Chapter 9 Hollow Echo
HOLLOW ECHO
Matteo
Ale has his arm tight around Rory. He whispers something, and she slaps him with the ridiculous toilet-paper bouquet Serena forced on her, laughing like she’s light enough to float.
He looks like he’s on top of the fucking world, the explosion that nearly ruined his life long forgotten.
Ever since Rory blew into his life, the scars no longer make him look haunted. They make him look alive.
Cazzo, and now they’re pregnant.
The word gnaws at me like a rusted blade. He and Rory are about to step into something new, something permanent. A family. That kid’s going to be born into chaos and danger, but if anyone can build a fortress out of love, it’s Ale.
I should be happy. And I am. Sort of. But it digs at me too, the hollow echo in my own chest. The one woman I ever really gave a damn about is long gone, and I’ve got nothing to show for it except empty nights and too much whiskey.
I drain the last of mine and glance up at the mezzanine balcony that rings the club. That’s when it hits me again. Movement. Just the edge of a figure, blonde hair catching the chandelier glow for a second before vanishing into shadow.
“Matty?” Rory calls, tugging me back to the present.
“Where are you going?” She’s radiant in the commotion, paper tiara crooked, and emerald eyes lit with laughter.
Ale’s hand stays on her hip, protective and possessive but most of all proud.
For a second, I wonder if she can feel that spark of life inside her already.
I force a grin. “Just making sure no one sneaks in a stripper.”
Serena howls, Alessia nearly chokes on her prosecco, and the boisterous anarchy swells again. They buy it. Ale’s sharp gaze cuts to mine. He knows better.
I shake it off, give him my best devil-may-care smirk, and push away from the table.
The stairs to the VIP balcony creak under my steps, muffled by the bass thrum of pop music and the cackle of aunts demanding another round of champagne. I move slowly, steady, hand brushing the inside of my jacket where the weight of the pistol rests. Just in case.
The balcony is empty except for one of the guards who’s posted at the far end. But his gaze is pinned to the guests on the floor below. Nothing unusual. But the hair on the back of my neck is prickling, and I’ve learned never to ignore that instinct.
I scan every corner, every shadow. Nothing. No blonde. No assassin.
Still, the itch won’t leave me.
Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe it was just some random guest, or maybe I really am seeing her everywhere because I can’t get her out of my head.
Cat.
Her name tastes like whiskey and regret on my tongue.
I brace my hands on the balcony rail, looking down at the cousin crew below.
Ale’s laughing and Rory’s glowing. Serena’s holding up more skimpy lingerie while Bella and Alessia cackle, and the aunts pretend to look mortified when in reality we all know they were ten times worse at our age.
They must have been to lockdown our ruthless fathers.
It should feel like home. It should feel safe. But something in my gut says otherwise.
And as much as I tell myself it’s impossible that sweet, shy Caitríona could ever turn into the assassin that haunts me now, I can’t shake it.
I squeeze my eyes closed as memories of the past threaten to resurface. Now is not the time, coglione. I have to focus, not get lost in that perfect, sun-kissed summer.
Drawing in a breath, I block out the sounds of laughter and clinking champagne glasses. Up here in the VIP level, it’s quiet. Too quiet.
Twisting my head over my shoulder, I catch sight of the Gemini guard positioned by the elevator opposite me. He gives me a faint nod when our gazes meet.
I catch the citrusy scent before I see anything, the faintest trace of something on the air.
My lungs hitch. It’s not D&G’s latest perfume, not some new high-end lemon vodka.
It’s something sharper, darker and familiar in a way I can’t place.
Or my brain doesn’t want me to. It’s the salty air and the summer sun threaded with the faint citrus bite of adrenaline.
My hand drifts toward the gun at my hip as my pulse spikes.
There.
A sound. Barely audible. A soft scuff of leather on polished tile. I whirl toward the corner where the shadows are the thickest, halfway between me and the guard by the elevator.
My heart catapults up my throat.
It’s her.
She’s dressed in black from head to toe, the same sleek mask hiding her face. My ghost. My trigger-happy stalker. For a split second, we just stare at each other. The air between us snaps tight, a live wire ready to ignite. The room narrows to the space between her mask and my gun.
Then she bolts.
