“You were very,” Tiernan says thoughtfully, “not an asshole.”
“I practiced,” I say.
He grins sideways. “She’ll say yes.”
“She’ll say whatever she wants.” I touch the box in my pocket. “But she’s mine, and even if she argues, she knows it.”
He nods, satisfied in a way that means he expected me to be dumber than I was. We stop at the curb, where the driver pulls up, and doors open like patient mouths.
“Tomorrow,” Rafferty says, joining us, coat collar turned against night. “You need to be on your game. This is going to be a long fuckin’ week and it starts tomorrow with the lawyers.”
I watch a pair of students hurry by, heads ducked, laughter leaking out. Life keeps happening around men who make rooms into rules. It’s sloppy and loud and honest. I make a fist and let it go.
“Tomorrow is for contracts,” I tell Tiernan. “And the first small war—who wins what and claims the most in the end.”
“You bringing a gun?” he asks, unable to help himself.
I think of the ring. Of the black writing on the inside that only those who understand the language can read.
“I’m bringing a pen,” I say, “and the part of me Blackvine didn’t kill.”
9
CATERINA
Cayce:Confessional wrecked me. The way you said yes—you’re mine, little saint. I’m not done with you.
Me:Stop texting me in libraries. Some of us are trying to pass classes.
I wake to knocking.Distant, somehow sounding like a bad idea.
My eyes feel like I slept with my mascara on, which I didn’t, and my mouth tastes like I gorged on communion wafers and forgot the wine after. The dorm is a rectangle of thin morning light; Prudence is a lump of blanket with hair at one end and mutiny at the other.
The knocking keeps a steady rhythm—not a student. Not security. Not the RA who knocks like she’s apologizing for existing.
Pru groans into her pillow. “If that’s Jesus, tell him to come back after coffee. If it’s the campus cop, tell him I already confessed. If it’s your Irish mistake, tell him to…” She trails off into a rude hand gesture.
“It’s eight,” I say, squinting at my phone. “Normal people are alive at eight in the morning.”
“You’re not normal,” she says, voice muffled. “You’re a saint. Saints should hibernate until the world needs their pure intentions. You know, save your energy and all that shit.”
“I don’t hibernate.” I kick free of my blanket, tug last night’s oversized T-shirt down, and shuffle for the door with the dignity of someone who can’t locate her dignity.
I look through the peephole out of habit. The woman in the hallway wears a black wool coat and a smile that could make a dentist thrill. She’s holding a leather folio and a cardboard cup carrier. Her bright red hair is that slightly-wavy kind you only get when you were born under rain, and her pale skin is covered with freckles. She lifts her chin toward the peephole like she can see the shape of my eye behind it and knocks once more, brisk.
I open the door two inches on the chain. The hallway smells like peppermint hand soap and someone’s stale ramen. The woman looks from the gap to me and her smile gets brighter.
“Caterina Moretti?” she says, and the vowels do that soft Irish thing—like the names were made to be said aloud. “I’m Aoife Shannon. I brought caffeine.” She lifts the drinks.
Pru sits up like a prairie dog. “Caffeine? Who’re you? What angel blessed us with your presence?”
“I’m the wedding planner,” Aoife says. “The best in Boston if you ask my mother; pretty tolerable if you ask anyone else. May I come in, Saint Caterina? Or would you rather I deliver the briefing from the hall so your neighbors can live vicariously?”
My name sounds different in her mouth. Not weaponized. Not a prayer. A fact, and a fond one. The word “wedding” hits the back of my throat and sits there.
“You have the wrong…” I begin, then stop, because we both know she doesn’t.
She glances at the chain. “I know you don’t know me,” she says. “But I’m your cousin. To be, anyway. Twice removed, but no one cares about that. Your man called me at six. He asked—and by asked I mean told me nicely—to expedite everything and make sure that you have whatever you want for your ‘dream wedding’ that he tells me you didn’t dream of. We’re working on a seven-day timeline.”
