“I told you to sit down. You don’t belong in this briefing.”
My father didn’t say it behind closed doors. He said it in front of a room packed with senior officers.
My name is Lucia Neves. I’m thirty-three years old, an Air Force major. Officially, I work logistics. Unofficially—there’s a version of me my own father doesn’t know exists. At MacDill Air Force Base, inside a freezing auditorium that reeked of stale coffee and disinfectant, I sat in the very back row while General Arthur Neves—my father—commanded the room like gravity itself bent for him. Three stars. Perfect posture. A laugh that made everyone else laugh right on cue.
