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“You know where I like to go on my days off?” Before I can answer, Matt says, “Mount Diablo.”
A shudder rips down my spine.
Did he say Mount Diablo? As in the state park where I went hiking before I “disappeared?”
I can freak out now, right? That wouldn’t be crazy.
It’s not just the alcohol rising to my head. There have been too many coincidences.
First, Matt asks about my family. Then, he starts talking about San Francisco, and he even still lives there. Now, he’s just casually name-dropped Mount Diablo?
“I should leave,” I stammer as I run my fingers over the smooth tablecloth, searching for my phone. “I just remembered I’ve got something to do tonight. A design I need to send to my biggest client. I’ve had too much to drink, too, and my head feels funny.”
Damn it, I curse inwardly. One excuse was enough. Two sounded phony. And my voice was shaking.
“Wait.” Matt’s voice exudes authority. It really reminds me of the man I met at the club.
“Sorry, I have to cut this date short,” I say, clutching my bag. As I get up to my feet, the chair legs drag noisily against the floor.
“I said wait.” I don’t know how Matt manages to find my hand in the dark, but suddenly a big, warm hand wraps around my wrist. “I’m not going to let you go without even giving me your phone number. Not again.”
Matteo
“Wh—what do you mean by that?” Grace asks, her voice thin.
“Sit down,” I say calmly.
“Let go of me.” She pulls away, but I refuse to budge. She’s not going anywhere unless I let her. And I’m not making that mistake twice.
“Don’t make a scene. Trust me, you want to keep things quiet, unless you want to die a second time.”
That shuts her up. Her hand trembles under mine.
“Sit down,” I repeat. “I’m not going to say it a third time.”
The scrape of her chair tells me she’s following my order. Good.
“Who are you?” she asks.
I chuckle. I’ll bet she has a lot of questions. I know how much it sucks to have voices asking things in my head that I can’t answer—I had to deal with that for four years. She can wait for a few minutes.
“Grace, Grace, Grace.” Satisfaction courses through my veins. All my hard work has finally paid off now that she’s sitting right in front of me.
“Who are you?” she asks again. “How do you know my . . . Why do you keep calling me by that name?”
“Give up the pretense. I know who you are.” I lean over the table as I pull her hand closer. “Don’t you remember me?”
Grace hesitates. “Matt?”
“That’s right. We met at the club, remember?”
“How do you know my name? How did you find me? What do you want?” Fear drips from her every word, but she presses on with her questions.
“Don’t worry.” I stroke the back of her hand with my thumb. “I won’t hurt you.”
“What do you want from me?” she demands.
“You should’ve told me the truth. At the club.”
“What do you mean by that? Because I gave you a fake name at some—” she drops her voice “—BDSM club, you hunted me down ages after the fact? What kind of a psycho are you?”
I can’t help but laugh. Here she is, shaking in her chair without one of her senses, being physically restrained by a much stronger man whom she suspects is a psycho, and she has the guts to go on the offensive?
There’s no doubt about it. She really is a mafia princess.
She seemed a lot more reserved that night at the club, but maybe being dead has hardened her.
“It’s not about the fake name, Grace.” There’s something so delightful about calling her by her real name. It fits her so much better than the other one. “Why didn’t you tell me about your family?”
“Because I didn’t want to be Grace Esposito. I still don’t.”
“You know, I thought a lot about what you said that night.” The corners of my lips tug up. “You said you wanted to disappear. To start a new life. I just kept thinking about it. I couldn’t believe you were dead.”
“How did you know I was dead anyway?”
“I heard it from your own father’s mouth.” The smile on my lips grows wider.
“What? How did you—”
A female voice blares from the sound system, cutting off Grace’s question. The event planner announces that the lights are about to be switched on.
I couldn’t have timed it better myself.
The lights gradually flood the room until I can see Grace’s shocked face in front of me. She wears her hair short now, and it’s blonde.
“You know, I think you looked better as a brunette.”
She scowls. It’s unbelievable, but she looks stunning even with that sour expression on her face.
I was already waiting inside the restaurant in the dark when Grace arrived, so I didn’t see her fitted black dress or the soft tendrils of hair framing her lovely face.
