'd been subjected to in the last month, and even the most dutiful of his siblings were starting to show some strain. Penny had barely touched the mashed cauliflower, and it was her favorite.

"I want to make my own name in the world," he said for the hundredth time. Maybe when he looked up flights to California tonight, he'd actually buy one.

"And you have now," his father said, piling another helping of food onto his plate. He was the only one with an appetite tonight. "Isn't that what those two fancy awards you've got shoved in a box somewhere are for?"

Groaning, Marcus dropped his fork and pressed his palms against his eyes until lights burst behind his eyelids. "Dad..."

He didn't want to talk about the awards again. The second one, smaller and yet somehow even uglier than the first, had arrived a week ago in an unassuming box. He hadn't been expecting it, and by the time he'd realized what it was, it was too late.

"No, honestly. You wanted to make a name for yourself, and you have. All anybody can talk about is the man who brought down not one, but two criminal empires," Dad said, his mouth full of food. "And here we are, struggling to get security certification. So I asked myself why I was jumping through all these hoops when my son is here in my house and is an expert on financial security."

The worst part about the award was the letter. A sincere thank you for all he'd done from the FBI and everyone involved in the operation. An apology for the danger he'd been in. His understanding was appreciated for any misunderstandings or inconveniences caused by the operatives or their cover stories. Three signatures across the bottom. Bold ink, not a reproduction. Giovanni Rizzi.

Marcus pushed his plate away, still mostly full. The vein next to his eye was throbbing, every pulse like a steel spike into his brain.

"Dad," Steven said, diving into the fray with a concerned look.

That was all he got anymore. Concerned looks if he was happy, concerned looks if he was angry, concerned looks if he was quiet. He had the nagging feeling they were sneaking into his room to give him concerned looks while he slept. That could just have been the lingering paranoia from being shot.

"Fine."

Every head at the table swiveled to stare at him as Marcus stood up.

"Fine," he said again. His brain was running around in a panic while his mouth went on its merry way, but he was tired of biting back words. "I'll come sort out your security situation. As a consultant. And you can pay my usual consultant's fees."

Taken aback, his father stared at him. He tapped his fingers on the table, something he only did when he was buying time to think. "Minus room and board," he said finally.

"Jim! Marcus, honey, don't listen to him," Mom said, torn between glaring at her husband and sending beseeching looks his way.

Marcus laughed. "I'll buy a condo and move out. No discounts." He crossed his arms, his jaw set. His whole life had been one attempt after another to avoid working for his dad. If he was going to give in, he was doing it his way. "And I want full authority over the project."

His father's eyes narrowed. "You're offering a satisfaction guarantee, then, of course."

"Of course." Head held high, Marcus waited.

"Jim," his mother hissed urgently. All around the table, her children grimaced; that voice never boded well for anyone.

"Deal," Dad said, getting to his feet. "We can have the contracts drawn up on Monday." He stuck his hand across the table, and Marcus took it.

"Deal," he said, something shifting in his gut. It was the first time he'd really felt on an equal footing with his father, and it felt good. Not good enough to choke down fake meat and listen to his family make small talk, but good. "I guess I'd better go look at some real estate listings."

"Marcus," Mom said, catching at his arm.

He was so startled that she'd gotten his name right on the first try that he paused, looking down at her. He'd gotten most of his looks from her, the same dark eyes staring up at him in silence for a long heartbeat.

"There's a new building on Cosmo Street," she said, swallowing hard. "One of the ladies from the book club has a unit there, and it's very high end. You should look there first." She patted his arm, her fingers lingering.

"I will, Mom," he said gently. "Thanks for the recommendation." He pressed his hand to hers for a moment, then stepped away.

He had his phone out before he hit the stairs. On the bottom step, he paused with a text half finished. Normally when something like this happened, he rushed out to tell his frat brothers, but today he didn't have any way to send it to the one person he wanted to tell. The phone that Gio had used in Chicago was long gone, lost even before he'd disappeared out of the hotel room like a thief in the night.

Letter by letter, he deleted the text, each tap tearing at his chest until he was sure there would be blood. The last two words glared at him, and he couldn't bring himself to erase them. Eventually, he went upstairs and laid down in bed, but it was a long time before he went to sleep, his phone providing a gentle glow until the battery died.

"Dear Gio..."