That makes my pulse stutter.
Because as much as I’ve built Matteo up as a monster in my mind, I know damn well that the blood spilled that nightwasn’t one-sided. The Rossis lost people, too. It was Conall who kidnapped the girl anyway, and she nearly died. It was war.
A war I never asked for, but one I’m now expected to finish. Like a good soldier.
Sean pulls into a narrow brick alley then into a private garage, the iron gate clanging shut behind us. The building above is sleek and quiet, tucked away on a block of brownstones and boutique cafés.
“Top floor’s yours,” he says, leading me up a narrow stairwell. “I’m on the floor just below you. You’ll be safe here.”
He unlocks the door and steps aside. The apartment is minimalist and modern, all steel, slate and shadows. Clean. Quiet. Cold.
I like it. It’s the complete opposite of my warm, cozy and colorful apartment in Sicily that summer.
“Anything you need, you call me.” He hands me the burner phone. “And when you’re ready to hit the Vault…”
“I’ll let you know.” Lie. I work solo. I have no intention of taking Sean with me when I make my move. But lying to men like him is what keeps me alive.
He lingers in the doorway, gaze raking over me like he’s trying to crack a mystery. “Just don’t fall for the guy.”
My eyes snap to his. “What did you say?”
He shrugs. “Nothing. Just don’t get too close. He’s not on Manhattan’s most eligible bachelor list for nothing. Those Rossi boys have a way of making even trained killers hesitate. They’re all charming words and quick grins.”
I force a smile. “Trust me, it won’t be a problem. I won’t hesitate.”
He nods once and disappears. And when the door shuts behind him, I finally let myself breathe. Because he’s right. One mistake is all it takes.
And I’ll never let Matteo Rossi be mine again.
CHAPTER 4
GLITTER BOMB EXPLOSION
Matteo
Present Day
Isabella’s apartment looks like the aftermath of a glitter bomb explosion. There’s ribbon strewn across the dining room table, stacks of wedding magazines teetering precariously on the counter, and a half-empty bottle of prosecco sweating into a coaster shaped like a diamond ring.
Alessia is perched on the sofa with her laptop, rattling off color palettes like she’s running a hostile takeover for Gemini Corp instead of helping plan a wedding, while Serena and Rory argue about flowers with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for blood feuds.
And Antonio, the poorbastardo, just sits there on the armchair, letting his fiancée steamroll over him. He’s sipping whiskey with the quiet resignation of a man who knows he’ll be outvoted no matter what. Once the terror of Rome, who kidnapped Serena for vengeance, he’s been reduced to nodding over flower arrangements. If his father could see Antonio now, he’d be begging for that bullet to the head.
Raf, his brother, of course is egging it all on, whispering suggestions into Isabella’s ear that have her rolling her eyes so hard I’m surprised she hasn’t sprained them yet. It's only a matter of time for those two. Before long, all the notorious cousin crew will be married off.
I lean back against the kitchen island, swirling the amber in my glass, watching it all unfold like it’s my own private comedy show.
“Matty, for the love of God, tell her orange roses are tacky,” Serena demands, pointing at Rory with a flourish of her manicured hand.
Rory, barefoot and flushed from laughter, fires back, “They’re autumnal. The wedding’s in…”
“May!” Serena barks. “Not the fall. Don’t they have seasons in Belfast? It makes sense if you’re marrying a pumpkin, not a Ferrara.”
Antonio raises his glass, his accent thicker after a few drinks. “I’d marry a pumpkin if it meant you’d stop yelling at me about napkin folds.”
The room erupts in laughter, even Alessia cracking a grin behind her screen.
This is what it means to be in the cousin crew. Loud. Opinionated. Overbearing as hell. But tight. Always tight.
