Chapter 35
SOMETHING TRUE
Caitríona
Matteo stares at his phone, his lips twisting between a smirk and a scowl.
“Everything okay?” I sidle up beside him.
He doesn’t look up. “Yeah, just getting some post-mortem texts from my cousins. They’re pissed I’m dead.”
“The nerve.”
His eyes finally lift to mine and the ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Leo dropped us at Euston like contraband. There was barely a goodbye, just a nod and a warning in his eyes that said don’t make me bury you both.
The station hums like a hive, the departures board blinking, and the air smelling of coffee and wet coats. I tug my hat lower, sunglasses even lower. Matteo does the same. We’re two ghosts pretending in the daylight.
“Let’s get to the platform for the sleeper car,” he murmurs, wrist brushing mine as if by accident. It isn’t. He’s counting my pulse the way he counts exits.
“Sleeper…isn’t that fancy?”
“Only the best for you, Kitty Cat.”
“I take it you have some hidden bank accounts even your famiglia doesn’t know about that are currently funding our escape?”
“Of course, I do. I’m a professional hacker, remember? I can get money from anywhere.”
I barely suppress the grin that’s attempting to melt across my face.
We move with the tide of early morning commuters, drowning in the crowd.
I feel it first, a prickle between my shoulders.
I don’t look. Instead, I angle our reflection in the dark of a storefront instead.
Behind us, a big man with a buzzcut and a coat a size too small threads through the crowd, eyes up, scanning faces, not the shops.
One of Quinlan’s men. Has to be. Damn it.
What are they doing here? They’re much too close to Siobhan for comfort.
“Right,” I mutter without moving my mouth.
“Copy.” He doesn’t turn either.
We split up at the next platform. The man chooses me, thank God, and Matteo drifts left then vanishes around a pillar. I slow at the barriers, raising my phone like I’m unsure which QR is the ticket. Buzzcut speeds up, confidence blooming across his face like a bruise.
“Miss—” he calls, his Irish drawl like sandpaper.
I pivot hard and shoulder-check a banker into him so his arms pinwheel, phone skidding. He swears and the crowd swallows the sound, eager for a show. I hop a suitcase, cut behind a hen party and bolt for the farther barrier.
Matteo appears at my flank like a magician, one hand landing at the small of my back to steady my speed.
“Keep left,” he breathes. The scanner chirps green, the gates part, and we slip through just in time.
Buzzcut slams into the plexiglass barrier a beat later with a furious thud and a stream of Gaelic that would have my grandma rolling over in her grave.
“Run,” Matteo whispers under his breath, and we do. Our pace isn’t frantic, just fast. My gaze tracks the sleeper signs. Platform sixteen. A whistle blasts somewhere. Porters whiz by, rolling carts of overflowing luggage.
I hazard a glance over my shoulder. Buzzcut vaults the barrier with a grunt and barrels down the concourse, shoulder-first through the line. He’s too big for this kind of work, yet somehow, he uses that to his advantage.
I grab a luggage trolley, yank, and hurl it at his shins. He eats it hard, curses, and skids to the floor. People shout, but we don’t look back.
“Keep moving.” Matteo’s firm hand presses into the small of my back. I don’t hate it. It’s domineering and possessive… and for the first time in a long time, I feel taken care of.
The train waits ahead. It’s a long, dark snake with gilded letters. CALedonian Sleeper. The doors thunk as attendants call last boarding.
“Go, go!” Matteo shouts.
I don’t dare look back. Buzzcut’s heavy footfalls echo just behind us.
Matteo palms the phone displaying the QR code, the scanner flashes ACCEPTED, and we jump through the gap just as the whistle screams. The conductor yells something rude in Scots as we slip in. The doors close on Buzzcut’s outstretched fingers, missing by barely an inch.
Matteo catches me around the waist because the momentum hurls me forward. We tumble against the vestibule glass and laugh once, breathless, the big kind of laugh that only comes out when you really live.
He steers us toward the attendant, who with one look at Matteo is already dipping his head in apology for existing. “We have a private cabin under the last name Livia,” he announces.
A sharp, ugly sound erupts from my lips at the name. I throw Matteo a look, but his gaze is focused on the attendant, eyes completely avoiding mine.
The man clocks the hats, the sunglasses, the tone that says please don’t make me explain. “Aye,” he says, accent dry as toast. “Last one down.”
Matteo’s on my back, steering me through the narrow walkway.
I’m not sure I would’ve made it without the steady pressure.
My knees are still wobbling from that name.
We move past narrow doors, narrow bunks and a scorched-coffee smell.
The cabin at the end is a miracle of small kindnesses.
It has two berths, a little sink, and a window that pretends at privacy with a blind you can pull down like night.
I slide the bolt and lean my head against the cool wood. My heart tap-dances in my throat, then remembers it doesn’t have to anymore. We’re safe. Matteo peels off his hat and sunglasses and sets them square on the tiny shelf. He’s smiling like he hasn’t let himself in days.
“Livia?” The name pops out before I can stop it.
He shrugs, eyes still not meeting mine. “I thought it was appropriate.”
God, what he must think of me… “Matteo…”
“Not now, Kitty Cat. I can’t right now.” He folds his big body onto the lower berth, ducking to avoid the top bunk.
