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She chuckled. “I made sure they knew it was me behind the job.”
“Jesus.”
“Got myself established with some dollars and began the emancipation process from my dad.”
If I’d been gaping before, that was nothing to now. “What?! You divorced Gerry Sullivan?”
She snorted. “You know it’s weird when you do that, don’t you? He wasn’t Gerry Sullivan to me.” Her gaze dropped to her soup. “I was his daughter, and I was trying to shake some sense into him by being a rebellious brat.”
Guilt hit me. “Sorry, Star. You know I—” I grimaced. There was no excuse, not when she was hurting. “What happened?”
“The record company swept it under the rug. It never got pushed through.”
“So you didn’t get emancipated?”
“No. I’m glad now that I didn’t, but back then I was furious.”
“I’d gather he was too?”
“No. I think he knew I was attention-seeking. I’m pretty sure that’s why Savannah’s Mom has a problem with me still.”
I frowned. “She had to recognize that you wouldn’t do something so drastic unless there were… issues.”
Her gaze found mine and, beneath my fascinated study, a blush bloomed to life on the arcs of those high cheekbones I really wanted to press my lips to. “Not everyone has as much faith in me as you do, and not everyone believes all sins can be atoned for.”
“It’s the Catholic in me,” I teased her softly, sensing that my words had meant a lot to her.
I was glad they had but I was also confused. I didn’t understand how anyone could be around her, never mind watch her grow into the woman standing here today, and not understand how she worked.
Star was loyal.
It just wasn’t a loyalty that most were accustomed to.
She made the tough decisions, the hard ones that would leave her being hated, but that would protect those she considered her family.
As someone who’d been impacted by that negatively, if her MO registered with me, I didn’t understand why it wouldn’t with people who’d known her for decades.
I’d met Savannah’s parents a couple times, and I found it hard to reconcile this with those meetings. It was evident to me that family meant everything to them, so how could they have let Star down so badly?
In the aftermath of that short conversation, she returned her focus to the soup and continued eating. While my mind ping-ponged around with this new knowledge, I shot Kuznetsov a glance he interpreted correctly—don’t disturb her when she’s eating.
His gaze drifted over her pallor, and he nodded his agreement.
Now that the color of exertion and then embarrassment had faded, she looked pale, but the soup appeared to help.
We all needed fuel, but Star probably burned through calories like a Mack truck sucked up gas.
When she’d finished her appetizer, I asked, “Do you feel better?”
She reached for her napkin, picked it up, and gently prodded the corners of her mouth.
With a smile that fooled me, she half-turned toward me.
It was misdirection at its simplest.
In those moments, while her focus seemed to be directed at me, that was when she snagged the fork beside her glass of water, reached over, and stabbed the hand Kuznetsov had rested on the table as he ate.
Guards poured toward us as Anton screamed in pain, but Star merely sat back in her seat and drawled, “Now, we can talk.”
