“And before you argue”—Cora adds, lifting one finger in warning—“we’re not taking no for an answer. It’s been over ayear,and we miss your face. Plus, if I don’t get a spa day soon, I’m going to strangle someone at the next sit-down.”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “You’re both insane.”
“More like determined, babe,” Abbie sasses with a smirk, tossing her hair like she knows she has her husband wrapped around her finger. “The flights are booked. We land Friday afternoon, and there’ll be champagne and fluffy robes waiting for us. I made sure of it.”
“And,” Cora says with a conspiratorial smile, “we’re getting matching massages and hitting that vintage designer place you told us about. So you’d better start picking your outfits now.”
I can’t help it, I laugh, sudden and real, despite everything. The idea of seeing them in person—hugging them, drinking too much wine, laughing until we cry—it’s enough to make my eyes sting. Because maybe that’s the only real cure for a broken heart—friends who’ve seen you ugly-cry and love you anyway. Friends who know exactly how deep the damage goes and still show up with plane tickets and champagne.
“Fine. But if either of you tries to interrogate me about anything remotely involving espresso or men, I’m barricading the hotel minibar and holding the robes hostage.”
They both cackle.
“No promises,” Cora says, eyes twinkling. “But we’ll bring bribes.”
I end the call feeling lighter than I have in weeks. Like for the first time in too long, the walls of this flat aren’t pressing in on me quite so tight.
But the coffee cup is still sitting on my counter. Still warm. Still smelling like cinnamon and memories I’m not sure I’m strong enough to leave behind.
And when I finally pick it up and take a careful sip—smooth, sweet, scalding in all the ways I love—I can’t shake the feeling that Matt has just made his next move in this game we’ve been playing for far too long.
And I have no idea who’s winning anymore.
Chapter 19
The chandelier above the ballroom sparkles like a thousand tiny knives, each crystal catching the light and throwing it back in sharp, blinding flashes. I stand at the edge of the room, scotch in hand, pretending the amber liquid Nico handed me will somehow dull the tension clawing its way through my chest.
It doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does the weed pen I’ve been hitting all evening.
Not when Salvatore is holding court in the centre of the room, his booming laughter echoing through the space, hawk-like eyes sweeping over the guests as if he’s assessing pawns rather than people.
Not when Gianna stands at his side in a pale pink—practically white—dress, looking every inch the perfect bride to be, her smile soft and distant like a girl caught in a fairytale she didn’t write, as her engagement ring draws everyone's attention.
And sure as hell not when Cora and Owen are watching me from across the room, reading every flicker of my goddamn soul like it’s written on my forehead.
I’m not an idiot, I knew eventually I’d have to play along, slap on some fake-as-hell smile and pretend I give a damn about this family unity act.
But Christ.
I haven’t even been here a week, and already the circus has started? Already they’re dissecting me, testing me, waiting to see if I break right on cue?
The string quartet eases into a sweeping waltz. Servers float by with trays of champagne and delicate canapés, none of us actually taste. The crowd’s full of underbosses, sons, daughters, wives in designer gowns, and distant relatives hoping to catch Antonio’s eye. This is what a Mafia engagement party looks like—diamonds, secrets, and the smell of roses thick enough to choke a man.
It’s Gianna’s night. Ours, technically.
But all I can think about is how this should never have gotten this far.
Gianna’s gaze drifts over to me, uncertain. She gives me a polite little smile, tucking her dark hair behind her ear and I force one back.
I may not want to be here, and she sure as hell isn’t the girl I want to marry, but she’s just a kid born into a rigged game. Our marriage contract was signed before she was even born. She’s as much a pawn as I am, if not more.
I was twelve when Da sat me down and told me one day I’d make the family proud. He painted it like a gift—a future full of duty and honour and a beautiful bride I wouldn’t even have to look for myself. I can’t help but wonder who and how the news was broken to Gianna, or if this was sprung on her days or hours before I crash landed into her world.
It wasn’t until I watched Owen fall head-over-fucking-heels for Cora while I was fighting my feelings for Lily that I understood the cost. For alliances and transport rights, I was trading away the chance to love someone like that out in the open.
Swallowing that burn down, I slam my drink back, set the empty glass on the bar top, and crack my neck. With an exhale that could move mountains, I push through the crowd, weaving through them until I’m at her side.
She flashes me a grateful look, her whole body sagging with relief, before slipping her arm through mine as another group of guests approaches, eager to pay respects. Her perfume is subtle, sweet, expensive roses and something softer underneath. She tilts her chin up, playing her part, voice demure as she murmurs pleasantries in perfect Italian.
