47. Shelby
47
SHELBY
M ia is like a sister who already knew what I needed before I could say it out loud.
And maybe she was right.
So now I’m packed into the backseat of Mia’s sleek little coupe, a duffel at my feet, watching the city fade behind us as we wind through the gates of the Gatti estate.
She says we’re having a girls' night later at Allegra’s house.
A sleepover.
Just the women. Just the ones who know what it’s like to survive fire and walk away with the burns still healing.
I didn’t realize how badly I needed this until I said yes.
The safety. The quiet. The promise of laughter I might not have to fake.
It feels… like the start of something new.
Not peace—but maybe something close enough to touch.
The house is already alive when we arrive.
Not loud in the traditional sense—there’s no music blaring, no chaotic shouting—but alive in the way a place gets when it’s filled with history, with people who know every bruise on each other’s hearts and still choose to show up. The energy vibrates under my skin, something warm and electric. Like stepping into a current I don’t yet understand.
Scar’s house stands at the edge of the Gatti compound, nestled into one corner of the estate like it’s been there forever—elegant, bold, and quietly impenetrable. Just like the man it belongs to.
We’re not at Mia’s, not technically. Instead, we’re across the grounds at one of the four sprawling homes that form a square on this vast stretch of land. The center of it all is a garden—lush, untamed in the way only intentional landscaping can be. A marble gazebo sits like a crown in the middle of it, surrounded by jasmine and climbing roses, fairy lights strung between the trees. It looks like something out of a dream. Or a memory. One I don’t belong to.
Mia walks ahead of me, arms loaded with groceries. Maxine holds the door open with her hip, a bottle of wine dangling from her fingers, her expression unreadable as always. Inside, the space smells like warmth—simmered tomatoes, soft vanilla, and something sharp and citrusy beneath it, like sangria and old secrets.
The moment I step in, I feel the weight of it.
Too many voices. Too much movement. Too much love being thrown around in careless handfuls like confetti, and I don’t know where to stand without feeling like I’m in the way.
I linger near the entrance, half in shadow, still gripping my overnight bag like it might shield me from the sheer force of this family.
Mia doesn’t let me fade. She starts introducing the women—one by one, like an unofficial Gatti roll call.
Tayana, sultry and sarcastic, with eyes like a loaded gun and a laugh that could kill. She belongs to Rafi, the youngest brother, and I suspect she’s the only one who can handle him.
Jacklyn—black eyeliner, razor wit, and a voice that cuts through the noise like a song you didn’t know you loved. She’s with Lucky, the sharpest tongue of the Gatti men.
Allegra, graceful and golden, radiates the kind of quiet strength that doesn’t need to announce itself. She’s Scar’s wife, and the way she carries herself makes sense of the name—she’s clearly survived things and made art out of the wreckage.
Lula is here too—Kanyan’s woman. She doesn’t say much at first, but there’s a fire in her that simmers just below the surface. I recognize it because I carry the same kind.
And then there’s Maxine.
The one who belongs to no one.
Who takes up space like she owns it.
Who doesn’t need a Gatti to be formidable.
She’s slicing cheese with unnecessary force, building a charcuterie board like it’s personal. There’s no wedding ring on her finger, and she’s fury and grace in equal parts. Something about her makes my throat tighten.
Mia glances over at me, her brows lifting. “You okay?”
I nod, but it’s a lie.
I feel like a placeholder in a room full of women who’ve earned their place with blood, fire, and loyalty. Like they’ve survived a hundred battles together and I’m just the bruised outsider they found bleeding in the dirt.
Jackie raises her glass and grins. “You’re finally here, angel. Come in. We’ve already dragged our men through the dirt—now it’s your turn.”
I manage a smile. “I don’t even know if I have a man.”
Maxine doesn’t look up. “If he had it his way, you’d be living in his closet and answering to his last name already.”
“Possessive,” Tayana sings, flipping her braid over her shoulder. “It's their native tongue.”
Laughter echoes around the room, and for once, it doesn’t feel pointed. It doesn’t feel like I’m the punchline. It feels like... maybe I’m being folded into something.
Allegra hands me a glass of something pink and dangerous. “You’re safe here, Shelby. We don’t bite unless invited.”
You’re safe here.
The words hit harder than they should.
I haven’t felt that in weeks. Maybe years. And for a moment—just a breath—I want to cry. Because I think I believe her.
