I’m reckless, not stupid. The reason I’m not taking the fate of Cove seriously is because I’m still clinging onto the hope that Tor will come back. That he just went on a crazy three-week bender after the wedding and lost track of time, or something.
Fuck. It sounds ridiculous, even when I only say it in my head.
“Rafe!”
Jingling my car keys in my hand, I turn to Rory running down the stairs, clutching shopping bags. “Here, give these to Penny.”
I regard them with caution. “I hope these are clothes and not your leftover Christmas decorations.”
“Is it too much?” She sighs. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”
Over her shoulder, a mechanical Santa waves at me from the foot of the stairs. It’s twice the size of her and three times as scary. “I think it’s very…fun.”
Her face lights up. “I think so too! Christmas Day is going to be a blast.”
I shake my head, smirking. She’s never been to a Visconti Christmas before and it shows. I wonder if she’ll still think it’s a blast when Cas puts his gun to Benny’s head because he cheated at Monopoly, or when Nico’s getting sick in the garden because he drank too much eggnog.
“You know what will make Christmas Day even better? Your husband dressed up as an elf.”
She scoffs. “What? He’d never…” Her protest trails off as I pull out my wallet and hand her all the cash inside. She stuffs it into her back pocket, grinning. “You know what? Maybe he would. Anyway, here.” She thrusts the bags into my chest. “Tell Penny I picked her out some pieces for the staff party tomorrow, because she couldn’t come shopping with me. Tell her the red Chanel looks cute with the Y.S.L heels, but the heels also pair gorgeously with the Bulgari two-piece.”
Amusement pulls at my lips. “You might as well be talking in Chinese, sis, but I’ll be sure to pass the message along.”
It’s only early evening, but darkness is already shading the sky. A low mist lingers between the Christmas trees on the circular drive, lit red and green from the glow of all the lights. I almost slip on the way to my car, thanks to the fucking fake snow coating the porch steps.
Cursing Rory and her festive enthusiasm, I slide into the passenger seat. Immediately, something I can’t put my finger on gives me pause. It squeezes my nape and sharpens my senses. This survival instinct is why Viscontis live longer than most made men, and I know I should trust it. Key hovering near the ignition, I look through the windshield and lock eyes with Griffin on the other side of it. He and three of my men are in an armored sedan opposite, ready to trail me back to the docks.
I put the key in, but I don’t twist it.
I swallow. Sweep the idea out of my head. No, if someone had fucked with my car they’d be dead already. Griff and my men have been out here the whole time.
Still, as I turn the key, my shoulders tense in anticipation. When my car doesn’t blow up, I let out a dry laugh and peel out of the grounds, wondering when the fuck did I become so paranoid. The O’Hares are six feet under, and Dante couldn’t organize a car bomb even if there was one of Penny’sFor Dummiesbooks on it.
The roads are slippery and silent and familiar. I could take these curves with my eyes closed. Zoning out on the yellow glow of my lights on the tarmac, I become more aware of the inside of the car, where Penny’s image lingers like a long-term memory.
Her presence fills the space like she fills my head. Her citrusy scent has permeated my Nappa leather seats; three of herFor Dummiesbooks are piled up on top of her blanket and pillow on my backseat. Fuck, her fluffy slippers are in the passenger footwell, and her hairbands are littering my cup holder.
As I pick up one of her hairbands and bring it to my lips, my smirk falls as a searing realization bowls through my chest.
The girl is fused to me—every fucking part of me. I don’t know how I’m going to cut her out when the time comes. How can I make a plan for the future when I can’t see past the length of my dick, especially when Penny’s on the end of it?
Muscles tightening, I reach for my cell for release. I have this habit of playing her hotline ramblings through the speakers when I’m in the car alone. I’d never let the thought slide into my head fully-formed, but I have a sad feeling it’s because her voice filling the car makes it feel like she’s in the passenger seat, talking shit to me until she falls asleep.
I connect to the Bluetooth and click on the most recent log. Her calls have diminished significantly in the last week, from a half-dozen a day to one or less. I don’t know if it’s because the cell signal on the boat isn’t that great, or because I’m around most of the time.
Glancing at the timestamp on my cell screen, I realize the call is from less than an hour ago. I press play, and settle in.
It’s pathetic. The moment her voice floats out of the speakers and touches my ears, I’m smiling into my knuckles. She starts off summarizing her morning—I ate eggs, lost a few games of Mario Kart, then went into the library to read.She then moves on to bitching aboutWeight Training for Dummies. I don’t know why I bothered picking this one up,she says dryly, thethumpof a book hitting a hard surface echoing down the line.My arms get shaky brushing my hair. How am I going to pick up a dumbbell?
Amusement fills me, then wilts around the edges. Maybe it’s the narcissist in me, but I loathe that she’s never mentioned me to the hotline. She ate the eggsImade her, lost a few games tome.I’d understand if she didn’t talk about anyone else, either, but she does. Matt, Rory, Wren, Tayce—they all have starring fucking roles in her calls.
The irritation is making me feel all irrational and hot,so I stab the pause button and fester in the silence. I crack the window, hoping the icy wind will bring my senses back to me.
Because even when she pisses me off I still want to please her, I flick my indicator on, swing onto Main Street, and stop outside the diner. A glance in the rearview mirror confirms Griffin does too.
I put the car in park. Kill the engine. And then there’s that hand on the nape of my neck again, only this time it squeezes harder.
Every made man expects death, so why at every funeral do the living mutter that they never saw it coming? I guess no one likes to believe it’ll come for one of their own at the most mundane of times, like on a weekday afternoon outside a fast-food joint that sells two-for-one burgers.