"Wow, someone’s done his homework. Did you study Anzo? Just in case I try to become his next husband?" I grin, but my eyes stay empty.
"I’m just warning you, Sun. I see the way you look at him. I’m not stupid. Guys like that attract naive, all-looks-no-brains guys like you. It’s like moths to a flame. Sooner or later, your pretty wings are gonna get torched."
I show him my middle finger. "Mobsters have husbands too. It’s not like they don’t have other sides, hidden from the world."
"The real question is what that side actually is. Do you want to find out?"
I can’t stop looking at Anzo, still standing with Dante and Mark Ferguson’s group.
Every so often, his eyes flick toward me. Barely noticeable, but I see it. He knows I’m here.
Martin’s mouth twists into a bitter sneer.
Another waiter passes with a tray of champagne. Martin snatches two glasses. I think one’s for me, but no, he downs the first in one go, drops the empty on the tray as the waiter walks off, and keeps the second to sip slower.
I watch him with mild disgust. I’ve had a drink now and then, but I’ve never been a fan. Booze, weed, they don’t fill the void. Sure, I might feel duller, more numb. But the emptiness stays, and feels even more… tangible.
My eyes drift to Martin’s slightly reddened face.
You should slow down,I almost say. But I don’t. Truth is, I don’t care. He can drink all he wants.
"Let’s go out to the patio. This banquet hall’s too stuffy," Martin mutters.
We step out onto a wide, elegant patio, split down the middle by a long pool. There’s a bar out here too, and a decent crowd. A young band’s playing onstage, and honestly, they’re not bad. A few couples sway on the wooden deck strung with white flower garlands. It kind of looks like a wedding setting.
"Maybe we should dance," I say in a bored voice.
Martin lifts a brow. "Seriously? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance."
"I’m decent. And I just need a distraction. Watching you pour another drink into yourself isn’t exactly thrilling."
"You and your need for thrills. Trust me, boring is the best kind of life. At least it’s safe."
"You sound like a stereotypical lawyer’s son," I mutter, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the dance floor.
The music is slow, something mellow with a soft Latin flair. Martin wraps his arm around my waist, and we start to sway.
My eyes keep drifting toward the horizon, past the pergolas laced with colorful roses that frame the edge of the patio. A bird circles the sky just above the hotel.
Is it a falcon? I feel a little shiver run down my spine. A falcon was over my head when Dogger dumped me. Is it trying to tell me something too? Warn me? A sign of change?
I’m about to make a comment about it when suddenly—
"Cutting in."
A voice snaps behind me.
I turn, but it’s not Anzo.
It’s Rocco. His scarred face, twisted into that permanently crooked expression, is right behind me. I’ll admit, I didn’t see this coming.
"No fucking way," Martin growls.
But something about Rocco’s face must’ve shut him down, because he goes completely still.
"No big deal. I’ll dance one song with him," I say, trying to smooth things over.
Martin shoots me a shocked look but, interestingly, doesn’t say a word. He just steps back, then heads straight for the bar like it’s a lifeboat.
