And that gunshot… that was fatal.
But if that was fatal, then I was looking at a fucking ghost.
“There you are,” Milo said, tone light.
Until I turned.
I could feel how wide my eyes were, how tight my jaw was. I knew I looked fucking crazed. I was.
“What?”
“What is this?” My tone came out as a snarl as I gestured back toward the board.
“Whoa,” Mattie said, coming in behind his cousin. “Watch the volume. What’s going on?”
“Where did you get this?” I asked, trying to calm down, to bring some calm to my chaotic body.
“From the police,” Matteo said, holding a hand up, making it clear I was nowhere near as calm as I was aiming for.
“Where didtheyget it from? I thought no cameras caught the fucker.”
“They didn’t. But they used an eyewitness account.”
“What eyewitness? There was no one here but me.”
“Gracie,” Matteo said. His tone was full of exaggerated calm. Like he was trying to soothe a feral dog. “Gracie saw the shooter.”
My fucking blood went cold.
Gracie.
Gracie saw the shooter?
How did I not know that?
Why hadn’t anyone mentioned that?
When had she gone to the station?
Did the club know?
How the fuck didn’t I know?
Maybe if I hadn’t been so busy thinking about undressing her, going down on her, and making out with her, I would have thought to ask.
Maybe I would have found out about this days ago.
“What is it?” Matteo asked.
It was my past.
My supposedly long-dead past.
This had nothing to do with the mafia.
It had nothing to do with the damn club either.
It was me.
