He narrows his eyes, then goes back to eating like nothing happened.
Meanwhile, the moment is on replay in my brain, hijacking any rational thoughts I had. My mood is taking a nosedive. I push a piece of now over-salted chicken around my plate, my appetite gone as I listen to the banter around the table.
I should be grateful to be let into their circle, to be included in this mishmash of family. But it’s just making me feel lonelier. I dig my nails into my palm as Rona’s face swims in front of me, trying to erase the emotional pain of our separation with a physical one.
Stop.
I lift my wineglass to wash down the lump in my throat.
Gunnar suddenly scrapes his chair back with a yelp.
The table goes silent.
He reaches down, then straightens with an orange ball of fur clutched in his fingers. “Little fucker climbed my leg like a tree.”
“If the shoe fits.” Rocco laughs.
Gunnar shoots him a glare as the table chuckles. He runs a giant palm over the kitten, smoothing its fur, then gently sets it back on the ground.
“That’s Peaches,” Lennon says, fighting a smile. “She’s in her villain era.”
Gunnar quirks a brow at Sandro as he chuckles. “Lennon,” he says, still staring at Sandro, pale blue eyes shining with mischief. “Did we ever tell you how your big scary husband used to sneak off to shelters to cuddle cats?”
“Gunnar,” Sandro growls a warning.
Lennon’s fork pauses at her mouth, her eyes lighting up. “You did not.”
“Said it made him feel closer to you,” Rocco snitches around a mouthful of food.
“Christ,” Sandro breathes. “I’m still your boss. Airing my shit is still punishable by death.”
They high-five, with deep rumbles of amusement.
Sandro glances across the table at Mac, shaking his head and changing the subject. “Rocco caught me up on where we are with the investigation into your shooting. He tells me you weren’t the target.”
My eyes fly open.What?My breath catches in my lungs, and I begin to choke on a mouthful of water. Grabbing the cloth napkin, I hold it over my mouth, wheezing as I excuse myself from the table.
Once I’m locked in the guest bathroom, I cough until my lungs are sore but clear. My eyes lift to my reflection in the mirror. My face is red and blotchy, my mascara running. I really need to find a waterproof brand. But it’s the terror in my eyes that's most prominent.
Mac wasn’t the target? Could Michael have found me? Could I have been the target? Why would he try to kill me though? That’s not his style. He would wait until I led him to Rona and take both of us back. To make our lives a living hell again. To torture me and feed off my pain like a goddamn vampire.Thatwas his style.
As part of me tries to rationalize the possibility away, the other part of me… the intuitive part, still chews on the possibly Michael has found me.
I pull a wad of toilet paper off the roll and try to clean up my face with a shaking hand. It was a mafia wedding. Surely there were plenty of other targets there. Right?
I press a palm against my stomach, trying to settle the unease. All I can do is hope Sandro finds out soon who the real target was. If it was me, it’s time to run.
Dinner and conversation lasts another hour. The sun has long sunk past the horizon when people start to disperse.
I choke down a few bites of chocolate mousse and finish my glass of wine for liquid courage. It’s time to ask Killian to let me try out.
As everyone carries plates and leftovers back to the kitchen, I help an exhausted Mac back to his room. Killian tags along. In the claustrophobic elevator space, Killian’s spicy, sandalwood scent and intoxicating presence is overwhelming. I’m way too aware of my own pulse, my breathing is shallow, and I’m feeling lightheaded.
Mac is talking, but I can only focus on his son’s hands, clutched together in front of him, the tattoos, the prominent veins, the silver rings, and the scabbed-over knuckles. Violence. That’s all these men know. That’s why I have to get Rona far away from this world.
A stab of guilt hits me as I think about Sandro and Lennon. As violent as Sandro is, he’d never let anything happen to Lennon. Not without retribution. Her safety is his priority. In a world of monsters, I suppose it’s good to have your own guardian monster.
I snort at that.