I nod, kick my hat under the bed and sink down beside him. My hands shimmy like they haven’t caught up to the rest of me. We sit in a strained silence for endless minutes. Just when I’m about to lay down and give up on conversation all together, he shifts beside me.
“Admit it,” he whispers. “You enjoyed hurling that luggage trolley at Quinlan’s goon.”
“It had a mind of its own.” A faint smirk settles across my lips. “Maybe it was a little fun.” I pause and nibble on my bottom lip. “You good?”
“Better now.” He shifts closer, too close, probably without meaning to. Maybe it’s habit or gravity and the cabin shrinks around us as our knees brush. “I don’t like Quinlan’s eyes on you. I don’t like anyone’s eyes on you.”
“Then stop making me run through London.” It’s easier to tease than dwell on the truth of his words.
“Consider it cardio,” he deadpans, playing along.
I huff and try to swallow the smile but fail. The train shudders and the platform drifts further, then completely falls away. Euston becomes a tunnel, and the tunnel becomes sprawling city, then the city becomes black glass crowned with tiny, stubborn lights.
We finally breathe.
“Do you remember the bus to Palermo?” He nudges me after a minute, voice dipping softer. “The one that broke down five times and smelled like roasted garlic?”
“It smelled like your socks,” I correct, and the image of him, nineteen, sun-drunk and smug in a ripped t-shirt, hits me so hard I have to hang on.
He grimaces. “I washed them in the sea.”
“You tried to drown them, and the sea spit them back at you. With a warning.”
His shoulder eases into mine again. “You couldn’t stop laughing.”
“You were offended.”
“I was under a spell, and for a while there, I couldn’t tell up from down.” The words walk butterflies across my ribs.
Silence again, but it’s the warm kind like steam on glass. The train rocks us into it, a meandering cradle with wifi. Our shoulders bump, the casual touch settling.
He watches my face like he’s trying to memorize the way my mouth moves when I’m not bracing for impact. “What was your favorite beach?”
“Not fair.”
“Come on play.”
“Fine.” I look out the blinds, but I’m seeing a different sea. “That little cove past the marina. The one with the crumbling staircase, and the sand that stuck for days.”
“As I recall, you got sunburned the first time we went,” he blurts, smiling. “And then you called me cruel for letting you.”
“I know, I know. You told me to reapply like six times. I told you to stop bossing me around and then stole your shirt.”
“It did look better on you.”
I swallow the noise that wants out. The air in the cabin is suddenly four degrees warmer. My hands have forgotten where to be. I press my palms to my thighs and count backwards from a hundred in terrible Italian because self-harm comes in many flavors.
He feels it. Of course he does. He turns his wrist, palm up, an offering that isn’t a demand. It’s just a place to put my hand if I want. It’s safety covered in skin.
I don’t take it because I want to kiss him so badly it’s ridiculous. And if I touch him… My mouth remembers the exact pressure it takes to make him groan. My thighs remember the exact angle that turns his name into a confession. Every cell that isn’t survival screams just for a minute.
Instead, I whisper, my voice husky, “Tell me something true.”
He thinks, and the train hums. “Sometimes in Manhattan, I’ll buy lemons I don’t need. Just to see if the smell still takes me back.” He rubs his thumb against his forefinger like he’s crushing zest there. “It does.”
My stupid heart does a stupid flip-flop. “Your turn. Ask.”
“Something true,” he echoes, and his eyes are very green in the cabin’s little light. “Do you wish you never met me?”
“No.” There’s no room for doubt in my tone. “I wish you never left though.”
He flinches, but he doesn’t look away. “Me too.”
We sit with that until it’s almost safe to breathe. The cabin knocks my shoulder into his as we take a curve, and his proximity comes with a pressure change.
He shifts so his shoulder rests against the wall, his knee open toward mine, a question written in bone. I imagine leaning in. I imagine the soft drag of his beard on my cheek, the way he tastes like summer heat and nineteen. I imagine not stopping. Ever.
“Matteo,” I whisper, and it comes out like a warning and a wish.
“Caitríona,” he breathes, the Irish easy on him now, and if names could touch, I’d be done. Another loaded pause. He reaches for a water bottle on the little sink, unscrews the cap, and hands it to me.
It’s a reprieve I didn’t ask for, and I drink it like it’s penance.
“We’ll change trains at Glasgow.” His voice is practical again, gentled at the edges. “Then we take a private car to Ayr, then the shuttle. From there, the ferry pulls out at midnight. We keep our heads down at Central, and there should be no drama.”
“No drama,” I agree, smiling despite the lie of us.
He glances at the upper berth. “Do you want to sleep for a bit?”
I stare up at the narrow mattress that would hold one of us at most. “You first.” He hasn’t slept all night and still, we both know he won’t now.
Matteo stretches one long leg, ankle brushing mine, and his hand settles palm-down on the bed between us, careful territory. “Wake me if you want me to move to the top.”
“I’ll survive right here,” I murmur.
“You always do.” Somehow, his voice is proud and broken all at once.
The train hushes around us. Somewhere toward the front, a door clanks, then goes quiet again.
I lie back, not quite touching him, our knees a whisper apart and the smell of lemons a lifetime away.
I sew my mouth shut with willpower alone.
He watches the door, and I watch the shadow his profile throws on the blind and pretend the world might forgive us one more time.
Outside, England slides north. Inside, the distance between our mouths could be crossed in half a heartbeat. I count my breaths and keep them to myself.