Chapter 33
A FRIEND
Caitríona
We keep the windows dark as the car slips off the motorway and into a quiet London neighborhood that looks like it was built to mind its business.
Terraced houses stand in sober rows, hedges trimmed with precision.
It’s the kind of street where nothing bad happens because everyone’s decided it won’t.
It seems perfect.
“End of the cul-de-sac.” I point through the windshield as Matteo steers through the silence. “It’s the one with the blue door.”
He eases to the curb. Our second car, driven by Leo, idles half a block back. His voice crackles indistinctly across the mic in Matteo’s ear. We flew to London with only Matteo’s most trusted guard, picking up a few locals on the way. The smaller the crew the better when it comes to Siobhan.
Matteo cracks the door, and an icy chill seeps in. London’s cold is a different breed. It’s polite until it gets into your bones. He comes around the car and opens the door, flashes of the cocky gentleman I once knew surging to the surface.
“You ready?” he asks.
Siobhan is asleep, her head against the opposite window. I hate to wake her. The exhaustion is carved into the dark shadows across her face.
As if he’s read my mind, he glances between us. “I’ll carry her.” He slides into the backseat, lifts my sister effortlessly and cradles her against his chest. A part of me cracks wide open.
But I bury it down and trail behind him toward the quiet row house.
The blue door opens before we lift the brass knocker.
Saoirse stands there in an oversized jumper and bare feet, hair in a topknot, and eyes as sharp as the knives she hides in the kitchen.
She’s not quite family; she’s my estranged great-aunt’s best friend.
Her gaze skates over me, then lands on Siobhan and softens.
“Inside, all of you,” she mutters, ushering us in. To Matteo and Leo, she flicks two fingers toward the hallway. “No shoes. This is England.”
The house is warm and smells like detergent and cinnamon.
Siobhan’s lids flutter open as we cross the threshold.
She eyes Matteo who’s still holding her, then me and I give her a reassuring smile.
She keeps it together like a champion as Matteo releases her and Saoirse folds her into a hug that almost undoes me.
“Guest room,” Saoirse whispers. “The shower’s hot, and there are clean clothes on the bed. You’ll stay hidden until necessary. My neighbors think I’m boring so let’s keep it that way.”
“Thank you,” Siobhan manages.
“I’ll be right back.” I tick my chin at Saoirse.
She nods, understanding flashing, then I lead my sister down the hallway. When we reach the guest bedroom, Siobhan pauses at the door, glancing back down the corridor. Matteo stands in the foyer, muscles tense, something I can read even at a distance. “Who is he, Cait?”
“A friend,” I repeat.
“The same friend from that summer in Sicily? The one who lives in New York?” she presses. There’s a wry twist to her mouth. She’s braver than is good for her. I never should’ve told her about the summer. Not that I told her everything, but the girl is remarkably perceptive.
“Yes,” I finally answer, and that’s all I give. She huffs, not satisfied, but lets it die. “You remember the rules, right? No phones, no windows after dark, and if anyone says my name at the door, it isn’t me.”
“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
“And you can’t tell—"
“I know. I’m sworn to secrecy about all of it,” she replies, cutting me off as she holds up an invisible blade. “Cross my heart and hope to—”
“Don’t you dare,” I blurt, and she almost smiles.
The shuffle of approaching familiar footsteps sends my head craning over my shoulder. Matteo saunters closer, an uncharacteristic sheepish expression cutting into the hard lines of his jaw. “How are you holding up, kid?”
Siobhan’s brows furrow at the genuine concern in his tone. In twelve years, she’s likely never heard anything like it from our older brother. “I’m alright, I guess.”
“Good, now, go get some rest.” I try to push my little sister into the room but now Saoirse appears.
She eyes Matteo for a long minute, sharp gaze scrutinizing. Then she throws her thumb over her shoulder. “Your man has four guards in the sitting room, two at the back door, and one on the roof. Siobhan will be safer than Tiernan’s money in a Swiss vault.”
“Just as it should be.” He smiles.
Saoirse shoves her hands in her apron and swings that piercing gaze on me. “You’ll stay the night,” she decides. “You look like the underside of a bus.”
Matteo’s shaking his head, already reaching for the keys. “We should keep moving. It’s safer for everyone if we do.”
Siobhan steps between him and the door, stubborn as a saint. “You saved me. Both of you. So let me do one thing back. Rest. Please.”
The please is small and sharp. It lands.
I see it the moment Matteo’s resolve crumbles at the hitch in her voice. “Just a couple hours,” he finally concedes, not even trying to hide the exhaustion in his tone. “Then we’re gone.”
I nod. “Now, go to sleep, you.” I press a quick kiss to my sister’s forehead.
