Chapter 2: A Toddler's Broken Heart
The house was silent in that deep, pre-dawn way where even the walls seemed to hold their breath. Only the faint, tinny melody of a lullaby from a porcelain music box on the dresser drifted through the crack in the nursery door. A nightlight shaped like a crescent moon cast long, soft shadows.
Catalina was already awake.
She stood at the window, her forehead pressed against the cool glass, watching the sky bleed from black to a bruised purple. Her shoulders were rigid. The argument from last night—the one that had started with a touch and ended with slammed doors—still vibrated in her jaw. She’d told him it had to stop. The looks. The accidental touches that lingered. The way her entire world narrowed to the space between his hand and hers on the gearshift. She’d told him they were playing with fire, that Mia was getting older, that Brian saw everything. Dom had just stared at her, his expression carved from stone, and said nothing. The silence was worse than shouting.
A small sound broke through the music box’s tune.
Not a cry. A hiccup of breath.
Catalina turned. Mina stood in the doorway of the connected room she shared with Mia, a well-loved brown stuffed bear dangling from one fist by its ear. Her little feet were bare on the wooden floor. Tears had made clean tracks through the sleep-dust on her cheeks.
“Mamá?” Mina’s voice was a wisp of confusion.
Catalina was at her side in three strides, kneeling. She swept her daughter up, inhaling the scent of baby shampoo and sleep-warmed skin. “Mi cielito, what’s wrong? Bad dream?”
Mina shook her head, burying her face in Catalina’s neck. Her small body trembled. “You… you were crying,” she mumbled into Catalina’s skin.
The words were a physical blow. Catalina closed her eyes, holding Mina tighter. She thought she’d been quiet. She’d stuffed her fist in her mouth, bit down on her own knuckles until the salt taste of blood mixed with her tears. But Mina had heard. Of course she had. The connection between their rooms was a hallway, not a wall.
“It’s okay, baby. Mama’s okay,” Catalina whispered, the lie smooth and automatic on her tongue. She rocked side to side. “Just a sad thought. All gone now.”
Mina pulled back, her dark, serious eyes—his eyes—searching Catalina’s face. “Daddy makes sad thoughts go ‘way.”
Catalina’s breath caught. “Yes, he does.”
“Want Daddy.”
The simple, devastating logic of a child. Catalina felt the fissure in her resolve widen. She couldn’t do this alone in the dark anymore. The weight of the secret, of the want, was crushing her ribs. She adjusted Mina on her hip, the toddler’s legs wrapping around her waist. “Okay,” she breathed, the word surrendering to more than just the request. “Okay.”
The hall was dark. Dominic’s door was always open a few inches, a habit from childhood they’d never broken. Catalina pushed it slowly. The room smelled like engine oil, cheap soap, and him. He was a mound under the sheets, one arm thrown over his eyes.
“Dom,” she said, soft but firm.
He was awake instantly. A lifetime of listening for trouble did that. He moved his arm, blinked up at her silhouetted in the doorway with Mina on her hip. In the faint light, his expression shifted from alertness to something raw and unguarded. He saw her puffy eyes, saw Mina clutching her bear.
He sat up, the sheets falling to his waist. “What happened?”
“Bad dream,” Catalina said, her voice barely carrying. She didn’t specify whose.
Dom held out his arms. Without a word, Catalina crossed the room and transferred Mina into them. The little girl instantly molded herself against his broad chest, her tiny hand splaying over his heart. He settled back against the headboard, cradling her, his big hand covering her entire back.
“Hey, little boss,” he murmured into her hair. “You scared the monsters away?”
Mina nodded against him. “Mama’s sad.”
Dominic’s gaze lifted, locking with Catalina’s. The air in the room changed, grew thick and charged. The space between the bed and where she stood felt like a canyon he could cross in a single step. She saw the fight in his eyes, the war between what he should do and what he wanted. The memory of their touch at the dinner table was a live wire between them.
“I’m not sad now,” Catalina said, to Mina, to him, to herself.
She couldn’t leave. Her feet were rooted to the worn carpet. She watched him soothe their daughter, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in her own bones. Mina’s eyes began to droop, her fears soothed by the simple, terrifying truth that her world was right when the three of them were in the same room.
