“Already handled,” I interrupt, feeling smug. “A Macallan 18 Sherry Oak scotch.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “That’s… actually perfect. How did you know?”
I shrug, not wanting to admit I have that file on her family, which also includes that her parents spent their honeymoon in Scotland. “Lucky guess.”
“You’re nervous about this,” she realizes suddenly, voice filled with wonder. “You, Matteo Russo, terror of Cleveland, are nervous about meeting my parents.”
“I’m not nervous,” I protest, but even I can hear the lie in my voice.
“Oh my God, you totally are.” She’s grinning now, clearly delighted by this revelation. “You’ve faced down rival families, survived explosions, killed men with your bare hands, and you’re afraid of my dad, who wears socks with sandals.”
“I’m not afraid,” I growl, but there’s no heat behind it. “I’m… strategically concerned.”
She laughs so hard she snorts, which only makes her laugh harder. It’s infectious, and despite my best efforts, I chuckle along with her.
“If it helps,” she says once she catches her breath, “I’m pretty sure my dad will love you. You both have the same intense, scary-but-secretly-soft vibe going on.”
“I am not secretly soft,” I protest.
She gives me a pointed look, gesturing to the elaborate setup I created just to fulfill her fantasy. “Right. You’re a terrifying monster who just spent hours painting me with wax and making me come over and over because you remembered something I mentioned wanting to try.”
I can’t argue with that, so I don’t try. Instead, I try to kiss her. But Raven turns her head.
“I just want them to see what I see in you,” she admits quietly, suddenly serious. “The way you take care of me. The way you love me.”
Something in my chest tightens at her words. “They will,” I promise. “And when we get back, I’m keeping you forever.”
She smiles against my neck. “Sounds like a plan.”
I press a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her—sweat and sex and something uniquely Raven. “For always, Little Thief.”
Epilogue 3
Raven
The suburban Philadelphia streets look exactly the same as they did when I left—trim lawns, sensible cars, and an aggressive amount of American flags that would make Uncle Sam himself say, “Dial it back.”
I glance at Matteo beside me, a six-foot-four living weapon dressed in black designer everything, and suddenly realize I’ve brought a shark to a goldfish convention.
“You’re fidgeting,” Matteo observes as we pull into the driveway, his voice low and amused.
“I am not,” I lie, immediately stopping the nervous tap-tap-tap of my fingernails against the cake box on my lap. “I’m just making sure Alina’s masterpiece doesn’t slide around.”
His mouth quirks in that half-smile that still makes my stomach flip. “You’ve been adjusting your eyepatch every thirty seconds since we crossed state lines.”
I roll my eyes, which—fine—he can’t fully see because of said eyepatch, but the sentiment stands. In solidarity, I’m wearing a pink one, while Matteo’s donning his usual black one.
I’m not sure why I’m wearing one. Other than it was an idea I had in Finn’s basement of horrors, and somehow, I decided to follow through with it. But now it feels a bit like we’re auditioning for a hipster pirate crew.
Matteo kills the engine and reaches over to tuck a strand behind my ear. “I’m on my best behavior, remember? No fires, no threatening your brother, and almost no weapons.”
I eye the slight bulge at his hip where I know a gun is hidden. “Almost no weapons.”
“A man has to have standards, Little Thief.” Then he chuckles. “You’re carrying your knife as well, aren’t you?”
Before I can reply, the front door flies open and my mom emerges like she’s been watching through the window for the last hour, which, knowing her, she absolutely has been.
“They’re here,” she calls over her shoulder before practically skipping down the front steps. Mom with her perfectly highlighted blonde hair and tasteful summer dress, looks amazing.