She dips her head reluctantly, and once she’s settled in the bed with the comforter drawn up to her chin, I close the door behind me.
Saoirse and Matteo still stand in the hall. Neither speaking. Or blinking.
I draw in a breath, and the room tilts in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion. I press my hand to the wall to steady the floor and feel something hot under my palm. Not the wallpaper. Me.
Saoirse’s eyes narrow as she trails my movements. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I lie, too fast.
“Cat?” Matteo’s voice is a warning and worry braided together.
I push off the wall. The movement scrapes fire along my left side, and I can’t keep in the hiss. Two heads snap in my direction. The dark sweater hides it, but the blood didn’t get that memo.
Matteo is on me before I can retreat, fingers gentle but inexorable as he finds the wet edge under my jacket. He peels back the fabric and swears softly in Italian.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” I grit out. “The bullet barely grazed me. I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” he counters, voice gone flint. “You are not fine. Fuck, Cat, it’s been hours…”
He looks at Saoirse without asking permission. “First-aid kit? I need boiled water and towels.”
She moves, admirably quickly. Matteo steers me through the corridor to the kitchen table. He doesn’t touch me more than he needs to, and I hate that I need him to.
“It’s nothing,” I try again, mostly to hear myself lie less convincingly.
He meets my eyes, a raging green storm and exhaustion. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers so quietly the words barely make it out.
Saoirse returns with a battered tin and a kettle that’s already whistling. Matteo snips my shirt at the hem without looking higher than the wound, hands steady now that there’s a task. The graze is ugly. It’s furrowed skin and burned edges, the kind that bleeds more for drama than danger.
“Hold still,” he murmurs. I do. He cleans it with practiced competence.
First saline, then iodine, applying a gentle pressure that makes my vision flicker at the edges.
He stitches two neat sutures to close what tape won’t.
I stare at the calendar on Saoirse’s fridge to keep from watching his mouth go careful in a way that ruins me.
“Almost done,” he whispers. “Just breathe.”
“I am.”
“More.”
I obey. The last knot cinches and he places the gauze with a touch like a secret, tapes it down, then finally lets himself touch the uninjured skin beside the bandage. I’m allowed one thumb’s worth of warmth.
“Thank you,” I murmur before my pride can get in the way.
His mouth tilts. “Don’t make it a habit.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He sits back on his heels, looks at me like the fight fell out of him when I wasn’t watching. For a heartbeat, we’re eighteen again and good at nothing except wanting. Then the kettle hisses itself quiet and the heaviness returns.
Saoirse appears at my shoulder with a blanket and an expression I can’t quite read. “You’ll sleep,” she declares. “The guest bedroom is clean enough for royalty.”
“I’m allergic to royalty.” The blanket lands around my shoulders anyway.
Matteo’s hand hovers like it wants to tuck it tighter, but he makes himself stop. “Just a couple of hours,” he repeats, to me, to the room, to whatever god might be listening.
Saoirse points him to the lumpy sofa. He grimaces, then shrugs like he’s been uncomfortable for days, and it doesn’t really matter.
I let them herd me down the hall. The guest room smells faintly of lavender and laundry powder. I sit on the edge of the bed and press my palm to the new bandage, feeling the steady ache like proof I’m still here.
Matteo disappears into the attached bathroom, and I assume he’s cleaning off the remains of my blood from his hands.
“Hey.” Saoirse lingers in the doorway. “That friend of yours… thank God for him.”
I nod. “He’s infuriating,” I mutter. “But useful.”
“Like you.” She throws me the ghost of a smile before her lips harden. She steps closer, lowering her voice. “He’s the one, isn’t he?”
I allow my chin to drop only a fraction.
“He still doesn’t know?”
My head whips back and forth.
“Maybe it’s time, Cait.” And before I can bite out a no, she vanishes through the doorway.
When I lie down, the house settles around me. Boots shift in the sitting room, a kettle being rinsed in the kitchen, a low murmur that might be Saoirse scolding Leo about coasters. The guards take up their quiet orbit. The rain starts again like London can’t help itself.
My lids droop, the exhaustion overwhelming.
Somehow, I manage to keep my eyes open until I hear the sharp creak of the bathroom door swinging open.
Matteo staggers out. I wait for him to turn toward the door, but instead he inches closer, cautiously at first. When I make no sound of disapproval, he folds down onto the bed, the old mattress hinges squealing their annoyance.
He says nothing.
Just sits there. Taking up space. And warming the icy chill that took hold in my bones the minute I heard Siobhan had been taken. Or maybe it was long before that.
I close my eyes and for the first time in days, the dark doesn’t come with teeth. Because tonight, Matteo is awake beside me listening for footsteps and pretending not to.
“Couple of hours,” I whisper to the ceiling. “Then we keep moving.”