"Come on," I muttered. Somewhere in this ridiculous mansion there had to be candles. Rich people loved candles. Candles and emotional repression.
Eventually I found them. Three minutes later I was stealing a bottle of expensive whiskey and sneaking toward the elevator like a criminal. A very festive criminal.
The roof access door groaned open. Cold wind attacked my hair.
I set everything down beside a black outdoor sofa. Cake. Whiskey. Two glasses. Candles. The photographs I'd stolen from a drawer in the library. Not Angelo's room.
I wasn't stupid enough to touch anything in there. Just old family photos I'd found downstairs. Photos nobody seemed to look at anymore.
I stared at my setup. Then sighed. "Oh God."
This really was a terrible idea. Too late now.
I pulled out my phone.
ME: Emergency. On the roof.
Three dots appeared. I smiled. Of course. Even psychopaths answered emergency texts. Thirty seconds later the rooftop door opened. Santino stepped through. And stopped.
The wind caught his dark hair. The city lights painted silver across his face. For a moment he simply stared. At the cake. The candles. The whiskey. The photographs. Then his eyes landed on me.
Silence. Dangerous silence. Uh oh. I lifted one hand. "Hi."
His jaw tightened. "What is this?"
I cleared my throat. "Technically?"
His expression darkened. "Technically what, Aurora?"
I pointed at the cake. "A birthday party."
The silence somehow became worse. The wind howled across the rooftop. Far below, car horns echoed through the city. Santino didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't speak. I understood why people found him terrifying.
Not because he shouted. Because he didn't.
His gaze dropped toward the cake. Toward the candles. Toward the photographs. Then back to me. "What did you do?"
The question came out dangerously quiet. I straightened. Defensively. "I wanted to celebrate yours and Angelo's birthday."
His entire body went rigid. Oops. "Get rid of it."
I blinked. "What?"
"The cake." His voice sharpened. "The photos. The whiskey."
His eyes locked onto mine. "Get rid of all of it."
The words hit harder than they should have. Because beneath the anger wasn't disgust. Pain. Raw pain. I crossed my arms. "No."
His stare could have frozen lava. The city wind whipped my hair across my face. I shoved it away. Then glared right back at him. Because if there was one thing I excelled at, it was making terrible decisions while standing in front of dangerous men.
"You don't get to be angry."
His eyebrows rose. Slowly. Dangerously. "I don't?"
"No." I pointed at the cake. ”You buy him one every year. Do you ever remember it’s your birthday, too?”
His jaw flexed. I kept going anyway. Because apparently self-preservation had abandoned me completely. "You sit alone. You visit his grave alone. You keep an entire room frozen in time."
