“Thank you for bringing her,” she says, quieter. I feel a second, heavier message in her eyes, one that confirms what I already believed: Marianna’s need to be here was about more than just the new baby. “I’m sure you’ve noticed our Mary is. . .a sensitive soul.”
Sensitiveisn’t a word that I’d guess anyone other than her family has ever dared use in talking about Marianna Morelli. I understand it, though. Christmas Eve, I saw it as she fought to regain control of her emotions in the alley behind my club, and again last night when she got the call.
“She’s always been nervous—superstitious, even—but after our dad died,” Vanessa trails off as she looks back at the sky beyond the window. She drops her voice to just above a whisper. “Be patient with her.”
“I will.”
“I know,” Vanessa resets her posture and smiles, a habit I’ve seen from all the Morelli sisters. Recentering and putting back on the masks they think they ought to have. “I’m not stupid enough to think that I can control my sister’s decisions, but I wouldn’t have let you near her if I thought otherwise.”
Vanessa’s faith in me feels unfounded, and she’d probably be less confident if she knew how deranged I feel when it comes to the youngest Morelli sister, but I appreciate the gesture all the same.
“Now come meet your new niece.”
We stayat the hospital for a couple of hours before Marianna offers to spend the rest of the day with the older kids at Vanessa’s house. She says goodbye to the new baby, whosename, we learned, is Clara, and Marianna squeezes Willa’s hands for a long second before leaving the room.
I follow her around like a dog—my schedule is cleared for the next two days after all—but when we get to her sister’s house, my phone rings with an incoming call from Sasha.
“Miss the beach yet?” he asks.
I don’t tell him that we didn’t even get to see the beach in our few hours in Mexico. He knows.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Colton Tenneson called. Said he heard about your restaurant getting shot up and offered to buy the building before you take on repairs.”
My eyes narrow at the memory; Marianna saving us by observation and intuition alone, the stomach churning fear I felt imagining another bullet slicing through her body. The scar on her shoulder is a reminder that she was lucky last year.
Renovations on the restaurant are already underway with Morelli Construction, set to be completed in the next couple of weeks. The hotel has lost a good amount of money from the incident, but not enough that I’d be willing to part ways with it.
“On my honeymoon? He’s relentless.”
“He thought marriage might make you more agreeable. Opportunistic son of a bitch,” Alexei mutters.
“He was wrong. Did he tell you I saw him in Mexico?”
“I’ll be damned, he did not.” Alexei whistles. “He still wants to talk about the place by the water. Brought it up after I said you probably weren’t interested.”
“Absolutely not.”
I’d excused myself to take this call, but I can hear Marianna’s animated voice as she plays a game on the TV with her niece and nephew. They adore her plainly and completely.
“What’s his deal with that place anyway?” Alexei asks. “How many times can you say no before he gets it?”
Colton Tenneson has been asking after that property for two years now; it’s an abandoned textile factory that’s more of an eye sore than a prime investment. As friendly as he may seem, he resents my footprint in this city. Resents that I won’t work with him more.
I have no clue what he wants with the factory—perhaps he wants to gentrify another neighborhood—but I’m sentimental about the place. My dad used to use it as storage, and it’s there where he ultimately met his demise. I don’t wish to part with it.
“Tell him we’re reconsidering parts of our portfolio this summer and can get back to him then.” It’s not completely a lie, though I know I will never sell to him. The man isn’t involved in organized crime, but he might as well be a criminal, slimy as he is. I’ve never liked him, though that may have more to do with the fact that my father loved him, and as a rule, I usually hate the things my father loved.
“Done. So, how was it, newlywed?” Sasha asks.
“What?” My mind goes first to the sex, and I won’t speak of it with him, but my mind supplies that if that’s what he wants to know, then the answer is that it destroyed me—I am an inhuman version of myself, remade into something much weaker and more feral because of it.
“Your first night married to the shadow. Does she snore? Does she even sleep?”
“She sleeps.” Marianna sleeps hard, sprawled on her stomach, curly hair fanned around her head. “I think you’ll like her.”
“I already do. You seen her fight?”
