Whispered Threads

The morning was unusually still.

Gina noticed it first, the way the birdsong paused mid-chirp, the rustle of the leaves eerily rhythmic, like a warning. She sat at the breakfast table watching Davina butter toast with such surgical precision it could rival Houna's data encryption.

Dave was still upstairs, probably scribbling in his journal—one of his therapeutic habits from years on tour.

But it was Davina who surprised her.

"Mom," she said, her voice deliberate, "why did Grandpa Richard look at me like that at the hospital?"

Gina froze, cup halfway to her lips.

Davina didn't look up. Her question came without weight, like she was still calculating whether she should have asked at all.

"What do you mean?" Gina asked carefully.

Davina shrugged. "It wasn't just the way he looked. It was the way everyone looked at each other when I came out of surgery. Like… something changed."

"You're smart, baby," Gina said, setting the cup down. "But you're not supposed to carry the weight of adult secrets."

Davina looked up at her then. There was something in her eyes—curiosity, yes—but also calm. Poise. Houna's touch.

"I already carry them," she whispered. "I just haven't opened the box yet."

Gina's heart cracked a little.

She reached across the table, brushing a loose curl from Davina's cheek. "When it's time, I'll help you open it. Piece by piece."

Davina nodded and returned to her toast.

Meanwhile, halfway across the city, Richard Lansing was looking at a photo.

It was blurry, taken from an old lens by someone paid too little and trusted too much. It showed Gina—years ago—carrying a baby.

The timestamp read eight years ago.

But Richard remembered the way she disappeared a decade prior. Right after the night Dave had broken contract. Right after Marianne…

He stopped the thought.

Too dangerous.

Too much.

He tossed the photo onto his desk, where a half-burnt file already waited. It contained old reports. Dossiers. Dead names.

And one name now circled in red: Houna Michaels.

"Still alive," he muttered. "Still dangerous."

The Don had sent him a message through her. A clear one. You are not invincible.

And now, for the first time in years, Richard Lansing felt like prey.

He picked up the burner phone. Dialed a secure line.

"Activate Ghost Line Three. I want a new shadow on Gina. And trace anyone that's made contact with Houna in the last year."

A pause on the other end.

"Sir, you really think the aunt's pulling strings?"

Richard's voice turned to ice. "I think I've been playing chess with a queen I thought was a pawn. And I want the board flipped."

He hung up.

Then leaned back and looked at the wall—framed with portraits of power, fake smiles, and lineage forged in blood.

And for the first time…

He felt them watching back.

Back at the estate, Dave returned downstairs and wrapped his arms around Gina from behind.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded. "Just wondering when the next piece falls."

He kissed her temple.

Davina, from across the room, watched them quietly.

She smiled to herself.

And whispered under her breath, "Maybe love does rule the world."