“I’m good, first week of school, I’m tired.” I smile.
“Just so you know,” he says, pointing to the box, “what you say in there stays in there.”
I stand up as he does, and put the beads into my pocket, and give him a nod. Because right now, there isn’t anything I can say without burning in flames.
Leaving the church through the back door, we headed to Granddad’s house. The table stretches long in the dining room, covered with enough food to feed a small army. My mother kisses my cheek. My father pours wine. Grandfather raises a glass in a toast none of us need to hear again.
Everyone eats, and laughs around the room, Milo starts arguing with Marco about how his piece of lasagna is smaller than his, and Rosa throws a piece of bread at Milo telling him to shut up.
It feels normal, for a minute, what every American family does on a Sunday. But under the laughter, the warmth, the wine, she’s there. In my mind.
Her voice as he moaned my name, like a sin she’s not meant to commit.
The sun setsblood-red behind us as we pull into the Blackstone courtyard. It’s Sunday evening, and students are returning like soldiers called back to the battlefield. Cars roll in, sleek, expensive, tinted. You can tell which family each belongs to without even seeing the crests.
I sit in the backseat, a cigarette between my lips, smoke coiling as the gates close. We get out, Rosa taps on her phone. Then I see it, the Irish car.
Conor steps out first. Straight-backed, arrogant. Like he runs this place, he fucking wishes. He puts out his hand, and she steps out. Aoife.
I see the swell on her cheek, the split lip, the dark bruise. She raises her head. Our eyes meet.
She looks away fast. Like I’m fire and I’ll burn her just by staring.
My cigarette snaps between my fingers.
“Matteo,” Marco says sharply.
Milo moves in front of me, blocking my path before I can take a single step. They know me well enough, and they know my next move. “Not here,” Milo hisses. “Not now.”
“Get it together,” Marco adds, gripping my arm. “You wanna lose it in front of every family on the damn campus?”
They shepherd me toward the garden edge, where statues hide our silhouettes from the crowd.
I’m seething. My blood is boiling in my veins.
“Someone hit her,” I growl, jaw clenched so tight it aches. “You don’t put your hands on a woman. That’s not power, that’s fucking weakness.”
Marco lightsa cigarette and hands it over. “You already fucked her. She should be out of your system.”
Milo sits on the stone edge. “Matteo, be real with us. We knew the second you saw her on that cliff, something changed. You were hooked from that moment. But this?” He gestures toward me. “This is something else.”
I lean back against the wall, staring at the stone sky above us, jaw ticking. I shake my head once, hard. Because I don’t know what to say to them, I don’t know what to tell myself.
“You want to throw hands, wait for tomorrow night,” Marco says. “Take it out in the ring.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Milo smirks. “Or better idea, fuck someone else.”
Marco nods. “Seriously. There are dozens of girls here. Pick one. Forget the one that’ll start a war.”
I don’t answer. None of the others have eyes like hers, silence like hers.
I close my eyes, exhaling smoke.
The woman I want is forbidden, and I need to fucking remember that.
Chapter 11
