Page 51 of Wicked Ruin

“Relax, Declan. I'm not twelve.”

My jaw clenches. “Did you call him?”

She looks away.

“That’s a no, then. Right,” I say. “So tomorrow⁠—”

“Tomorrow, I'll be fine.” She takes a sip of her Coke and looks back at me with the particular expression she uses when she's decided the conversation is over. “I feel better when I sip my Coke. Go back to your party.”

“It's not—” I stop. It is my party. That's precisely the problem. “Just call him.”

She holds my gaze for a second longer than she needs to, then nods. One small, tired nod. “Alright,” she says. “I will.”

Without another word, she moves away toward Erin. I think about chasing her down, about bringing her into the back room and making her call Rosenberg on my watch, but I don’t.

Valentina touches my arm. I manage not to flinch. “Shall we circulate?” she says. “I appear to have quite a few more people to be introduced to.”

“Of course,” I say, and I turn my back to Bridget.

Bronwyn has decided to like Valentina through sheer force of will, which is exactly the kind of thing Bronwyn does. She’s on her third glass of wine, which is when she gets warm and slightly reckless. She's launched into the story of Cavin and Erin's wedding with the relish of someone who's told it many times and loves it more each time.

“Nobody even knew,” she's saying, gesturing with her glass. “One day, they're engaged—the next, it's done. Very romantic. Very spontaneous.” She turns to Valentina. “Did you ever hear this? In the McCarthy house, we don't always stand on ceremony. Cavin was like, we have everything we need—the priest, the license, the witnesses. We even have flowers.” She grins. “Erin doesn’t really want a big, formal affair, so let’s elope.”

“Oh. Well,” Valentina says.

“Well, it wasn't an elopement exactly,” I say, taking a sip of my water. “They married in front of everyone.”

“Still,” Bronwyn says warmly, “it wasn't how it was meant to go. Her mam wasn't too pleased.” She shrugs this off as a minor detail.

“Ah,” Valentina says. “Didn't realize this family did Vegas weddings. Did the priest dress up as Elvis?”

Bronwyn laughs genuinely. Valentina looks almost surprised by it.

At that exact second, Bridget looks over, and her eyes meet mine. She smiles the way she does when she's decided not to say something she absolutely could, and takes a sip of her Coke as she heads our way.

Valentina notices her for the first time. “I don't think we've met,” she says, her tone professionally warm.

I hate this. I hate every second of this, and I don't want Bridget anywhere fucking near Valentina.

“Bridget Kavanagh,” Bridget says, extending her hand with a bright smile that I'm fairly certain costs her something. “Erin’s sister. Declan's friend.”

“Erin,” Valentina repeats. “Cavin's wife.”

“The same.”

The Kavanagh name travels in certain circles, and in ours, it carries a specific weight: exile, betrayal, the mercy of a family that chose not to finish the job. “A Kavanagh,” Valentina says with a small, measured smile. “Right. Cavin's extended family, then.”

I note the slight lift of Bridget's chin, just barely, just enough, and the flush that crosses her cheeks.

“Bridget's family and ours go back a long way,” I say. My voice comes out easy, conversational, like I'm clarifying something minor. “She's as much a part of this family as anyone in this room.” I let that settle for exactly one beat. “More, if I'm being honest.”

Valentina tilts her head slightly. “Of course,” she says, the smile not moving. “I only meant I hadn't placed her.”

“Now you have,” I say pleasantly.

Bridget hasn't looked at me. She's very good at looking just past something. Her chin has come back down, and the color in her face is fading. She gives Valentina a smile that is warm and complete, and it fucking kills me.

“It's a big family,” Bridget says. “Don't worry, I'm terrible with names myself. You'll get there.” She touches Valentina's arm lightly, a small social grace. “Lovely to meet you. Enjoy your evening.”