Shite.
I dig my fingers deeper into the pockets as if I could somehow find something that clearly isn’t there. Bordering on panic now, I search the pockets of my pants but come up empty too. Damn it, how did I lose my mask? I must have dropped it when I fled like a coward.
Some Angel of Death you’re turning out to be, Cat. Da’s voice is deep and gravelly, scraping against my skull.
My chest is still raw, frayed by adrenaline and guilt. I should’ve ended it tonight. I had him. He was right there.
The crack of metal still rings in my ears from the moment Matteo’s foot hit that ladder step. He dropped like dead weight, his body slamming against the concrete. And my heart plummeted in time with his familiar form.
For the length of a single heartbeat, he was exposed: leg twisted at an odd angle, chest heaving, and eyes wild. My finger finds the trigger, cold metal under skin. Then something snaps inside me. It’s a flash of salt on his lip, a laugh from a summer I should’ve burned, and my hand goes suddenly useless. The gun remains silent, heavy and filthy in my grip. I lower it.
I froze. My entire damned body did. All I could see was that summer, him diving into the water, resurfacing with a grin, and shaking salt from his hair. And tonight, sprawled on the pavement, gasping for air, he looked too human. Too breakable.
Now a desperate tangle of fury and confusion boils through me, sharp and acidic. Not at him. At myself. Because hesitation is death in our world. Donal drilled that into me a hundred times in that damp cellar back in Belfast. You pause, you lose. You blink, you bleed.
And here I am, failing again.
Movement below catches my eye. The cousins still linger, trickling out of the Vault in their loud, chaotic cluster. Serena still wears the sparkly tiara and now her fiancé has appeared to collect his bride-to-be. Antonio Ferrara’s arm is firm around her waist. Isabella is laughing, swatting at Rafaele, the other Ferrara, who tries to grab the gift bags. Both brothers were there that day at Conall’s estate when Matteo killed Eoin. They all were, the entire Valentino-Rossi crew. I should hate them all.
Alessandro has his hand curved around Rory’s back, his hold blatantly protective. As much as I want to hate the elder Rossi cousin, a tiny part of me is impressed by the lengths he went through to keep the woman he loved. Going up against the Quinlans and O’Shea’s in enemy territory takes balls. Would Eoin have done that for me? For pride, sure.
What about Matteo?
The errant thought pushes its way front and center despite how much I try to shove it down.He left you, remember? That dark voice rises, drowning out all the rest.
Matteo lingers in the doorway, his suit jacket open and tie loose. His head tips back like he’s still trying to catch his breath. He scans the street, gaze sharp, hunting shadows. Hunting me.
My nails dig into the rooftop ledge. I could end it right now. My gun sits at my hip, locked and loaded. One clean shot from up here and the Rossi heir is done. My father is pleased, Tiernan is avenged, and I get to go home.
But my hands won’t move. Not after the sight of him on the ground, fighting for breath. Not after the lively green of his eyes met mine before I bolted.
I’m pathetic.
I press my forehead against my arm and swallow down the ache. I’m supposed to be the Angel of Death, the girl with ice in her veins. Instead, every time I line up Matteo Rossi in my crosshairs the girl I used to be claws her way back out, reminding me of everything I lost.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow, I’ll do it.
But deep down, I don’t know if I’m lying.
The extended goodbyes and drawn-out hugs and kisses blur in the distance. I barely see any of them anymore. My mind won’t stay here in the now. It drags me back, like the tide pulling me under. Back to the beginning.
Back to Sicily four years ago.
The Sicilian sun beats down like it’s trying to brand me. My shoulders sting, the salt air clinging to my skin, and I keep fiddling with the Celtic knot hanging from the silver chain around my neck to keep from fidgeting. I wasn’t supposed to stand out. I wasn’t supposed to want to.
I came to this island to escape, to run away from the life I was born into, just like Ma had last year when she abandoned us.
But then he appeared.
Matteo Rossi. All dark hair and dangerous grin, tan and tattooed, weaving through the beach like he owned it. Like the sea and sand bent for him.
“Ciao, bella.” He flashes that cocky grin that probably works on every girl within a mile.
“That’s original,” I retort, arching a brow. I should’ve brushed him off. Should’ve turned back to the waves and pretended I didn’t hear him. But when those green eyes lock on me, the word no gets stuck in my throat.
His hand is rough with sand when he holds it out. “Matteo.” Damn that voice… it’s deep and warm and has my insides rioting.
“Cat,” I whisper back.
