Chapter Three
Gracie
I was sitting on a picnic table a few yards from the barn. Someone’s suit jacket—one of Matteo’s men, I was sure—was draped around my shoulders. It was meant to stave off the shivers racking my body. But they weren’t from the cold. It was just the adrenaline flooding my system with nowhere to go.
“I’m not good with makes and models,” I said, glancing up at the detective standing in front of me in his ill-fitting brown (of all colors) suit.
All the partygoers and staff were being questioned by officers. But it looked like Perish, Matteo Grassi, and I were getting the star treatment, each of us being questioned by detectives.
“But if you have, like, a book of them, I’m sure I could narrow it down.” I mentally forced myself to focus on the headlights, the shape of the front, the little details that might distinguish one type of car from another.
“Did you see any faces?”
“I… yes. I mean, just for a split second,” I added, the memory flooding back. It was just a beat before I suddenly found myself flat on my back, with Perish’s hands cradling my head and his massive body crushing my chest.
The memory had a warm sensation flooding through my chest. Then moving lower, pooling a bit beneath my navel.
“Do you have a description?” the detective asked, his tone a little sharp.
I sucked in a deep breath and mentally tamped down my frustration at his tone.
Sure, I knew who my father was. I knew who my uncles, aunts, and cousins were. But that didn’t mean this guy should be treating me like a criminal. Like, dare I even think it, like I had this coming?
“I, uh, yeah. He was a white guy. He was in the car, so I can’t say his height. But he had an inverted triangle face shape and—”
“An ‘inverted triangle face shape?’” he repeated, dubious.
I didn’t bother to tell him that I’d been really down one winter and had been debating a drastic haircut. That I went down the rabbit hole of which hairstyles worked for each face shape.
It all became a bit of a hyper fixation for a while. Long enough to distract me from my low mood so I never actually did anything dramatic to my hair.
“Yes, a face that is widest here,” I said, making a line across my forehead. “And thins toward the chin.”
“So, a wide forehead,” the detective said.
I bit back the urge to correct him. Because, no, it wasn’t the same thing. You could have a wide forehead with different face shapes. But what good would come from telling someone who had no idea about such things that little detail?
Sometimes my cousins accused me of being too meek.
I liked to think I just knew when to choose my battles.
There was no use arguing with an NBPD detective.
This guy probably already made his mind up about me as soon as he heard my full name and connected me to my father. Then, by extension, to the club.
“Anything else?”
“His nose was crooked like it had been broken sometime. I couldn’t make out his eyes, but they seemed dark.”
“A guy with a wide forehead, bent nose, and dark eyes. Great.” He jotted down a note.
“Clark,” a man said, moving up beside the detective questioning me.
“Vaughn,” Clark greeted back.
“Got anything to go on?”
“Not really. A car she might be able to identify. A basic face.”
“A guy with an inverted triangle face, dark eyes, and a previously broken nose,” I repeated, hoping this detective might take me more seriously.
“You saw the car and the shooter?” Vaughn asked.
“Yes. Very briefly, but yes.”
“Would you be able to come down to the station to—”
“She barely had anything to describe,” Clark interrupted.
To that, Vaughn’s gaze cut to Clark, giving me the impression that he wasn’t fond of the guy. Hard to believe.
“What’s your name, hon?” Vaughn asked.
“Gracie.”
“Gracie, would you be willing to talk to a sketch artist? And flip through some car images?”
“Yeah, sure.”
I refrained from glancing over toward where someone was questioning Perish and Matteo Grassi.
Some part of me wanted to ask them if it was okay to do those things.
I’d been orbiting this world for long enough to know that when it came to issues like this, they generally chose not to involve the police.
They almost always wanted to handle justice their own way.
After painstakingly looking into the threat.
But the cops had arrived quickly. And, seeing who we were, were just as quick to separate us before we could speak about what to (or not to) say to them.
My dad’s words played in my head from one of the many speeches I’d gotten when growing up about the issue of law enforcement.
“When in doubt, sweetie, be honest but vague until you can talk to one of us. You never want to get caught in a lie. But that doesn’t mean you need to give them the full truth.”