We sprawl across the floor like teenagers at a sleepover, pillows everywhere, blankets in disarray, snacks covering every inch of the coffee table. Someone plays soft music. Mia lights a honey-and-bourbon candle that smells like home in a house I’ve never lived in. Maxine declares all phones must go in a basket. “This is sacred time,” she says. “Sisterhood. Wine. No digital bullshit.”
There’s a lull in the conversation—just for a breath—and then Tayana kicks her legs up onto the couch dramatically and groans.
“Okay, I need to know,” she says, pointing a Dorito at the group like it’s a weapon. “Is it normal for your man to get offended when you say you want a five-minute shower alone?”
Allegra snorts into her wine. “Offended? Scar looked like I cheated on him with the showerhead. ”
Mia raises an eyebrow. “Brando once stood in the hallway with his arms crossed because I didn’t invite him in to pee next to me. That man has no boundaries.”
Laughter echoes around the room, warm and bright.
Jackie grins wickedly. “Lucky came into the bathroom once while I was tweezing my eyebrows and said—and I quote—‘Don’t touch your face, it’s mine now.’ Like he owns my eyebrows.”
“Oh my God,” I laugh, the sound slipping out before I can stop it. “That’s borderline terrifying.”
Maxine lifts her wine glass. “To our unhinged, possessive psychos. May they never learn about healthy attachment styles.”
We all clink glasses.
“I swear,” Lula says, curling deeper into a blanket, “Kanyan breathes down my neck in the kitchen like he’s afraid I’ll disappear behind the fridge.”
Tayana smirks. “They’re like wolves. Big, growly, territorial wolves. But, you know, hot.”
“Hot wolves,” Jackie agrees. “We’re basically living in a supernatural fanfic.”
The conversation dissolves into laughter and lazy teasing. Allegra passes around a tub of chocolate-covered almonds. Someone opens another bottle of wine. The energy shifts—still light, still playful—but there’s something softer underneath now. Something grounding.
I’m not saying much. Just listening. Watching the way they lean into each other without hesitation. The casual way they touch—nudges, shared blankets, a foot draped over someone else’s legs. These women know each other. Deeply. Intimately.
They’ve built something here. Something I’ve never had.
And I didn’t realize how much I needed it until now.
Maxine catches my eye from across the room and gives me a small, knowing smile. Not pushy. Just... there.
“You’re doing okay?” she mouths.
I nod.
I think I mean it.
There’s a beat of silence as everyone sips, breathes, lets the moment settle.
Then Jackie perks up, eyes gleaming with mischief as she pulls a deck of cards from somewhere behind a throw pillow. “Truth or drink, bitches. You’re not allowed to lie, but you are allowed to regret.”
By round three, the questions turn sharper.
“Biggest fear?”
“Worst sex?”
“Ever cheated?”
“Ever killed someone?”—that one from Tayana, half-smirking, half-serious. Nobody answers.
When the circle lands on me, and someone asks what I regret most, I sip my wine instead of speaking.
But Mia leans over, her shoulder pressing against mine, and whispers, “You don’t have to earn your place here, Shelby. You already have it.”
The air shifts.
The room goes still—not awkward, just weighted. Like everyone feels the moment crystallize between us. Like something unspoken just settled into the space and changed it forever.
Then Jackie snorts and ruins it, bless her soul.
“So, Mia. What’s it like sleeping next to Brando when he’s carrying a gun and a moral crisis?”
“I swear he growls in his sleep,” Mia says, deadpan. “Like a feral bear with feelings.”
Tayana wheezes. “I knew he was a growler!”
Allegra turns to me, smirking over the rim of her glass. “And Mason? Does he snore? Or just smolder silently like the tortured bastard he is?”
I blink, heat rushing to my face. “He... holds on. In his sleep. Like if he lets go, I’ll disappear.”
No one laughs.
The silence isn’t heavy—it’s sacred.
“You should let him,” Maxine says gently. “When you’re ready.”
And somehow, that’s the moment that undoes me.
Not the wine. Not the teasing. Not even the comfort.
Just those three words.
When you’re ready.
Because they don’t expect me to be healed. They’re not asking for a performance. They’re not waiting for me to be fearless.
They just want me to come home to myself.
And maybe—eventually—to him.
I curl deeper into the nest of blankets, the soft scratch of knit throws against my arms, the hum of music, the pulse of shared pain.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone.