Page 73 of Wicked Ruin

“I spoke to your mother about the wedding invitations,” she says quietly. “We decided to go with the cappuccino lettering on ivory paper. Is that alright with you?”

She asks in a way that makes it clear it doesn't actually matter whether it's alright with me.

“I told you the details were up to you,” I say with a shrug that costs me something at the stitches. “If you like them, that's good enough for me.”

“Do you not have an opinion about anything?” She says it without heat, genuinely perplexed, her brow knitting briefly before it smooths again.

Is she fucking kidding me? “I have lots of opinions about lots of things. But the stationery details of a wedding that is, in your own words, nothing short of a business arrangement—that's not one of them.”

I have to be careful how I speak to her. Pissing off Valentina would be a catastrophic miscalculation on my part, and I know it. The engagement holds something much larger than either of us in place. If it falls, my family goes with it.

And then—footsteps in the hallway. Light, quick, familiar. I know them before she speaks. I can't stop her from coming in.

Bridget comes through the door talking, because of course she does. This is Bridget, and she has never once in her life held a thought hostage when she could just release it.

“Got the soup that isn’t quite D’Agostino’s, but the girl at the counter said it was excellent. And ice cream because you were very well-behaved for now, and I⁠—”

She comes to a full stop, eyes wide. The girl has no poker face.

Valentina goes very still. Her eyes move from Bridget to me, then back to Bridget, unhurried and precise, cataloging something she will not share.

“Who is this?” she asks.

I fucking hate the way she asks it.

“You met Bridget at the party,” I say. “Erin's sister. Remember?”

She does remember. She's just making a point.

“Right,” Valentina says, producing a careful smile. “Bridget. You came to visit and get… ice cream?”

There's a flush climbing Bridget's neck. She opens her mouth, and I can see it happening—the sharpness gathering at the back of her eyes, the precise wording of something that would be extremely funny in retrospect and a complete disaster right now.

“Aye, and looking out for Declan,” she says. Her voice is level, and I could kiss her for it. “He was seriously hurt, and I was very worried. We've been friends for a very long time.” I can hear the judgment in her tone, the implied You should have been worried too.

“Best friends,” I add, because apparently I'm helping.

“Yes. Looks like you’ve been here a while,” Valentina says. A mild observation.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Bridget begins, awkwardly, and Valentina cuts her off with the clean efficiency of someone who has been waiting for this precise opening.

“Oh, I know I don't.” Her smile doesn't shift.

The silence that follows yawns like the opening of a cave. Jesus.

“When are you being discharged, Declan?” Valentina asks, turning back to me. “I need to know the timeline.”

“Discharged?” Bridget asks, her eyes wide. “He was shot. He had surgery. He⁠—”

“Not sure, but I'll be fine. A few days at most.” Bridget blinks at me before her eyes narrow.

“Already? Seriously, Declan. Are you sure about that? You have stitches.”

“Aye, of course.”

She doesn’t look away, her lips pursed. She knows I'm lying. She always knows when I'm lying.

“For someone who is so serious about me seeing doctors—” Bridget begins.