Dominic watched Catalina watching him. The early light was seeping in now, turning the room gray. It outlined the curve of her neck, the fall of her hair over her shoulder. He could see the pulse thrumming in her throat.
“Cat,” he started, his voice rough with sleep and something else.
She shook her head, a tiny, desperate movement. Not here. Not now.
He fell silent, his jaw working. He looked down at Mina, her long lashes fanning over her cheeks, her breath even. His thumb stroked her back in a slow, rhythmless circle.
“Brian asked about the wiring on the Charger today,” he said, suddenly, changing the subject into something safe, mechanical. “Said he had a cousin who worked on classics.”
Catalina leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. A barrier. “He asks a lot of questions.”
“He’s curious.”
“He’s a cop,” she said, the words out before she could filter them.
Dom’s head snapped up. “What?”
“I don’t know. He just… feels like one. The way he watches.” She didn’t say the way he watches us.
Dominic studied her. He trusted her instincts more than he trusted his own sometimes. “You get a vibe?”
“I get a vibe that he’s not just here for the races.” She pushed off the doorframe. “Be careful, Dom.”
“I’m always careful.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes flashed, a surge of the old fire. “No, you’re not. You’re reckless with the things that matter most.”
The accusation hung there, vast and multifaceted. It was about the trucks, the heists, the police. It was about this. About Mina sleeping between them, a product of the one time their careful control had shattered.
He had no defense. He just held their daughter closer, a human shield against the truth.
Mina stirred, a small sigh escaping her lips. “Daddy’s here,” she mumbled, asleep again.
Catalina’s face softened, the anger dissolving into a pain so profound it made Dominic’s chest ache. She walked to the bed, not stopping until her knee pressed against the mattress. She leaned over, brushing the hair from Mina’s forehead, her fingers just barely grazing Dominic’s arm. The contact was electric, deliberate.
“I know,” she whispered, to Mina, to him.
Then she straightened, her expression sealing shut again, a vault locking. “I’ll start breakfast. Bring her out when she wakes up.”
She left before he could respond. The room felt colder. Dominic looked down at Mina, at the perfect, impossible proof of their sin sleeping trustingly against him. Outside, he heard the first bang of a cupboard in the kitchen, the hiss of water in a kettle. The ordinary sounds of morning reclaiming the house.
He touched his own arm where her fingers had been. A ghost of a burn.
Brian was in the kitchen, sipping coffee and looking at a car magazine, when Dominic walked in an hour later, Mina balanced on his hip. The baby was giggling, pulling at Dominic’s ear.
“Morning,” Brian said, his smile easy, but his eyes took a quick, inventory-like scan: Dominic’s tired face, the way Mina clung to him, the fact that Catalina, flipping pancakes at the stove, didn’t turn around.
“Hey,” Dom said, his voice normal. He slid Mina into her high chair, buckling her in.
“You look beat, man. Kid keep you up?” Brian asked, casual.
Dominic met his gaze across the room. He saw the curiosity there, the sharp intelligence masquerading as laid-back charm. He heard Catalina’s words: He feels like a cop.
“Something like that,” Dominic said, his tone offering nothing. He walked over to the counter, pouring himself a coffee. His shoulder brushed Catalina’s as he reached for the sugar. This time, neither of them flinched. They held perfectly still for a half-second, a unified front, before moving apart.
Brian watched the sugar bowl pass from her hand to his, a silent, practiced transfer. He took another sip of his coffee, the taste suddenly bitter. The puzzle pieces were all there on the table—the intense silence, the charged glances, the child with her father’s eyes who looked nothing like a stranger from a one-night stand. He just didn’t know how to put them together yet.
But he would.
The morning chaos bled into a hollow afternoon quiet. Engines growled to life in the driveway, one by one—Dom’s deep-throated charger, Mia’s chattering Civic, even Brian’s sputtering Eclipse. Doors slammed. Goodbyes were shouted into the house. Catalina called out a distracted “Bye!” from the kitchen sink, her hands submerged in sudsy water. The last rumble faded down the street.
Then, there was only silence.
It pressed in from the empty living room, from the hallway where Mina’s toys lay scattered. It was a physical weight on her shoulders. She dried her hands slowly, the dish towel rough against her skin. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was accusatory. She walked to the dining table and ran a finger over the wood grain where his hand had been last night. A phantom heat lingered.
