But I can tell he wants to. My cousin is typically, stoic and broody, but today he looks like he’s about to burst at the seams with excitement.
“Just tell me, asshole. You owe me.” I point at my desk, my lip curling in disgust. “And don’t even try to leave before you disinfect my entire office.”
A rueful chuckle parts his lips. Then he finally whispers, “Rory’s pregnant.”
My smirk falters. The words slam into me like a sucker punch.
Pregnant.
It shouldn’t gut me. It shouldn’t make my chest ache or my stomach twist. But all I can think about is Cat. Her laughter in the dark. Her lips whispering my name. The promises we made and the future I walked away from like an absolutecoglione. The baby we never had.
I swallow hard and force a crooked smile onto my face. “Well, fuck. Guess congratulations are in order.”
“Not a word to anyone, Matty,” Ale warns, though his grin doesn’t fade. “She’s only six weeks. We’re keeping it quiet for now.”
“You’ve got my word,” I mutter, raising my glass in a phantom toast. But it’s all I can do to keep the smile firmly in place. Inside, I’m shattering.
The silence stretches for a beat, heavier than either of us wants to admit. Then Ale clears his throat as if he’s sensed my inner turmoil. “Any news on your little…stalker?”
I shake my head, too quickly. “No. Nothing. Probably a one-off.”
A lie. It’s smooth and practiced. I don’t tell him about the playground. About Rex. Or how close I came to catching her. And especially not about how she vanished again like smoke, leaving me chasing shadows and questions I don’t want to ask.
Ale studies me like he knows I’m holding back, but he lets it slide. For now.
The door creaks open again. Rory lingers in the doorway, her hair hastily tied up, cheeks still flushed. She refuses to meet my eyes as she announces, “Serena’s wedding planner is here. She wants to finalize all the details for tomorrow.”
Ale straightens, smoothing his shirt, the picture of a smug bastard. “Perfect timing.”
I just groan, dragging a hand over my face. “God help us all.”
The Velvet Vault doesn’t look like the Velvet Vault this morning. Gone are the low neon lights, the smoky haze, the dangerous hum of temptation. Instead, the place is smothered in flowers, champagne towers, and pink-gold decorations that make Alessandro’s club look like it got drunk at a bridal expo.
Serena is radiant in her element. She’s perched in the center of a velvet banquette like a queen, tiara flashing, a white sash across her chest that readsBride-to-Bein rhinestones. She’s holding court with Rory, Alessia, and Isabella at her sides, the four of them cackling loud enough to rattle the chandeliers. Just beyond the inner circle are a whole slew of Serena’s single friends, a good portion of which I’ve hooked up with at some point or another. I do my best to avoid them all today.
The aunts are here too, naturally. Aunt Stella, already two glasses of prosecco in, is gossiping about which Valentino brother once ran naked through a fountain in Rome. And Serena’s mom, Aunt Rose, cackles away, reminiscing about their exploits back in college. She and Stella have been best friends forever. Aunt Jia, on the other hand, is scrolling through her phone while fielding Rory’s questions like a general in battle command. And my mother, Maisy, laughs so loud she snorts, startling one of the caterers. Then in her best, prim and proper way, she demands to know why the chocolate fountain isn’t flowing yet.
If I wasn’t so tense, I’d be right there laughing along with them. Instead, I stand off to the side with Ale, both of us in black suits, looking more like bodyguards than cousins. Which isn’t far off. His arm rests casually on a high-top, but his eyes are sharp, sweeping the room with that predator awareness he can’t turn off.
I do the same, only my gaze lingers longer on the exits then on the armed guards stationed by the doors, and the crowd of well-dressed women filing past the velvet ropes. Nothing slips past Gemini security, but still my skin itches. Like she’s here.
Her.
A whisper of a memory rushes to the forefront of my mind. Her scent, like citrus and sunshine. Those pouty lips. Brilliant blue eyes like the Mediterranean.
Cat?
The thought strikes sharp, unwelcome, and I almost laugh at myself. No. Impossible. Cat was soft, shy, barely eighteen when I knew her. She wouldn’t even let me teach her how to ride a Vespa without clutching my shirt in terror. No way that girl could’ve become the kind of cold-blooded killer who points a gun at a man’s head.
And yet… CatwasIrish. She never spoke much of her family, but what if?
No. I shake it off with a swallow of whiskey, letting the burn distract me. Ever since Ale dropped the pregnancy bomb, I can’t keep my head straight. The image of Ale grinning like a smug bastard, and Rory glowing beside him hit me harder than it should have. It stirred up things I thought I’d buried.
Namely, her.
Cat’s been creeping into my mind for months now, clawing her way out of the dark corners I shoved her into. Ever since Rory dropped into our lives with her thick Irish accent.
But my femme fatale had no such accent. It was faint, barely there. Not like Cat’s. I can still see her strawberry-blonde hair catching the sun, still hear her laugh, still feel her whispering promises into my skin.
