Rosa turned seven, and everything changed.
Not gradually. Not subtly. But dramatically, overnight, as if someone had flipped a switch.
She started asking questions. Real questions. Hard questions.
"Mama, why do we have so many guards?"
"For safety, baby."
"But why do we need safety? Are we in danger?"
"Sometimes. But that's why we have the guards."
"Are other kids in danger?"
"Some kids, yes."
"Why?"
The why questions were endless. Why did Papa have so many meetings? Why did people call him "don"? Why did Uncle Marcus always carry a gun? Why couldn't they talk about Papa's work at school?
She was smart. Too smart. She'd figured out that our family wasn't normal, and now she wanted answers.
"We need to tell her," I said to Dante one night after putting both kids to bed. "She's old enough. She's going to figure it out on her own if we don't explain it properly."
"She's seven."
"I know. But she's our seven. She's different. She can handle it."
"And Tony?"
