She tilted her head. “I think you’re a lot of things, Marco, but I don’t think you’re heartless.”
“I do my job,” I muttered. “The fallout never matters.”
She thought I felt bad about Cillian, but I didn’t.
What I felt was responsible for his widow.
I turned my attention back to the bar, but she wasn’t done yet.
“No one liked the guy anyway,” she said slowly. “Cillian. Not Max. Not my father. Not Sean. Rita. No one. He was reckless. And Valentina?” She lifted her glass to her lips. “She was an alcoholic before her husband died. People just like to pretend it started after.”
That earned her a glance.
She caught it, smiling slightly. “What? You know it’s true.”
“Sounds like you’ve put a lot of thought into this,” I said.
She shrugged. “I just pay attention. You should too. If I can notice, I wonder who else can.”
She didn’t bother saying anything else before leaving to go find Max.
The second Rosalie disappeared from my view, I immediately started searching. It was almost embarrassing how quickly my eyes scanned the crowded room, past men I was obligated to greet and women I didn’t have the patience for, just to find Valentina.
She was standing near the edge of the party wearing a black dress that hugged her just right, her hair a couple inches shorter than before, lips curved in amusement at something someone was saying.
It wasn’t anything special—the dress or the new haircut—but something about the way she wore it made it hard to look away.Maybe it was because I knew exactly what she was trying to do. Or maybe it was because she wasn’t even being subtle about it.
She liked attention, and she was certainly getting some from the man standing only a foot away from her. I recognized him vaguely. Mid-level exec type with a ring on his finger. He had a wife at home waiting up for him, oblivious. But then maybe that was the draw. Valentina always did have a way of making men forget their obligations.
She laughed softly, as if whatever he was saying was actually interesting. I doubted it was. Men like him weren’t interesting—they just knew how to flash a credit card and say exactly what women like her wanted to hear. And she was eating it up, leaning closer, letting him feel important.
She lifted her glass to her lips again, just enough to make it look like she was drinking without actually finishing it.
The glass was full enough to look like water, but the small sip she took made me think it was something else entirely.
She wanted people to think she was behaving. Wanted Max to see the glass and think she was playing nice. But I knew better. Even if Max was fooled—and that was doubtful—I wasn’t. The way her eyes glanced around the room gave her away.
I should’ve left it at that. I should’ve finished my water, made a round of forced conversation, and disappeared for the night. Instead I found myself watching her more closely than I’d ever admit.
After an hour, I finally pushed off the bar and started toward her before I could think twice about it. I wasn’t sure what I intended to say. Wasn’t sure why I even wanted to say anything at all. But I was moving, and stopping would’ve looked stranger than continuing. I didn’t want her to think I was watching her. I had no business doing so.
She saw me before I reached her. She smirked. “I was waiting for you to show up.”
“And here I thought you preferred it when I wasn’t around.”
“I do. But it’s like when a headache suddenly goes away—you don’t notice the relief until it comes back.”
My lip twitched.
I glanced at the man she’d just walked away from—a poor excuse for company, but then again, her taste in men had never been her strong suit.
I ignored her comment and looked at the drink she was holding. “That your first?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you make piss-poor decisions.”
“You and everyone else.”