She climbed the stairs, each step heavy. She didn’t go to her room. She pushed open the door to the nursery. The music box was silent. The crescent moon nightlight was unplugged. Sunlight streamed in, cruel and bright, exposing dust motes dancing in the air. She sat on the floor, her back against Mina’s crib, and pulled her knees to her chest.
It was here, in this room they’d painted a soft yellow together, that the memory slammed into her. Not a gentle wave, but a crack. Three years ago. This house was empty then, too. Just the two of them, a bottle of cheap tequila, and a raw, screaming fight about a guy she’d flirted with at a race. It wasn’t about the guy. It was never about anyone else.
Dominic had looked at her with a fury that stripped away every pretense. “You want to play with fire, Cat? Fine.” His voice was low, dangerous. He’d stepped closer, his breath hot on her face. The air between them had sparked. She’d pushed him. He hadn’t moved an inch. He’d just caught her wrist, his grip like iron.
“You don’t get to do that,” he’d growled. “You don’t get to use some stranger to make me feel this.”
“Feel what?” she’d challenged, her heart a wild drum against her ribs.
He didn’t answer with words.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision. It was teeth and desperate hands and twenty years of suppressed want erupting like a fault line. She remembered the taste of salt and tequila, the sound of a picture frame rattling on the wall as he backed her into it. The world had narrowed to the feel of his calloused hands on her skin, under her clothes, claiming what had always been his.
It was here, on this same stretch of carpet where Mina now played with blocks, that they had fallen. It was hurried, frantic, a blur of tangled limbs and broken promises. It was the best and worst thing she’d ever felt. He’d cried after. Silent, wrenching sobs that shook his whole body. She’d held him, whispering promises they both knew they couldn’t keep. They’d sworn it was a mistake. A one-time rupture of pressure.
Nine months later, Mina was born.
A sob ripped from Catalina’s throat now, harsh and ugly in the sunny room. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, but it did nothing. The tears came anyway, hot and relentless, carving paths through her makeup. She cried for the loss of a normal life, for the lie they lived every day, for the terror that someone—Brian, Mia, anyone—would see the truth in Mina’s smile.
The pain was a solid thing in her chest, a black hole sucking everything in. She needed to feel something else. Anything else. The sharp, clean slice of a different kind of pain. It made a twisted, logical sense in the storm of her head. Physical pain was simple. It had a beginning and an end. It would focus this swirling, formless agony into a single point. It would be hers alone.
Her crying hitched into uneven gasps. She unfolded her legs, pushing herself up from the floor. Her body moved on a numb, automatic directive. The hallway stretched. She drifted past her own bedroom door, past Dominic’s, and descended the stairs. The kitchen was too bright. The afternoon sun glared off the stainless steel sink.
She stood before the block of knives on the counter. Her reflection in the oven door was distorted, blurred by tears. Her hand, steady now in a way her heart wasn’t, reached out. Her fingertips brushed the cool, smooth handle of a paring knife. It would be so easy. A quick, sharp release. A secret punishment for a secret sin.
She wrapped her fingers around the handle.
She lifted it. The weight was nothing. The potential was everything. She stared at her own forearm, tracing the blue pathways of veins beneath the skin. Her breath came in shallow, ragged pulls. Just one line. One clean, controlled cut to make the inside hurt match the outside. To make the chaos into order. Her grip tightened, the edge hovering an inch above her skin. A tremor ran through her wrist. The tip of the blade caught the sunlight, a single, blinding point of white.
The blade was cold against the feverish skin of her inner wrist. Her focus narrowed to that single point of pressure. Just a little more. A flick. A confession in red. She imagined the sting, the sharp clarity it would bring, a clean pain to overwrite the muddy one choking her.
Then the front door creaked.
It was a dry, familiar sound, wood sticking on its frame. It froze the blood in her veins. Her head snapped up, eyes wide and staring toward the living room. Who—? Mia had class. Dom and Brian were scouting a warehouse in El Segundo. They’d all left. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a trapped animal.
“Cat? You home?”
Dominic’s voice. It wasn’t a shout. It was a low, carrying rumble, tinged with a concern she heard in its edges. He must have doubled back. Forgotten a tool. His boots sounded heavy and deliberate on the hardwood floor, moving toward the kitchen. Every step was a drumbeat.
Panic, pure and electric, jolted through her.
