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“Youcouldannul the marriage provided the original intended bride stepped up to take your?—”
“Not fucking happening.”
Alistair cracks a wry smile. “Didn’t think so.” He frowns. “How’s fuck-face?”
I shrug. “He’s…Dante. We mostly avoid each other.”
Aside from that one time a week ago when he fucked me in ways I’ve never even known were possible, and now I’m fantasizing about him and craving it again, even though I know how fucked up and wrong that is.
My brows knit as I glance up at my brother. “Can I ask you something?”
He nods. “Sure.”
“It’s about Layla.”
Alistair stops chewing abruptly.Shit.
“We don’t have to?—”
He shakes his head. “No no, go ahead,” he murmurs darkly.
I take a small sip of my smoothie. “Why do you think she did it?”
A silence settles over the office as Alistair turns to gaze out the windows.
I was eleven when my sister died at Greenwich Hospital, near the Knightsblood University campus. There are three question marks surrounding that night.
One: despite never doing drugs in her life, the official cause of death was listed as a heroin overdose.
Two:Danteis the one who brought her to the hospital.
And of course, three: even though they weren’t even friends…and as far as I know, didn’t even know each other…Dante and my sistergot marriedin that hospital, during the brief half-hour window where she regained consciousness before she died.
After that, of course, Dante lawyered up, sealed her medical records, and stonewalled the rest of us.
Over the years, my imagination has run wild speculating about what might have happened that night. I’m sure Alistair’s and Gabriel’s have, too; wondering how their straight-A, non-drug-using sister found herself overdosing on heroin and marrying Dante.
“Which ‘it’ do you mean: the drugs, orhim.”
“Him,” I murmur.
Alistair exhales slowly. “I don’t know, Tempest,” he growls quietly. I’ve looked at all the potential angles: financial gain would be the big one. But…”
“But he never tried to use the marriage to get anything from us,” I finish. “Did you ever think that…I mean…he had something to do with it?”
My brother’s jaw clenches.
I know we all had, maybe still have, hunches about Dante and his involvement with Layla’s death. Maybe it’s part of our grieving process, but we’ve never voiced those hunches out loud to each other, though.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “We don’t have to?—”
“No, weshould,” he grunts. “I mean, you’re living with the guy now.” He exhales slowly. “Honestly? Please, don’t ever repeat this to Gabriel, but…I doubt it.”
I frown. “Really? But you hate him.”
“I hate him because he’s a conniving fuck who hides behind the Barone family and the rest of his mafia buddies. I hate him because he fucking wouldn’t talk to any of us aboutany of itafter Layla?—”
Alistair stops and collects himself.
