I let her hold me up because my legs seem to have forgotten how to do their job. Let her pet my hair and make those soft shushing noises you make to wounded animals. Let myself be the kind of vulnerable I’ve spent years running from.
“I’m sorry,” I manage between hiccupping breaths. “I’m so sorry.”
Piper pulls back just enough to look at me, her green eyes serious. “Don’t you dare apologize,” she says firmly. “That’s what I’m here for.”
She helps me to the bathroom, where she wets a washcloth with warm water and gently cleans the mascara from my face. “There,” she says when she’s done. “Now you only look half-dead instead of fully deceased.”
I laugh weakly, the sound watery and thin. “You always say the sweetest things,” I quip.
“I know,” she deadpans, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Now, let’s get some food in you before you tell me exactly who this man is and what he did to reduce my best friend to floor-crying.”
“How do you know I was on the floor?” I ask, not that it matters.
She frowns at me. “Girl, how drunk were you? You video-called me. And while you had your phone pressed against your ear most of the time, you did occasionally wave it around.”
Guess that tracks, so I just nod, not trusting myself to speak again. Because telling Piper the whole truth means admitting it to myself. Right, here we go. Time to undo some pins.
… After a shower. I should also clean up my apartment first, it would be irresponsible to leave it like this for much longer.
Chapter 28
Matteo
Sunlight filters through the grand hall’s heavy curtains, casting the room in shadows that dance across generations of Russo family secrets hanging on the dark-paneled walls.
I slouch deeper into the leather chair, swirling seventy-year-old whiskey in a crystal glass. Enzo’s surprise arrival has turned this Tuesday morning into an impromptu family gathering, with my cousins scattered around me like a Mafia version of a Norman Rockwell painting.
Except Norman Rockwell never painted killers with perfect suits and blood-soaked hands. At least not to my knowledge.
“To family,” Remus toasts, raising his glass. The crystal catches the light, throwing prisms across the leather furniture.
We drink in unison, the burn of good whiskey before noon feeling like the most normal thing in the world. Blue cigar smoke curls toward the ceiling from Enzo’s and Rafe’s lips, the scent mingling with aged leather and mahogany.
I run my thumb over the worn metal of my lighter, the familiar motion as unconscious as breathing.
“So,” Enzo drawls, leaning back in his chair, “Cleveland’s still standing. I’m almost impressed, Matteo.” His expensive suit looks freshly pressed despite the early hour and unexpected visit. Always the perfect picture of control.
“Fuck off,” I retort with no real heat, reaching for the decanter to refill my glass. “Some of us have to get our hands dirty instead of just scowling at people until they do what we want.”
Rafe snorts, nearly choking on his whiskey. “That’s rich coming from the man who set the Bertelli warehouse on fire because they delivered the wrong shipment.”
“It wasn’t the wrong shipment,” I correct. “It was the right shipment to the wrong people. Besides, they needed the insurance money.”
Enzo’s eyebrow arches as he taps ash from his cigar. “It’s almost strange seeing you without someone on their knees, choking on your cock. Getting soft in your old age?”
“Thirty-two is hardly old age,” I counter, my finger tracing the edge of my eyepatch—a habit I’ve never managed to break. “Besides, variety is overrated.”
“Matteo Russo, advocating monogamy?” Remus whistles low. “Did you replace your glass eye with a heart? Is that why you’re wearing the eyepatch more and more?” He gestures to the fabric covering the empty socket.
My jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath the ink on my neck. “It’s a prosthetic, not glass, you uncultured fuck.”
The banter feels familiar, comfortable—the kind of casual cruelty that passes for affection in our family. But beneath it, something else coils in my chest.
A tension that has nothing to do with my cousins and everything to do with the fact that my phone hasn’t buzzed with Raven’s name nearly enough. Barely at all, if I’m honest.
I pull it out again, checking the screen. Nothing. My last three texts sit unanswered beneath her name. I type another message, thumbs moving before I can stop them.
Me: Starting to think you’re avoiding me, Little Thief.
