“No, it’s connected to the Quinlans.”
All conversation freezes a second too long. Serena’s jaw drops and Bella’s hand flies to her mouth. Even the Ferrara brothers look stunned.
No one has forgotten that name. It’s only been a few months and it’s still too fresh in our minds.
“What?” Serena hisses. “How do you know?”
“This wasn’t the first attempt…”
Serena swats at me, her smack landing hard against my stomach. “Are you fucking kidding me, Matty? You knew the Quinlans were back, and you didn’t say anything?”
“It’s not that simple,” I grind out. “It was your bridal shower. I was trying to—” My voice breaks like I’ve bitten down on a bad tooth. “I was trying to keep it on the downlow. Keep everyone from panicking.”
“How could we not? After everything Ale and Rory went through?—”
“They knew,” I blurt.
“Great, so we were the only ones kept in the dark about the return of the Quinlans?” Bella looks genuinely insulted, and that damned guilt rises again.
They all start to shout at once, about the Quinlans, old scores, who could benefit, who was the target, who would want to see the Rossi line bloodied. But all I can hear is the soft, repeating beep of the monitor playing over and over again in my head andthe one thought that won’t leave my mind: Cat. Cat getting away. Cat breathing. Cat out there alone.
For a second, I consider telling them the truth again, a clean yank of the bandage. But the truth is a different animal. Telling them means exposing Cat. It means exposing what she is and where she came from and, fuck, what she means to me now. It means a war I don’t want to see happen, but one I may have already set in motion.
But I have to tell them something. “According to intel, the shooter might be someone connected to Eoin Quinlan. He was Conall’s cousin, and apparently, I killed him in the bloodbath at the estate. I had no idea who he was.”
Serena doesn’t wait for more. She stands and paces, hands clenching. “You should’ve told us, Matty. We could’ve watched the Vault. We could’ve—” She stops because Antonio’s hand tightens around hers.
I swallow hard. “I know,” I murmur. “I know I should’ve. I’m sorry. I fucked up and put everyone at risk.”Cazzo, they don’t even know Rory is pregnant. That is one secret that’s not mine to spill.
“So the shooter came foryou?” Bella looks at me in that way only she can, like she’s cataloguing every possible way I can break and assessing which parts are salvageable.
I nod, teeth grinding. “More than once.”
“Merda,” Raf growls.
“Does Ale know that?” Bella asks quietly.
I shake my head like a totalcoglione. “He only knows about the first time.”
“Holy shit, Matty, why didn’t you tell him?” Alessia barks.
Because. Because the thing I know is not something I can hand to him and expect him to keep. Because if I tell him Cat is the shooter, the first thing he’ll do is hunt her like he hunts anything that moves against our people. And I can’t let thathappen. Not if there’s any chance of… of what? Living happily ever after with her?Dio, I’m such a fucking idiot. But what if there’s a chance she missed on purpose? Does it really matter anyway?
“Because I didn’t want to put him through all the Quinlan shit all over again,” I finally hiss, which is both lie and truth. I didn’t want to put him through it, but I also didn’t want to put Cat through everything that would follow. I don’t say the rest: that the woman on the other side of that barrel felt like a ghost of some other life I might have had, like a fuse I’m terrified to light.
Serena’s laugh is a raw, humorless sound. “Of course you didn’t want to put him through it. It’s Matteo-saves-the-day season. Except you didn’t save anything.”
Her words are fair. They’re knives, but they’re also right. I should’ve told them, all of them. I failed my family by staying quiet.
The doctor walks out, scrubbed and weary. His calm voice sucks the oxygen out of the room. “Mrs. Rossi is stable for now, but we’ll continue to observe her overnight. She has a minor concussion, but nothing seems too concerning.”
A chorus ofthank Dio’serupts all around.
And the baby?
The question burns at the back of my throat.
My head slots down. The word baby ricochets through my skull like a bullet and there’s a heat under my skin like whiskey poured over an open flame. My chest tightens so hard I think I’m going to crack.
