The word baby stings worse than any punch. Rory’s name was a blade; now it’s a verdict. My chest constricts. Some stupid part of me wanted this to end with understanding. Whatever we become next, I thought maybe pain could be honest enough for that.
Instead, she shoves the mask into my hand and turns on her heel, stalking away into the night with the kind of grace that’s drunk from fury.
I stand in the street with the mask in my palm and a dozen ruined memories cascading like broken glass. Eventually, it, too, slips from my fingers and lands beside the gun. It lies cold on the pavement where it fell, useless now for everything but evidence. My heart is a raw, empty thing and all I can do is call out, “Caitríona.”
She doesn’t look back. Not for me. Not for the man she once trusted. Not for the boy who left. My Kitty Cat disappears into the dark and the sound of her footsteps is the only thing I can follow.
CHAPTER 15
PERSONAL VENDETTA
Matteo
Ale comes out of nowhere. His boots slap the pavement as heavy as thunder. One look at his face and the rest of the world narrows to the tone of his breathing. He holds his gun like he’s already decided who’s going to die tonight.
“Matteo!” he snaps, the single word a demand and an accusation all at once.
Fuck.
“Where is thatpezzo di merda? Is she gone?” His eyes are wild as they search the alley behind me.
“Where’s Rory?” I counter. “Is she okay?”
He nods, lips pressed in a grim line. “She’s with the paramedics.”
“Then forget the shooter for now, let’s go to your wife.” I need to get the hell out of this alley, away from the memories threatening to rip me open and tear me apart.
As soon as we’re across the street, Ale shoves by the cluster of uniforms and drops to his knees beside Rory. His fingers still search her body, checking for blood I can’t see.
Only then do I think to check my own wound. It’s barely bleeding, my jacket taking the worst of the bullet.
The street is a flurry. The stretcher is already out, and the paramedics are working with a calm that makes my skin crawl. Rory is pale but awake, pinching my cousin’s fingers as he kneels with her. That damned guilt crawls to the surface again. She could have been dead because of me… she could have lost their baby because ofme.
And still, here I am, silent and protectingher.
The medics talk in clinical, clipped sentences.
“No bullet penetration,” one says.
“Vital signs steady,” echoes another.
A breath of relief whooshes out of me with each confirmation.
“So what the fuck happened?” Ale growls, momentarily diverting his attention from his wife to glare up at me.
“She got away.” The lie tastes better than the truth when it’smytruth he’s asking for. It’s a small thing, but it buys me a second.
“Let’s transport her for observation.” Another voice. “She might have a concussion.”
“I’m fine, Ale, really.” Rory glances up at her husband and she suddenly looks so fragile, the fiery redhead that has become part of our family is gone, replaced by someone soft and scared.
“Absolutely not.” He shakes his head, whipping it back and forth. “You’re going to the hospital and we’re making sure that baby is in perfect condition.”
She nods, begrudgingly, and there’s another flurry of movement as the paramedics gently lift her and secure the stretcher.
Grasping Ale’s shoulder, I whisper, “She’s going to be okay. She’s strong, just like you, and so is your baby.”
“I know.” His voice is raw with something like relief twisted with rage. “They’ll take her to St. Vincent’s. We should go with her.” He looks at me for a heartbeat longer then, eyes burning. “You coming?”
