The Cody house had always smelled like saltwater and bleach.

Even as a kid, standing barefoot in Smurf’s kitchen with sticky popsicle fingers and sand clinging to your ankles, you remembered that smell. Clean. Sharp. Wrong. Like someone trying to scrub blood from tile before it dried too dark.

You grew up beside the Codys in every way that mattered. Smurf liked to joke you were her “stray cat,” always appearing on the porch at odd hours, always landing on your feet no matter how hard life kicked you. You learned young that survival meant becoming meaner than whatever wanted to swallow you whole. Smurf taught you that personally.

But unlike her, you never enjoyed it.

You watched her carve pieces out of her boys one by one. Craig learned recklessness. Deran learned anger. Baz learned manipulation. Julia learned self-destruction until it killed her.

And Pope?

Pope learned fear.

Not the obvious kind. Not fear of guns or prison or death. Andrew Cody was built for violence the same way sharks were built for water. No—Smurf taught him to fear himself. Every twitch of emotion. Every ugly thought. Every moment he lost control. She hollowed him out until all that remained was a man constantly trying to organize the chaos inside his own skull.

Back then, Pope used to follow you around silently as kids, looming at your shoulder while you patched up stray cats or stole snacks from gas stations. Smurf’s boys were hurricanes, but Pope had always been something worse: still water hiding depth no one could measure.

When Smurf dies, the entire empire starts rotting almost immediately.

Not all at once. Slowly.

Like termites beneath floorboards.

The jobs get sloppy. Craig disappears for days. Deran starts fights with people he shouldn’t. J stalks through the house like a prince waiting for his inheritance while pretending he doesn’t care about the throne. Pope tries to hold things together, but organization without leadership is just panic wearing a uniform.

Then you come back.

The first thing Pope does when he sees you standing in the driveway is freeze.

Years disappear from his face all at once. For a second he looks younger. Softer. Then the walls slam back into place.

“You heard,” he says quietly.

You nod.

That night, they sit around the kitchen table arguing while the fan creaks overhead. Smurf’s absence hangs over the room like cigarette smoke no one can air out.

“We don’t need another Smurf,” Deran snaps.

Craig agrees immediately.

Even J, cold-eyed and unreadable, leans back in his chair with suspicion crawling beneath his skin.

You say nothing at first. Because you already know what they don’t…empires don’t survive without someone cruel enough to run them.

You leave before sunrise.

Three weeks later, Pope shows up at your apartment alone.

There’s blood on his knuckles. He looks exhausted in that deep, permanent way only Pope can manage, like sleep itself rejects him.

“We can’t do it,” he admits.

The words sound painful coming out of him.

From then on, everything changes. The streets start calling you Kitty. Cute name. Soft.

Until people realize cats kill for fun.

Under your control, jobs become cleaner than they ever were under Smurf. You pay the boys fairly. You protect them when necessary. You terrify people when necessary. Oceanside begins whispering your name with equal parts fear and fascination.

Because unlike Smurf, your loyalty isn’t transactional.

Especially when it comes to Pope.

You notice the small things no one else bothers to. The way his hands shake after violence. The rituals. The silence. The way he stands near you during family meetings like your presence steadies something fractured inside him.

And maybe it does.

Then one night J corners you in the kitchen.

The house is dark except for the stove light glowing gold across marble countertops. Everyone else is asleep.

You look up slowly from your whiskey glass.

J thinks he’s dangerous because he’s smart. Smurf thought the same thing once.

“You’re not blood,” he says flatly. “So explain to me why you should run this family.”