The knife. The knife was in her hand, held out in the open air of the sunlit kitchen. There was no hiding it. No excuse. Her mind went blank, white noise screaming. She dropped her arm, twisting her body away from the archway, but it was too late. He was already there.
He stood in the doorway, blocking the light. He held a greasy carburetor gasket in one hand. His eyes, sharp and missing nothing, went from her tear-streaked face to the gleaming paring knife held loosely at her side. His expression didn’t change, but the air in the room vanished.
For three seconds, nobody moved. The refrigerator hummed. A faucet dripped.
“What are you doing?” he asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.
“Nothing,” she said, the word brittle as glass. She took a step backward, her hip bumping the counter. “You came back.”
“Obviously.” He didn’t look at the gasket. He didn’t move his gaze from her hand. “Put it down.”
It wasn’t a request. It was an order, the same tone he used when someone was about to do something stupid with a nitrous line. She felt a ridiculous, wild urge to defy him. To press the blade in just to prove she could. To make him see the rot inside her.
Instead, her fingers loosened. The knife clattered onto the laminate countertop, an obscenely loud sound in the stillness. It spun once before coming to rest. She watched it, her entire body trembling now from the adrenaline crash.
He moved then. He placed the gasket down slowly on the kitchen table, never turning his back to her. He approached her like she was a spooked animal, which, she supposed, she was. When he was close enough that she could smell the gasoline and sun on his shirt, he stopped. He looked at her arm, his eyes scanning for marks. He saw only unbroken skin.
His own relief was a physical force that seemed to deflate him by a fraction. He reached out, not for the knife, but for her. His hand wrapped around her empty wrist, his thumb finding her frantic pulse. His touch was warm, solid, and real. It grounded her in a way the cold metal never could have.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice rough.
She forced her eyes up to his. The fear and shame in them must have been plain, because his jaw tightened. He understood. He didn’t need it explained. He saw the destination of the path they were on. He’d probably walked its edges himself.
“This is my fault,” he said, the words gritted out like they hurt him.
She shook her head violently, tears spilling again. “No. It’s not. It’s me. I’m the one who’s—”
“Stop.” He cut her off, his grip on her wrist firm but not painful. “You’re not alone in this.You hear me? You don’t get to do that alone.”
He pulled her toward him then, just a tug. She didn’t resist. She fell against his chest, her forehead thudding softly against his shoulder. His other arm came around her, holding her tight, anchoring her to the solid earth of him. She didn’t sob. She just stood there, shuddering, letting him take her weight.
“I can’t breathe, Dom,” she whispered into his shirt. “I feel like I’m lying to everyone, every second. Even to Mina.”
He rested his chin on top of her head. His breath stirred her hair. “I know.”
“Brian was watching us this morning. I saw it.”
“Let him watch,” Dom murmured, but the tension in his arms betrayed his worry. “We’ll handle it.”
“How?” The question was a plea.
He was silent for a long moment. He just held her. The drip of the faucet marked the passing seconds. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and resigned. “I turned the car around three blocks away. Knew I forgot the damn gasket. But that wasn’t it. I had a feeling. Like something was pulling a wire in my chest.” He took a ragged breath. “I can’t lose you, Cat. Not to that. Never to that.”
It was the most he’d ever admitted. The confession hung between them, more intimate than any touch. They stayed like that until her shaking subsided. He didn’t let go.
Eventually, she nodded, a small movement against him. He released her wrist, his hand sliding down to lace his fingers with hers. He picked up the knife with his other hand. He didn’t say anything. He just walked to a high cabinet, one she’d need a stool to reach, and placed it inside. He closed the door with a soft, final click.
“Come on,” he said, turning back to her. His eyes were softer now, but still grave. “We’re getting out of this house.”
“The crew…”
“The crew can wait an hour. Go wash your face. We’re taking a drive.”
Twenty minutes later, they were on the 10 freeway heading east, the city’s gridded streets giving way to the dun-colored sprawl of the valley. He wasn’t driving the Charger. He’d taken his old pickup, the one with the bench seat. The windows were down. The hot, dry air whipped through the cab, roaring in their ears and making conversation impossible. That was the point.
It was noise to fill the silence. It was a physical sensation to replace the ghost of the blade. Catalina leaned her head against the window frame, closing her eyes against the wind. The speed was a purgative.