Page 41 of Blood Queen
“You know,” he says, treading water closer to me now. “I think that reporter—what was her name? Marcy Saviano?—we should talk to her.”
I stare at him in shock. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I needed a break!”
“Yeah,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “But isn’t this kind of exciting too?”
He splashes water at me lightly, just enough to make me blink and realize I’m smiling back at him. He grabs my waist, tugs me under the rippling water. His warm hands against theflesh of my belly send a jolt of heat between my legs. I’ve never been touched like this before. It’s a warm and gooey feeling.
I fight against him as we sink, hold my breath and then finally kick to the surface, gasping. “You scared me!” But there’s no anger in my voice. Just laughter.
“Sorry,” he says, and he’s laughing too. “Seriously though.”
“Promise me,” I say, treading water and trying to look stern.
“Oh.” He gives me a nod, solemn. “Promise.”
“No more articles tonight?” I ask.
“Tonight is for floating,” he says, hands outstretched. There’s a glint in his eye, playful and mischievous. “Mostly on your back.”
We drift until our skin wrinkles and the night air no longer feels refreshing but cold. It reminds me of things I can’t push away. Of Truman’s warmth. Of everything waiting at the cabin, the potential energy of pages lined up on the floor, ready to tumble my world even more like dominoes.
There are still news clippings stuck to the bottom of my socks when I wake up on the couch the next morning, Truman asleep beside me.
I let him rest while I busy myself around the small kitchen, making toast with peanut butter. When he finally stirs, groggy-eyed, he looks around like he’s forgotten where he is.
Then his eyes find mine.
“God,” he says with a smile. “Still not a dream?”
“You promised,” I remind him.
“Okay! Okay.” Truman holds up his hands, laughing sheepishly. “Breakfast first.”
25
Present
The boutique smells of leather and expensive perfume, the kind of place where both are custom, and the sales associates pretend they don’t hear the whispers between women with last names that carry weight. Lucia Falcone stands in front of a wall of handbags, her manicured fingers brushing over the smooth Italian leather of a deep emerald clutch. The color is bold, rich, the kind a woman like her should wear with pride. But her eyes are dull when she looks at it.
She knows I’m watching her. She has since we stepped into this store together, since I suggested a shopping trip after calling in an old favor. Tense, wary, like a cornered animal waiting for the trap to snap shut.
“I didn’t expect you to reach out,” she says finally, lifting the clutch and turning it over in her hands. Her tone is even, practiced, but I don’t miss the way her fingers tremble slightlyon the gold clasp. “The Testas and Falcones aren’t exactly friendly these days.”
I keep my expression neutral, tilting my head as if considering the statement. “The daughters of the families have always understood things differently than the men, haven’t we?”
Lucia lets out a quiet breath, something close to a bitter laugh. “That’s true.”
I pick up a sleek black purse, examining the fine stitching. “And sometimes, it’s good to have a friend.”
Her lips press together, and for a moment, I think she’ll push back. But then she exhales, setting the clutch down. “Friendships not something we get the luxury of, Evany.”
No. We get alliances. We get calculated moves and delicate dances. We get survival.
I glance at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. She’s stunning, the way all the mafia wives are expected to be—dark waves falling over her shoulders, curves that are meant to be displayed and envied. But the makeup on her face is too heavy today, a little too perfect. And when she turns slightly, I catch it.
A bruise, faint beneath the layers of foundation, just at the edge of her jaw.
Something inside me goes cold.
