I stare at it, mesmerized by the vivid hue.
“Try it on,” the manager urges, pulling the ring off its stand.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Reyna starts to protest. But the manager has seized her hand and is already sliding the ring onto her left ring finger.
She yanks her hand away, but it’s too late.
The ring sparkles on her finger like a big, brilliant drop of blood.
She holds her hand out as far away from her body as it will reach and gapes at it with wide, unblinking eyes. She’s pale, and her hand is trembling.
I’m not sure, but I think she’s about to vomit.
Very gently, I grasp her wrist and slide the ring off her finger. The tattoo on her skin appears somehow darker, the slanting script seeming to crawl like hissing snakes.
I blink, and the illusion is gone.
Reyna murmurs something in Italian, then exhales a shaky breath.
“It is, isn’t it?” says the manager, beaming.
I hand the ring back to him. “You know Italian?”
He nods. “My mother was born in Rome. I never lived there, but we were brought up as kids speaking it at home. I took some college courses as well.”
Reyna pulls her arm from my grip. “Please excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”
“Yes, of course. Just through that archway. Second door on your left.”
Nodding distractedly, she hurries away without looking back.
As the manager is putting the ring back into the case, I say in a low voice, “Did you happen to see the tattoo on my fiancée’s ring finger?”
“Yes, Mr. Quinn, I did.”
“What does it say?”
When he looks at me quizzically, I smile at him. “She’s too shy to tell me herself.”
He chuckles. “Well, I suppose that makes sense. It is a little awkward.”
“How so?”
“Anyone with the words ‘never again’ tattooed where a wedding ring would sit probably has some strong feelings about matrimony. You must’ve been very persuasive.”
Never again.
It hits me like a kick in the gut: a powerful urge to unalive her already-dead husband.
With a new sense of urgency, I ask, “What did she say to you about the ring?”
His smile is smug. “That it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen in her life.”
He whips out a business card from his suit pocket and writes something on the back. Then he slides it across the glass case toward me.
I pick it up, read the price of the red diamond, and almost laugh out loud.
Twenty million dollars.
Flipping over the card to read his name, I say, “Tell me, Lorenzo, if you were an eighteen-year-old girl, which of the pink ones would you like?”
He frowns in confusion. “Eighteen?”
“It’s a long story.”
On the drive back to the house, Reyna is silent.
She has an expression on her face that I’ve never seen before. It’s a mix of longing and loneliness, pain and sadness.
A kind of sadness that makes her look lost.
“You want to talk about it, viper?”
She glances at me, then turns away, shaking her head. “Talking never helps anything.”
“I know a few therapists who’d disagree with you.”
“You say that like you actually know therapists.”
“I do.”
I feel her attention sharpen, but she doesn’t look at me. “Personal friends of yours, or…？”
I shrug. “I went to counseling for a few years. Tried a few different ones.”
Now she does look at me, swinging her head around to stare at me in shock. “You?”
I grumble, “Don’t make it sound so bloody implausible.”
“Not implausible, impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re you!”
“Whatever the fuck that means.”
“Did these therapists know what you do for a living?”
“No. I never talked about my work.”
“What did you talk about?”
After a moment to gather my thoughts, I say, “The meaning of life. The futility of revenge. How forgiveness isn’t for the other person, it’s for you. How to go on when you don’t have a reason for living.”
Her silence is profound. I don’t risk looking at her.
I can feel her looking at me, though, and that’s enough.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I exhale heavily. “When I was a young man, there was a time when all I did was think about dying. I wished for it, every day. I’d put myself in all these crazy situations, tempting fate.” My chuckle is dark. “I was suicidal.”
“Why is that funny?”
“Because I could easily kill another man, but I never found the guts to kill myself.”
She says softly, “Oh, Quinn. Not killing yourself wasn’t an act of cowardice. It was an act of courage. It takes so much more bravery to keep living when you’re in pain than it does to give up.”
When I look over at her and our eyes meet, it feels like I plugged myself into a socket. Electricity, snapping hot, courses through my veins. Even the air feels charged with a current. My hair is probably standing on end.
She murmurs, “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re alive.”
I can tell she immediately regrets that, because she closes her eyes, shakes her head, and turns away.
We don’t speak for the rest of the ride. As soon as I pull up into the circular driveway and stop, she jumps out of the car and hurries into the house. I sit there with the engine running, fighting the need to run after her.
Then I text Declan that I need something to keep me distracted for the next week.
Preferably something violent.
17
Rey
The rest of the week flies by.
A rep from the Vera Wang atelier in Manhattan comes to the house with wedding gowns for Lili to try on. Since we don’t have enough time to have a custom dress made, we have to buy something off the rack and have it fitted. Luckily, Mamma is an excellent seamstress and can do the adjustments.
Lili runs to the restroom twice to throw up and breaks down into tears three times while trying on dresses. But we get through it and decide on a gorgeous A-line chiffon-and-lace gown. The skirt is flowing with a short train, and the bodice is detailed with sequins and seed pearls. She looks like an angel in it.
A teary, miserable angel.
When I ask her how she’s holding up, she says darkly, “You don’t want to know.”
The last time I felt this helpless, a premeditated murder was right around the corner.
On Friday, the day before the wedding, we fly to Boston on Gianni’s jet. I’ve packed everything Lili will need to start her new life. Except for antidepressants.
She has a wild, desperate look in her eyes that I don’t like.
With a dozen armed guards in tow, we check into the Four Seasons under an assumed name, taking the presidential suite for the four of us. The rest of the rooms on the floor are empty, because Gianni made sure to book them all.
Paranoia is driving him crazy.
He still doesn’t have any idea who the men were who invaded the house. Despite all his power and his contacts in the underworld, he hasn’t been able to unearth a clue.
The lack of information is unnerving. There’s always someone willing to talk for a price—or be persuaded to, under threat—but not this time. No one seems to know anything.