I was going to go ahead and trust those words still held true.
Then, after talking to the mafia and the club, I could decide just how accurate a description I would give to the sketch artist.
“As soon as possible would be best. While the images are still fresh in your mind. Our sketch artist will be in tomorrow, if you’re available.”
“I, uh, yeah. Okay.”
“Great. I think that will be all. Do we have her contact information?” he asked Clark. He got a grumbling answer. Then the two of them both walked away.
I still didn’t dare approach Perish or Matteo.
Instead, I made my way back over toward the catering staff and guests who, I assumed, saw nothing, since they were inside. They were all standing around, faces confused, shifting uncomfortably without anyone to guide them since the police officers walked off to talk to the detectives.
“Is everyone okay?” I asked, gathering up my shaky sense of authority.
Yes, I was good at what I did. But it was really difficult at times for me to see myself as, let alone act as any sort of leader.
“We didn’t even know anything was happening for a while,” the divorcee admitted. “I mean, we were all really tipsy.”
That was an understatement. When I’d exited, they were all skirting that line between fun tipsy and completely shit-faced.
“And the music was so loud and the… entertainment…” another of the women said, her face flushing lobster-red.
The ‘entertainment’ was still standing in his barely-there thong, not looking the least bothered by his near nudity.
“But then there was a break in the music and we heard the thunking sounds…”
“And then a bullet shattered the ice man’s chest.”
I glanced past the women and into the barn, seeing the collapsed ice figure.
“It was two feet away from me,” another woman, pale as a sheet, declared.
One of her friends put an arm around her.
“What is this world coming to?” another asked. “You can’t even attend a little divorce party without getting shot at.”
I tamped down the guilt that immediately built inside of me. Because I knew who this venue belonged to. I knew there was no such thing as guaranteed safety in the criminal world. Not even for their legitimate businesses.
I hadn’t chosen the venue.
It had been in my book of choices.
The divorcee liked the barn.
It wasn’t my place to try to persuade her otherwise.
“I was having the time of my life before this, though,” the divorcee said.
“It really was so fun,” another of the women said.
“And, hey, the shootout will make for a thrilling story for all your future first dates.”
My stomach, which had tangled itself into knots, loosened. I hated to admit, after such a serious incident, that I was worried about the reputation of my business. About low star ratings and them not recommending me to their friends.
Silly worries, in the grand scheme of things, but my business was still in its infancy. I couldn’t even quit my day job yet. I needed every event to go well.
“You really did work magic,” the divorcee said, giving me a soft, knowing smile. Like she understood that, aside from my worries about everyone’s safety and mental health, that I was concerned about my business as well.
I chatted with the guests and staff for a few more minutes before the police finally told us we could head out.
The limo collected the drunken women with their penis-printed gift bags full of books and sex toys. I helped the caterer load things back into their truck and watched them drive away.
I made my way back into the barn, stripping tables of trash and compiling all the leftover food to drop off at the clubhouse.
It wasn’t until all the busy work was finally done that my mind would let me think back to the event, to how close I’d been to having my body riddled with bullets.
If not for Perish and his giant body pushing mine to the ground and trapping me beneath him.
I knew it was the same way any of the club members would have reacted. All the way up from my uncles to my cousins to the prospects with no prior history with us.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it felt more, I don’t know, personal.
Which was stupid.
I mean, it was literally just a human shield sort of situation.
But the second his body was pressed to mine, my mind went… places.
Weird, unexpected, primal places.
I mean, I’d known Perish for a long time already. In a distant way. It wasn’t like we hung out or anything. The girls and I spent less and less time at the clubhouse now that several of them were busy falling in love, getting married, and building lives.
So, while I knew the guy well enough to know his fixation with the lawn, feeding squirrels and birds, and the candy he liked, that was the extent of it.
It was never deeper than that.
And because of the way we girls were raised, we knew that prospects were simply not relationship material.
Did that rule sometimes make the girls, especially Layna and Billie, somehow want them even more? Sure.
For me, though, there was a mental block up about the club guys. While I had eyes and could plainly see that they were all objectively good-looking, I didn’t actually feel any attraction to them.
Until Perish’s body was pressed to mine.