Scrunching my nose up at him, I elbow him in the side and he laughs, and I feel so damn proud of myself for making him laugh when only minutes ago it seemed like his head was a mess.
“So, the beach house?” I question.
He nods, glancing at the wall beyond me, probably piecing together our next moves. “Our flight leaves tomorrow afternoon. We’ll have to stop and pick up at least a suitcase for you, just so it doesn’t look weird that you’re going on vacation with no belongings. I got you a fake passport, but with what just happened tonight… We don’t want anyone to recognize you leaving the country tomorrow.”
“That would probably be less than ideal,” I agree, nodding. My thoughts get a little heavier again, wondering what could go wrong. Pietro had some cops in his pocket, but I do
n’t know how far his reach went. What if someone did recognize me somehow? What if the police think I’m somehow responsible for what went down tonight?
Apparently noticing my concern, he adds, “I doubt they will. There are too many bodies to identify and with the explosions, they won’t get them all, but it was your mother’s party. In all likelihood, it will be assumed you were there.”
“What’s my new name?” I ask.
“Adriana White.”
My eyebrows rise an inch or so. “That’ll take some getting used to. Are you still Liam Hunt?”
Nodding, he says, “I had no real need to change mine. Plus my property there is in my name, and I have been there before, so people could’ve noticed.”
I can’t fight another smile, thinking of me at Liam’s property. “A beach house, huh?”
His hand lazily skates up and down my arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Think you can get used to that? Sand and ocean in your backyard, a covered cabana on the beach so the sun doesn’t poison you in the first half hour.”
“I am a little pale for the beach,” I acknowledge. “We should pick up some suntan lotion.”
His hand creeps around my side to my back. “And a bikini.”
“I pictured you more in swim shorts, but hey, to each his own.” I’ve barely finished my joke and he’s tickling me, but it’s just an excuse to touch me. I laugh and wiggle, telling him to stop, and he relents easily. I’m snug against his body by that point, and I’m so full of dreams of our future and absolute affection for this man that I feel like I must be glowing with it. Closing the distance myself, I brush my lips against his.
It’s the first night of the rest of our lives, and I don’t intend to waste it sleeping.
“MAFIA MASSACRE.”
That’s what they’re calling it. I sit in the plastic seat at the airport in a dress and sandals we picked up at a thrift shop, staring up at the mounted television. An expressionless blonde newscaster offers up minimal details, throwing around words like “suspected Mafioso” and urging that while it’s too soon for speculation, police are investigating.
Liam drops into the seat beside me, offering me a paper cup of warm apple cider. He’s watching the television instead of me as I accept it with a murmured, “thank you,” and bring the cup to my lips. It’ll be hot, but he was in line for a while and we’ll have to board the plane in just a few minutes.
“Should we get in line?” I ask, nodding toward the assembled lines of people lingering near
“Not yet,” he says, eyes on the TV. With a nod toward it, he asks, “What’s that?”
I take a casual glance around, even though it’s unlikely anyone would be eavesdropping on us. There is a woman in a blue shirt who keeps staring at Liam, but by the look of things, it’s because she’s attracted to him. Liam picked us seats against the wall so we didn’t have to sit back-to-back with strange people and chance them listening in on our conversation, anyway.
Satisfied that no one is paying attention, I’m still vague. “That mafia story we saw earlier.”
“Anything new?”
I shake my head wordlessly, looking back to the television. They’ve moved on from the story, so I glance down at my cup and take a scalding sip.
A little lower, Liam asks, “You okay?”
Flashing him a brave smile, I say, “All good.”
It does stir things up a little, seeing it on the television screen like that. Seeing footage of the house I grew up in blown to shit, hearing my life talked about as a news item.
Not my life anymore, I remind myself. That life is over, and I’m glad. I won’t miss it. I won’t miss any of them—I refuse.
On that note, I ask, “What happens when we get there? Are there people meeting us, or…? Will we get to see the house today?”