“The same friend from that summer in Sicily? The one who lives in New York?” she presses. There’s a wry twist to her mouth. She’s braver than is good for her. I never should’ve told her about the summer. Not that I told hereverything, but the girl is remarkably perceptive.
“Yes,” I finally answer, and that’s all I give. She huffs, not satisfied, but lets it die. “You remember the rules, right? No phones, no windows after dark, and if anyone says my name at the door, it isn’t me.”
“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
“And you can’t tell?—"
“I know. I’m sworn to secrecy about all of it,” she replies, cutting me off as she holds up an invisible blade. “Cross my heart and hope to?—”
“Don’t you dare,” I blurt, and she almost smiles.
The shuffle of approaching familiar footsteps sends my head craning over my shoulder. Matteo saunters closer, an uncharacteristic sheepish expression cutting into the hard lines of his jaw. “How are you holding up, kid?”
Siobhan’s brows furrow at the genuine concern in his tone. In twelve years, she’s likely never heard anything like it from our older brother. “I’m alright, I guess.”
“Good, now, go get some rest.” I try to push my little sister into the room but now Saoirse appears.
She eyes Matteo for a long minute, sharp gaze scrutinizing. Then she throws her thumb over her shoulder. “Your man has four guards in the sitting room, two at the back door, and one on the roof. Siobhan will be safer than Tiernan’s money in a Swiss vault.”
“Just as it should be.” He smiles.
Saoirse shoves her hands in her apron and swings that piercing gaze on me. “You’ll stay the night,” she decides. “You look like the underside of a bus.”
Matteo’s shaking his head, already reaching for the keys. “We should keep moving. It’s safer for everyone if we do.”
Siobhan steps between him and the door, stubborn as a saint. “You saved me. Both of you. So let me do one thing back. Rest. Please.”
Thepleaseis small and sharp. It lands.
I see it the moment Matteo’s resolve crumbles at the hitch in her voice. “Just a couple hours,” he finally concedes, not even trying to hide the exhaustion in his tone. “Then we’re gone.”
I nod. “Now, go to sleep, you.” I press a quick kiss to my sister’s forehead.
She dips her head reluctantly, and once she’s settled in the bed with the comforter drawn up to her chin, I close the door behind me.
Saoirse and Matteo still stand in the hall. Neither speaking. Or blinking.
I draw in a breath, and the room tilts in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion. I press my hand to the wall to steady the floor and feel something hot under my palm. Not the wallpaper. Me.
Saoirse’s eyes narrow as she trails my movements. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I lie, too fast.
“Cat?” Matteo’s voice is a warning and worry braided together.
I push off the wall. The movement scrapes fire along my left side, and I can’t keep in the hiss. Two heads snap in my direction. The dark sweater hides it, but the blood didn’t get that memo.
Matteo is on me before I can retreat, fingers gentle but inexorable as he finds the wet edge under my jacket. He peels back the fabric and swears softly in Italian.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” I grit out. “The bullet barely grazed me. I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” he counters, voice gone flint. “You are not fine. Fuck, Cat, it’s been hours…”
He looks at Saoirse without asking permission. “First-aid kit? I need boiled water and towels.”
She moves, admirably quickly. Matteo steers me through the corridor to the kitchen table. He doesn’t touch me more than he needs to, and I hate that I need him to.
“It’s nothing,” I try again, mostly to hear myself lie less convincingly.
