“Brooklyn,” I mutter. “Green-Wood Cemetery.”
The driver doesn’t question it; he just flicks the meter on and pulls away from the curb. I let my head fall back against the worn leather seat, watching the city blur past the window. The anger’s still there, simmering low — but beneath it, the ache is still as raw.
And the only person I want to talk to is lying six feet under in Brooklyn.
The cab rattles its way over the bridge, and I feel the weight of the city shift. Manhattan’s glass and steel fade into the cracked brick and weathered storefronts of Brooklyn, old brownstones standing shoulder to shoulder like a lineup of old friends.
We pass Red Hook first — the streets still damp from earlier rain, the old warehouses sagging under their own history. I remember the corner store on Verona Street, the one Nonna used to drag me into after school for penny candy and bread rolls. The same cracked awning still hanging there, barely clinging on. Funny how some things survive even when everything else falls apart.
The cab hooks left, climbing past Carroll Gardens. I catch the blur of the old park through the window, the one where I got my first black eye at eight years old — some older kid had called me a mutt, and I swung at him before I even knew what the word meant. Nonna cleaned me up in the kitchen, cursing in Italian under her breath the whole time, telling me next time to aim for the nose.
Further down, past Smith Street, the storefronts turn into the kind of bars where I used to blow cash long before I knew how to hold on to anything. The same neon signs blink through the rain-spattered glass, only now the faces are different.
Or maybe I’m too drunk to tell.
By the time the cab hits the hill toward Green Wood, the rain starts again — soft at first, then heavier, building into a full-on downpour. The sky’s the color of wet concrete, and the cemetery gates look like the mouth of a beast waiting to swallow me whole.
The cab pulls up to the curb, and I shove a wad of bills into the driver’s hand without waiting for change. My legs don’t quite work right as I climb out, and the rain hits me like I deserve it. Cold. Unforgiving. Soaking through the open collar of my shirt until it clings to my skin.
The place is empty this late. Just me, the rain, and rows of carved stone stretching out like soldiers standing at ease.
I follow the path I know by heart, expensive leather shoes slipping on the wet grass, the rain pooling around them as I move, until I see her name.
Nonna.
The letters glisten under the rain, bright and clean against the worn granite. I drop down beside her stone, leaning my shoulder against it like I used to lean against her kitchen counter when I was a kid, waiting for whatever lecture or leftover was coming my way.
The words are already climbing up my throat, but I don’t say them yet.
I just sit there, letting the rain soak through to the bone.
The wind picks up, cutting me from all angles. I lean my head back on the stone, letting the rain lash my face. The words lodged in my throat, finally having the courage to break free.
“I’m not sure why I doubted you, Nonna. But as usual, you were right.” I knock my head against the cold granite as if trying to beat some sense into myself.
“I found her,” I finally breathe out, my face dropping into my hands. “The one you said you’d send for me. God, I fucking love her.” I can almost feel the sting of Nonna’s hand smacking the back of my head for cursing, and for a second, a ghost of a smile tugs at my mouth.
“Smart, stubborn, a fighter, and so damn beautiful.” The words scrape against the tightness in my throat. I suck in a breath, my chest burning, my soaked clothes clinging to skin gone numb. Whiskey swirls in my blood, dulling the edges, but not enough.
A bitter laugh slips out, dry and humorless. “Of all the damn times to feel it...why did I have to fall in love the moment I knew I had to ruin her?”
The rain hums against the stone like she’s answering me in the only way she can. I sit there a while longer, letting the silence fill the space where her voice used to be. I lean back against the wet stone for what seems like forever, my body so cold I can barely move. I’m not sure if I’m dreaming when a hand pulls me tomy feet and leads me to a waiting car. They guide me into the backseat, the warmth the only sensation that breaks through the numbness.
“Come on, let’s get you home.” Austen’s voice carries over the rev of an engine. Figures. Austen is the only person alive who would know to look here.
My eyes close, and finally, the dark takes over.
Chapter twenty-eight
Chase
Three Months Later
I glance at my watch, impatience bleeding through. I letForbestalk me into a cover feature. They promised it wouldn’t take long — said I’d hardly notice them. I should’ve known better.
The flash of the camera strobes against the glass walls of my office, washing out the view of Manhattan.Forbessent their senior tech correspondent and a photographer, both circling like vultures, working me for the perfect quote, the perfect angle.
If they thought the old Chase Knight was an asshole, they haven’t met this version. A new beast mode unlocked. The Monarch contract gave me the best thing that ever happened to me, and losing her tore out whatever was left of my soul.
