Music spilled out, comically sexual given the tension in the air. It mingled with the sharp, acrid scent of gun smoke and the stress sweat seeping out of all our pores.
One of Matteo’s men rushed inside to flick off the music as another called out to ask if everyone was okay.
Only when it was clear no guest or staff had been hit did the tension start to ease out of all our shoulders.
That is, of course, until the sirens wailed a second before red and blue lights spilled into the parking lot.
Great.
The cops.
CHAPTER THREE
Gracie
I was sitting on a picnic table a few yards from the barn. Someone’s suit jacket—one of Matteo’s men, I was sure—was draped around my shoulders. It was meant to stave off the shivers racking my body. But they weren’t from the cold. It was just the adrenaline flooding my system with nowhere to go.
“I’m not good with makes and models,” I said, glancing up at the detective standing in front of me in his ill-fitting brown (of all colors) suit.
All the partygoers and staff were being questioned by officers. But it looked like Perish, Matteo Grassi, and I were getting the star treatment, each of us being questioned by detectives.
“But if you have, like, a book of them, I’m sure I could narrow it down.” I mentally forced myself to focus on the headlights, the shape of the front, the little details that might distinguish one type of car from another.
“Did you see any faces?”
“I… yes. I mean, just for a split second,” I added, the memory flooding back. It was just a beat before I suddenly found myselfflat on my back, with Perish’s hands cradling my head and his massive body crushing my chest.
The memory had a warm sensation flooding through my chest. Then moving lower, pooling a bit beneath my navel.
“Do you have a description?” the detective asked, his tone a little sharp.
I sucked in a deep breath and mentally tamped down my frustration at his tone.
Sure, I knew who my father was. I knew who my uncles, aunts, and cousins were. But that didn’t mean this guy should be treating me like a criminal. Like, dare I even think it, like I had this coming?
“I, uh, yeah. He was a white guy. He was in the car, so I can’t say his height. But he had an inverted triangle face shape and—”
“An ‘inverted triangle face shape?’” he repeated, dubious.
I didn’t bother to tell him that I’d been really down one winter and had been debating a drastic haircut. That I went down the rabbit hole of which hairstyles worked for each face shape.
It all became a bit of a hyper fixation for a while. Long enough to distract me from my low mood so I never actually did anything dramatic to my hair.
“Yes, a face that is widest here,” I said, making a line across my forehead. “And thins toward the chin.”
“So, a wide forehead,” the detective said.
I bit back the urge to correct him. Because, no, it wasn’t the same thing. You could have a wide forehead with different face shapes. But what good would come from telling someone who had no idea about such things that little detail?
Sometimes my cousins accused me of being too meek. I liked to think I just knew when to choose my battles. There was no use arguing with an NBPD detective. This guy probably alreadymade his mind up about me as soon as he heard my full name and connected me to my father. Then, by extension, to the club.
“Anything else?”
“His nose was crooked like it had been broken sometime. I couldn’t make out his eyes, but they seemed dark.”
“A guy with a wide forehead, bent nose, and dark eyes. Great.” He jotted down a note.
“Clark,” a man said, moving up beside the detective questioning me.
