Why does Julian keep being so nice to me? Ever since our return, I’ve been waiting for him to punish me, to do something to express the anger he must feel, but so far, he’s done nothing. If anything, he’s been unusually tender with me, even more caring in some ways than during my pregnancy. It’s subtle, this shift in his behavior—a few extra kisses and touches during the day, full-body massages every evening, asking Ana to make more of my favorite foods… It’s nothing he hasn’t done before; it’s just that the frequency of these little gestures has gone up since we came back from America.

Since we lost our child.

My eyes prickle with sudden tears, and I duck my head to hide them as I slip past Julian into the gym. I don’t want him to see me crying again. He’s had plenty of that in the past couple of weeks. That’s probably why he’s holding off on punishing me: he thinks I’m not strong enough to take it, afraid I’ll turn back into the panic-attack-stricken wreck I was after Tajikistan.

Except I won’t. I know that now. Something about this time is different.

Something within me is different.

Walking over to the mats, I bend over and stretch, using the time to compose myself. When I turn back to face Julian, my face shows nothing of the grief that ambushes me at random moments.

“I’m ready,” I say, positioning myself on the mat. “Let’s do this.”

And for the next hour, as Julian trains me how to take down a two-hundred-pound man in seven seconds, I succeed in pushing all thoughts of loss and guilt out of my mind.

After the training session, I return to the house to shower and then go down to the pool to tell my parents the news. My muscles are tired, but I’m humming with endorphins from the hard workout.

“So we can return?” My dad sits up in his lounge chair, distrust warring with relief on his face. “What about all those cops? And those gangsters’ connections?”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Tony,” my mom says before I can answer. “Julian wouldn’t send us back if it weren’t all taken care of.”

Dressed in a yellow one-piece swimsuit, she looks tan and rested, as though she’s spent the past couple of weeks on a resort—which, in a way, is not that far from the truth. Julian has gone out of his way to ensure my parents’ comfort and make them feel like they’re truly on vacation. Books, movies, delicious food, even fruity drinks by the pool—it’s all been provided for them, causing my dad to admit reluctantly that my life at an arms dealer’s compound is not as horrible as he’d imagined.

“That’s right, he wouldn’t,” I confirm, sitting down on a lounge chair next to my mom’s. “Julian says you’re free to leave whenever you want. He can have the plane ready for you tomorrow—though, obviously, we’d love it if you stayed longer.”