“Of course not.”
“He probably said he was on his way so you’d leave the house and not witness the state he’d arrive in. While we came to get Nero, he’s probably reassuming his human form,” Drako suggests—and that definitely sounds like something Apollo would do.
Atlas mutters under his breath, and I turn my face toward the window, complaining too. Drako laughs in the back seat and raises his phone in front of his face.
“I’ll text him,” he says, but minutes pass without another word, forcing me to ask.
“What did he say?”
His answer is an infuriatingly mysterious smile.
“I suggest we swing by to pick him up.”
I let out another string of muttered complaints.
Atlas pulls up in front of his own house, where Apollo is already waiting, his hair still damp, a grin on his face, and the association uniform on his body.
He opens the back door and climbs in, sitting beside Drako, who bursts out laughing after hearing a whisper too quiet to reach the front of the vehicle. I look at Atlas, and he shakes his head in refusal. Still, I ask.
“Do we want to know?”
Apollo flashes the most shameless smile in the world before shaking his head and answering,
“What happens on the night of Khione stays on the night of Khione.”
CHAPTER 3
NINA MARCHESI
The sound of the beaded curtain that separate the checkout area from the shop’s storage clacking against each other makes me turn around. I find my mother hugging a truly enormous basket overflowing with cookies inside Christmas ornament balls.
Rosa’s face is a mix of satisfaction and anxiety. She’s running late.
“I’m so late!” she whines the moment the thought finishes forming in my mind. I laugh.
“It’ll be fine, Mom. Isn’t it always?” I ask, moving closer to the counter.
“I still haven’t done today’s inventory, I haven’t prepped Christmas lunch for tomorrow, I haven’t made the floral arrangements and wreaths for the house, and on top of that, it’s almost four in the afternoon and I still need to take these cookies to the association,” she rattles off quickly, loudly, and far toodesperately, letting her Italian blood speak louder—as it so often does.
Although my mother left Italy when I was still very young, shortly after we lost my father, Italy never left her. Rosa is a hot-blooded Italian in every inch of her being, and sometimes it’s hilarious to watch her interact with the Greeks—even though by now she should have practically become one herself. I certainly have.
“Why don’t they send someone to pick them up? Don’t they have a car?” I shake my head in denial the second the words leave my mouth. God, Nina, how stupid. “I mean—of course they have a car! They could come get them. I’m sure if you call—”
“No, no, no!” she refuses my solution before I even finish speaking, cutting me off. “Every yearIdeliver the cookies. Every year! I’m not going to fail for the first time!” she declares, firm—and I almost roll my eyes. Almost.
“Momma, it’s not failing. You’re being dramatic—as always. It’s not like you didn’t make the cookies, or that you’re delivering a burnt batch. It’s just the delivery. Anyone can do that,” I point out the obvious, and she narrows her eyes, considering my words for a few seconds before being convinced. She lets out a long breath and nods.
“You’re right. It’s just the delivery. Anyone can do it.” I’m in the middle of a calming—and slightly victorious—smile when her next words crush it mercilessly. “You can take them.”
She says it while already pushing the massive basket she’d set on the counter in my direction. I raise my hands and shake themas vigorously as my head, refusing with gestures when words fail me.
“W-what? N-no! Not me!” Oh God, no. I donotwant to go to the association.
“You said it yourself, Nina. It doesn’t have to be me.”
“That’s not what I said, Mom! I said it could beanyone.”
“And you’re wrong about that, but you’re right about it not needing to be me.”