“Merda—” I’m already moving. I should call for the guard, call for backup, but for some reason I can’t explain, I need to be the one to catch her.
She’s fast and silent, I’ll give her that. She vaults a velvet rope and dives for the window at the far end. I cock my head over my shoulder as I run, and the guard on the other side of the balcony hasn’t even noticed the commotion. Good.
I pump my arms faster, my dress shoes smacking the tile. By the time I shoulder through the pile of stacked chairs and storage crates, she’s already pried the latch open and slipped onto the fire escape.
I yank the Glock free and raise it, sights locking on her sleek form as she climbs. “Stop!” I shout.
She ignores me.
“Trigger!”
That gets her attention.
She cocks her head over her shoulder, and the corner of her lip curls, revealing a faint dimple. The unexpected sight has my mind reeling back in time. That smile…
She’s moving again, ripping me free of unwanted images of the past.
My finger twitches on the trigger. Just one squeeze.
A memory wedges between my sight and the barrel: salt on her lip, a laugh, a hand on my arm. My finger falters.
My breath catches, throat closing. The crosshairs blur. My pulse hammers. And for a reason I can’t fucking explain, I hesitate.
She glances back once, blue eyes flashing in the dark between the mask’s edges. The sight punches the air out of my lungs.
Then she’s through the window.
I growl a curse and launch after her. Gripping the edge of the window with my free hand, I glance down, and she’s already halfway to the ground. Merda.
The night air slams cold against my face as I rush out onto the fire escape, squeezing my body through the tiny opening. The metal groans under my weight as I reach the ladder.
Shit, this is not going to go well. It’s rusty and flimsy as all hell. “Stop, cazzo, or I’ll shoot!” I shout again, pointing the gun at her, but she’s too damned fast.
Cursing, I gingerly step down onto the first step. It creaks ominously but holds. I pray to Dio that Ale has the Velvet Vault’s fire escape up to code. Only four floors down… When I’m fairly certain it’ll hold, I dart down the rickety ladder two steps at a time.
Trigger is well below me now, scaling down like she was born for this, her boots barely whispering against the iron.
“Stop!” I roar again, but it only makes her move faster.
I leap from the last rusty platform onto the final ladder and the bolts let out a sharp squeal. The whole thing shakes like it’s ready to come off the wall. My shoes hit the metal hard, too hard.
Crack. The sharp sound sends my pulse skyrocketing. The rusty bracket snaps, and the ladder gives way beneath me.
“Fuck!”
For a second, I’m weightless, panic and numbness washing over me in the longest seconds of my life. I hit the pavement flat on my back, the impact blasting the air out of my lungs. Pain ricochets through my ribs. For a second, all I can do is gasp.
Just to my right, I hear the staccato clang of boots. Shit, she’s already on the ground, already coming for me.
This is it. The end.
I’m flat on my back, barely breathing and completely useless. My gun fell only a few feet away, but it feels like an eternity. I search for her looming shadow from the corner of my eye, for the muzzle of the gun in my face. Only it never comes.
The smack of footfalls through the alley grows distant. Not closer.
“Stop teasing me, Trigger,” I rasp, my lungs still not at full capacity after the hit. I can’t even summon the energy to move my hand, let alone think about aiming.
“It’s all part of the fun, Rossi,” she calls back but her voice is faint.
There’s something about the familiar timbre that has my body finally responding. My heart kicks up, and I push myself to my knees. But by the time I stagger to my feet and find my gun, she’s gone.
Just smoke. Just silence. And the echo of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I just stand here like an asshole for a long minute, her voice lingering in the still air. Finally, I heave in a breath before slamming my fist against the wall, fury boiling through me.
As I release a string of curses that would have Nonna rolling in her grave, I see it. Half-hidden near the base of the fire escape, caught on a jagged bolt. A scrap of black. I lunge for it, my fingers moving on their own. Her mask.
I finger the satin, lacey material and turn it over in my hand. The fabric is still warm from her skin, faintly scented with citrus and smoke. My pulse spikes all over again.
She was right here. In my sights. I should’ve ended this.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
And deep down, I know exactly why. Because the flash of ocean blue through the slits of this mask was the same hue that used to look up at me on the beaches in Sicily.