Of course his mother is here. Everyone’s mother is here.
There’s Bianca’s pretty, perfect mafia mother, the one who carries a Glock in her purse right next to her red lipstick. There’s Lizzie’s stepmother, the one she grew up with since she was little. Her mother was killed around the same time that mine left. Maybe in some other world, that could have made us close. But not this one. Lizzie was the poor tragic girl with a dead mom. I was the one whose mom scandalously ran off to live her own life, the one whose father should have hunted her down; he must be weak to let a woman walk away and leave him like that, tut-tut.
At last, my eyes find Bianca and Sylvia standing together, their heads tilted toward each other, their eyes sparkling and their wine-stained lips hiding dreamy smiles as Al Valenti throws them a bone and says a word or two to them in passing. If I didn’t know the man was evil, that he was responsible for Jonathan’s death along with hundreds of others, I might think he was hot. But I know the cold hard truth about mafia men, and I want none of it.
“You seen King around?”
I turn to find one of his brothers. Now there are some guys I can’t deny are attractive, all muscle and dark chocolate eyes with lashes that would make any girl weak in the knees. Just like my fiancé.
“He’s over there with my lovely bridesmaid,” I say, tipping my champagne glass toward where they disappeared. “If I was a betting woman, I’d say she’s asking for help with an undergarment situation.”
He frowns, glancing from the shadows and back to me. “You don’t care?”
“Why would I care?” I ask. “I don’t know the guy from any of you.” It’s true. I can’t remember which one this is. They all have ridiculous names that belong to a family desperate for recognition.
“King’s a good guy,” he says, as if I have some reason to believe him.
“Okay,” I say, sipping my champagne.
“Come on,” he says, nodding toward the edge of the porch. He takes off, and I want to turn away, to prove how little I care, but I find my feet following him. Maybe I want to prove to myself that I can have a real friend. That Lizzie’s just telling him that if he hurts me, she’ll kick his ass, which is even more ridiculous than when regular girls say it, since my father can do that for me. Still, it would mean something to me, even if it was an empty threat.
When we step around the corner of the house, King is standing with his back to the wall, a glass of champagne in one hand, his other hand in his pocket, his pose all casual disinterest like it has been all night. At least he’s no more excited about her than anything else.
Lizzie, meanwhile, is standing way too close to another woman’s fiancé, not pressed up against him, but just letting her tits brush him when she throws her head back and laughs like she’s not doing it intentionally, trying to drive him crazy with her body. I always marvel at the way she does that, how she controls her whole world with her body, like it’s a magic wand.
“King,” his brother says. “What are you doing?”
King shrugs, not even having the decency to look chagrinned. “Talking to Eliza’s friend.”
He meets my eyes over her head, and I see that look from our first meeting—a challenge. Is he trying to make me jealous?
That’s so hilarious that it’s actually sad.
Lizzie grins at us, reaching up to run a nail down King’s cheek. I can hear the quiet rasp of it over his stubble, and I wonder what it feels like. Then I curse myself for wondering.
“I was just telling this cutie here that he’s not married yet,” she says with a saucy grin. “He’s still single for one more night.”
She’s watching me, too, with a smug sort of challenge in her eyes. King’s brother looks at me. They’re all waiting for me to blow up.
Like it’s that easy to make me lose my shit.
“You’re right,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. I take a sip of champagne. If I’m honest, Lizzie is hot, and her dye job isn’t as bad as I pretend. If King wanted to fuck her, I wouldn’t blame him. Just because I have no interest in him doesn’t mean I don’t understand that he’s a man who has certain needs. And hell, I can admit it—he’s sexy as sin. Any girl would want him. I can’t exactly blame Lizzie for trying to get a little taste of him before he’s off the market, even if she is my friend.
Like I said, we’re not the kind of friends who have each other’s backs and look out for each other.
We’re not like King and his brothers, all of them looking exactly alike, so there’s no question of where they belong and who they belong to. They sat together at dinner and goofed off, and even though King seemed to think he was above all that, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t part of it in some way an outsider couldn’t see. If his part is to look on like an indulgent ass, he’s still a cog in the big moving puzzle of his family. I heard his dad left his mom, but at least she showed up for him—not just for the big day, either, but for the rehearsal. And there I was, just me and my dad on our side of the table. No seat for my mother, none for my brother.
Because King’s family killed him, and my mother left, and I’m happy for her. I am. So fucking happy. She has her own life. I’d make the same sacrifices to have my own.
“Eliza,” King says, after the longest silence of all time. He puts his hands on Lizzie’s shoulders and pushes her back a step so he can slide away from her, toward me.
I hold up a hand. “It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t mind. Do what you want. You’re a free man.”
I turn and walk away before he can say anything else. I have nothing to say to him. I may be forced to marry a Valenti, but I’ll never love one.
My throat aches as I hurry away from the lights, the people. I cross the sand toward the water, relieved to leave the voices and laughter behind. I’ve always known this day would come. I’m prepared. Up until now, I’ve done everything alone. This is no different. I don’t need a friend or my mother. I just need to gather myself, to remember who I am and what I have to do. I know I’m strong enough.
I will bring peace to my family, so no one else loses a brother to a Valenti. That’s what this is about. Not love. Not romance.