my special skills and got a paycheck at the end of each month. "I'll email you your next job, Remi." The slightest tilt of Killian's lips. "Or should I say, Rogue Angel?" I smiled. "You're not supposed to know my secret identity." "I work security, remember?" "Bye, Bossman." I ended the conversation, closed my laptop, and glanced at the clock. The kids would be home from school soon, and my stomach growled. Mmm, I could use some of Mama's cookies. I walked around my loft space. It wasn't big, but it was mine. It had an industrial vibe, with my bed in one corner, shrouded in sheer curtains.

A small kitchen that I barely used was in another corner, a door leading to my compact bathroom, and an open-plan living area where my desk sat in prime position against the opposite wall. My gaze settled on a photo above the desk. I got a little shiver every time I saw it.

It was of an angel warrior, coming in to land on the battlefield. I had a thing for angels. His huge white wings were spread, sword in hand, boots about to touch the ground. His body was mostly in shadow, but that didn't hide the power of his musculature, or the hint of a rugged face. Wrinkling my nose, I sighed. I wished they made men like that in real life. I walked down the stairs, my boots thumping on the metal steps. The noise assaulted me. There was some tool whirring nearby, and I also grabbed a supply of grease, gas, and exhaust. My loft was above my foster brother's auto shop. At the bottom of the stairs, I turned and saw three cars in various states of disrepair-one parked with the hood open, one hooked up to some machine, and another on a hoist with a mechanic underneath. I recognized Steve's thin frame and baggy, dingy jeans. He was busy, and the guy who worked for him was on vacation, so I guess that was why he was working on a Sunday. I walked out the open front doors. Brr. It was a cold, gloomy day in Brooklyn. I wrapped my arms around myself. I should have grabbed my jacket, but thankfully I wasn't going far. I walked to the house next to the two-story brick house and opened the gate. The metal creaked. The house had a basement apartment, where Steve lived with his four-year-old daughter, Kaylee. I ran up the steps to the main house and opened the door. "Hello!" "We're here," a female voice said

. I found Mama Alma in the kitchen. Of course, where else would she be? Kaylee was on the floor having a tea party with her dolls and bears. "Remi!" The little blonde princess jumped up and ran to me. I picked her up and she wrapped her arms and legs around me. I breathed in her apple-scented shampoo. "Hey, KayKay. Are you being good to Mama?" Kaylee smiled and nodded. Then she squirmed and I set her down on the floor to go back to her tea party guests. Mama smiled and I walked over to kiss her thin, dark cheek. She smelled like home. For the first eight years of my life, I didn't know what that word meant. Then the angels smiled on me and sent an angry little girl to a foster home run by Mama. She had owned this house in Sunset Park, Brooklyn for years. The small warehouse next door was her husband's. Unable to have children of their own, they became foster parents. Big Mike had died a year before I arrived, but Alma had never stopped opening her home. And some of us hadn't really left. I would be twenty-seven on my next birthday, and I hadn't gone very far. Steve had been one of Mama's first foster children. Kaylee was Steve's daughter, but Mama still had three children with her-two boys, ages nine and ten, and a teenage girl. "I'll pour us some tea," Mama said. I sank into the chair at the rickety table. The kitchen hadn't changed in decades.

"I'd rather have a shot of bourbon to celebrate. I just finished a job." Mama made a sound in her throat. "We don't have bourbon in this house." I picked up a cookie from the plate on the table. Mmm. Chocolate chip, my favorite. She set a teacup in front of me. Mama loved collecting the flowery, delicate teacups at outdoor markets. None of them matched. Like my family, Mama always told me. When I finished my cookie, I studied Mama-she looked tired and her face was drawn. I grimaced. Mama always said she was a mix of the best-African-American, a dash of Hispanic, and a bit of hardy Irish stock. I guess that's why I liked her at first sight-I was a mix, too. Mostly Hispanic, though I had no idea who my parents were. I probably had an African-American ancestor somewhere in the tree, too, and a few other things-who knows what-crept in. Mama had beautiful dark brown skin and curly black hair. She was also two inches taller than me. I sighed and sipped my tea. I was curvy and petite, aka short, at five foot-okay, almost five foot. And I had hips, an ass, and breasts. My dark brown hair got a few golden highlights in the summer, especially if I actually managed to get out in the sun. "You okay, Mama?" "Okay, kiddo, okay." - She didn't meet my gaze. My heart sank. She was lying.

Mama never lied. Sometimes she chose not to answer, but she never lied. "Mama?" I pressed my hand into hers. When had she gotten so fragile? She looked away, at Kaylee. That's when I noticed the paperwork on the table. I grabbed it. "Remina, no-" I did the scan. It was a letter from a doctor. I saw the words and my chest tightened. Looking up at the woman who had been my mother, father, friend, and savior, I shook my head. "Brain tumor?" My words were a harsh whisper. Mama pressed her lips together and nodded. No. No. Mama was the glue in our little world. I looked at Kaylee, swallowed hard, and met Mama's dark gaze. "So what's the treatment? Chemo?" My stomach churned at the thought, but whatever we had to do to cure her, we would do. "Yeah-" Mama cleared her throat. "The doctor said chemo won't help." "What?" Panic was slick and ugly in my throat. "So what, then?" "Nothing, my child. Nothing." I stared blankly at the letter and saw what it said. "Six months?" Mama shifted in her chair, her eyes covered with a sheen of tears. "No one can say for sure. The Lord always has a plan." "Screw that." I stood up and saw Kaylee flinch in surprise. "Sorry, Kaylee." I reached for another sheet of paper and Mama tried to grab it. I took a deep breath. "There's an operation." Mama straightened. "It's experimental, Remi. There's no guarantee it would work." A pause. "And it's very expensive." I looked down. When I saw the dollar amount, it felt like my feet had fallen through the floor. I gripped the edge of the table. "Mama-" The front door slammed, followed by the sound of running feet and young voices. "Mama! We're back from the park." Two boys ran in, dropping their backpacks on the floor. Charlie, who had a stocky build, a shock of red hair, and freckles. Jamal followed a step behind. He was thin, dark-skinned, and had a shy smile.

They were both thick as thieves. "Charlie. Jami," Kaylee called. The boys hugged Mama, me, and Kaylee. Naomi fell into step more slowly. At fifteen, she was too old to run and play like the kids, and she was surgically wired to the phone. She did well in school, stayed out of trouble, and loved to cook and bake. "Mama, I'm making cookies," Naomi said. "I already did, kiddo." "I see Remi likes them. We need more." I stuck out my tongue. Naomi was five foot seven-as tall as I'd ever dreamed of being. "I have to run." I hugged Mama, a little tighter than usual. "We'll talk later. Everything will be okay." "I love you, Remi Solano." "I love you, too." - I struggled to keep my shit together and walked back to my loft. I managed to avoid Steve. Dropping into my desk chair, I sat in front of my laptop, staring