Only one other uncle remained, and that was David. He was only one year younger than my father, the second oldest of the four brothers; my father had been the oldest. David, for what I could recall of him, had always been a nice man, firm, stalwart, and fair.
David, being older than Matteo, could readily intervene, ending the matter, but something was stopping him. It was unclear what it was, but David no longer lived in New York, having left for Boston when everything happened. That left Matteo as head of New York operations. My running theory was that David was on Matteo’s side, just serving as the extended branch in another big city.
Either way, this didn’t bode well for me and Buttercup. I had to keep waiting and keep her safe. That’s all that mattered.
Chapter 4
Betty
Sybil’s backyard was beautiful and fresh, newly planted now that all the debris and ash had been cleared. There were large garden lights crisscrossing overhead, flowers in abundance, and candles—the flameless kind, of course—set on every surface.
Only a handful of people were in attendance for Nash and Sybil’s wedding, exactly how Sybil liked it.
“Hey, Daddy.” I bumped shoulders with my old man, who stood sipping a tequila to the side of the dance floor.
“My little Bee, how are you?” He grinned, cheeks rosy.
Sybil and Nash were dancing with a handful of others, one of them being Dr. Catherine.
Catherine adopted Sybil as a teen and had also served as her therapist for years. Sybil experienced a rough childhood with parents that sounded like ripe old assholes. They passed in a plane crash, and as wrong as it felt to be glad about something like that, I was ecstatic. They were neglectful and abusive toward her.
Good riddance.
Toward the side of the garden stood Nash’s best man, Jackson, one of our consultants for especially tricky art restorations. A part of me was pretty sure he ran an illicit forgery business on the side. Sometimes he was a little too good at touching up the work of masters.
A group stood analyzing the flowerbeds to the left; a few new people Sybil met in her online beekeeping course. They all seemed as introverted as Sybil, more focused on the bees buzzing around her new hive than on the fact that this was a social gathering requiring interaction with non-insects. They were pointing out little buzzing orbs that were flitting about the new blooms on the early spring flowers. Everyone seemed about as thrilled as I was gazing at a plump croissant in a bakery display. I only hoped that eventually Sybil, or one of her friends, would offer me some fresh honey for my coffee.
Overall, it was a paltry crowd, but they were happy, and that’s all that mattered. There were probably no more than twenty of us, a quarter of that sporting bee-brain. No one seemed to match my energy or desire to chat, which immediately brought me down a bit. As long as Jackson, with his thick-framed glasses and polyester blue pants, didn’t start flirting with me, everything would be fine.
Snapping out of it, I looked my father in the eye and offered a soft, convincing smile that betrayed my melancholy. I’d mustered the energy to lie to him at last.
“I’m doing really well. Feeling great,” I said.
He grinned, and that alone made the lie bearable.“Oh, good,” he crooned, bumping shoulders with me as I had with him.“I guess you’re next in line to wed now, am I right?” He held his glass out toward Sybil and Nash. They kissed, and Sybil giggled, cheeks blushing.
“Of course you’d say that,” I said with a roll of my eyes.
“I’m nothing if not predictable, my dear.” He grinned.“I just want all my children to find the kind of love your mother and I shared. I don’t think that’s too much to wish for, is it? Besides, word on the street is you’re my only real bet for grandbabies that aren’t covered in fur with a tail.”
He tugged at my heartstrings with that one. Sybil was pretty open about her fear of having kids, given her history with anxiety and depression. I completely understood, reassuring Sybil she’d be more than welcome as aunty-of-the-year at my house one day if the itch ever needed scratching. I wanted a brood. Give me all the babies, and soon. The only problem was that all the babies I kept dreaming of looked a lot like a certain blue-eyed Italian. It was hard to picture them any other way.
I sighed and pushed away the thought.
“Mom would have loved this,” I said.
My mother was shy, like Sybil. She’d have adored this small backyard wedding. Unfortunately, we’d lost her to breast cancer a long time back. My parents were the very definition of soulmates. Losing her crushed my dad in ways he’d never recover. As a result, he’d fallen headfirst into his art antiquities business.
Dad’s eyes appeared glassy then, and he cleared his throat.“She would have adored it.”
I leaned my head against his shoulder, and we swayed to the music. It was early April now. The weather was perfect—crisp but workable at 65 degrees—with the evening sun falling below the buildings surrounding us. I took a sip of my Sauvignon Blanc and adjusted the shawl over my shoulder.
After the wedding, there was restoration work to do at Beaumont, but a little white wine buzz calmed the thoughts and sharpened my skills. I was finishing a tune-up on a rare ruby necklace from the Renaissance—absolutely enormous rubies. Seeing jewels like that seemed unreal, each the size of my thumb. They reminded me of red Tootsie Roll Pops, something I often popped into the bodega to buy after work.
The song stopped, and Sybil kissed Nash one more time before approaching us with the largest grin I’d ever seen on her face. She wore a long, white, flowing gown and a white faux fur shawl, a rarity for her as black was her favorite color.
Sybil was my little goth queen most days, mounds and mounds of black on black. Walking toward me now, she looked like a completely different person and glowed like moonlight.
“Papa B,” she cooed, hugging my dad.
