A quiet morning turned into a bloodbath.
Ciara Brennan, seven months pregnant, shopping for her baby shower when the shots started A clean exchange between Cavalli and Pavlov crews. A hijacked shipment. Silent. Controlled. Until it wasn’t.
Two Cavalli men dead.
Ciara… collateral. Killed instantly, the child with her.
The last line freezes me.
What the hell does this have to do with me and the Messinas?
I kill the screen, pocket the phone, shove panic down until it burns.
How does marrying Rory fix any of this?
Conor walks toward me, a casual stride hiding the fact that his eyes miss nothing.
“You skipped breakfast,” he says, tossing me a protein bar. “Forgot you get hangry.”
I catch it midair, lift a brow. “You’re being nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
He’s not.
“You’re always armed.”
He grins. “Same thing.”
We sit on the bench by the garden wall. The silence between us feels… almost easy. Which is suspicious as hell.
He watches a few students drift past. “Heard your knife work’s getting sharper.”
“Must be the company I keep.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and a small smile creeps in, Matteo’s face flickering through my head.
Conor chuckles, eyes tracking the path ahead like he’s on guard even now. “Weird seeing you smile.”
“Because I’m usually two seconds from starting an argument with you?”
“Because you used to be quiet,” he says. “Now you’ve got this… fire.”
I glance at him, trying to read what’s hiding behind that calm, armor-plated face. “Is that your way of saying I’ve changed?”
“I’m saying you’re growing teeth,” he says. “And I’m not sure if that’s pride or warning I feel.”
I lean back. “Maybe both.”
Silence stretches between us, not heavy this time, just steady. Almost comfortable.
“Thanks for this,” I say, lifting the bar in a half-salute.
“Don’t mention it.”
We split paths soon after. I can feel his gaze even when he’s gone, watching, always watching.
But the article’s weight presses against my thigh, hot as a brand I can’t shake.
I don’t know who sent it. But I’ll find them.
