Page 132

Why the fuck not?

Epilogue

Kira

Iburst through the double doors of the lecture hall at a dead sprint, my backpack half-zipped and my laptop threatening to spill out with every step.

Professor Hewitt called for one more question, and my hand shot up before my brain could stop it, and now it’s 3:45 p.m and Domenico is waiting at the airport, and I’m going to be late for our honeymoon before it’s even started.

“Kira.” Vinny’s voice says from behind me, footsteps pounding the floor. “Slow down before you break your neck.”

“I can’t slow down.”

I shove through the next set of doors into the warm September air. The campus quad is full of students sprawled on the grass, enjoying the last warm days before Boston remembers it’s supposed to be miserable, and the contrast between their leisure and my panic makes me want to scream.

“Domenico’s going to kill me.”

“Pretty sure he’s not going to kill his wife on your anniversary,” Vinny deadpans, catching up beside me with that infuriating ease of his. He’s not even breathing hard. “Though if anyone could make a man reconsider marriage after one year, it’s probably you.”

The car’s parked at the curb where Vinny left it three hours ago, a black SUV that looks like every other black SUV in the DeLuca fleet except this one has the scratch on the rear bumper from when I backed into a parking meter last month.

Domenico didn’t even blink when I told him. Just said, “Next time, let Vinny park.”

Vinny hits the locks as we approach, and I yank the passenger door open, throwing my backpack onto the floor before I’m even fully inside. He’s already in the driver’s seat, engine running, pulling away from the curb before my seatbelt clicks.

“So,” he says, merging effortlessly into traffic, “want to explain why you decided today of all days to become the most engaged student in the history of higher education?”

“I asked one question,” I defend.

“One question that turned into three, and then Professor Hewitt decided you were the only person in the room worth talking to, and suddenly we’re twenty minutes past the end of class.”

Vinny shoots me a look that’s half exasperation, half affection.

“You know he has office hours, right? You could’ve saved the deep philosophical inquiry into nonprofit tax structures for a day when your husband wasn’t waiting to whisk you away on your honeymoon.”

Slumping in my seat, I press my palms against my eyes. “I know. I’m an idiot.”

“Yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “You are.”

The thing about Vinny—the thing I didn’t expect when Domenico assigned him to me a year ago—is that somewhere along the way, he stopped being just my bodyguard and started being something closer to the brother I never had.

The kind who teases me mercilessly but would also, without hesitation, put himself between me and a bullet. Which he has already done, and I think that’s when everything changed.

“Did you at least get whatever earth-shattering insight you were chasing?” he asks, weaving around a delivery truck with practiced ease.

“I did, actually.” I drop my hands and stare out the window as Boston slides past. “Turns out the tax exemption for religious organizations is more complicated than I thought. Saint Benedict’s could be leveraging way more if we restructured the fundraising arm.”

Vinny makes a noise that’s somewhere between impressed and deeply bored. “Thrilling.”

“It is thrilling,” I argue, already imagining the smile on Father Joseph’s face when I tell him. After my honeymoon, of course.

The truth is that even if I’m late, I don’t regret asking questions when I have them. Going to college is a dream I never even really knew I had. And even if Domenico has more money than sense, I won’t make light of it.

This is me making something of my life, and I want to grasp every chance. Even if it comes in the form of asking questions. Especially when, at only twenty-two, I’m already one of the oldest students in some of my classes.

Besides, what I learn here is going to help not just me, but Saint Benedict’s as well. While studying, I’ve cut back on my volunteering hours. But I’m still there every Tuesday.

“We’re going to make it,” Vinny says, checking the dashboard clock. “Traffic’s light for once. Your husband’s dramatic ass scheduled a four-thirty departure, which means we have…” He does the math in his head. “Twenty-eight minutes to get there, park, and get you through security.”