Page 15 of A Love Most Fatal

I push off the wall and step back to my desk, opening a folder then closing it.

“I talked again with Mr. McGowan,” Cillian says. “He wants to accept your bid for the building.”

I don’t let myself celebrate this. “But?”

Mr. McGowan always has stipulations and has made every part of this process a unique hell. First, the back and forth on the proposal was egregious, and he’s somehow even worse now that we are discussing a contract. He wants us to build it, because we are the best, but he will act like he’s doing us a favor at every fucking turn.

“But he still doesn’t want to work with you directly on the contract,” Cillian says gently, like he knows it will make my stomach boil, which it does. “He’s old, he’s Irish, he’s. . . rooted in tradition.”

“So, what? He can see the quality of work we do, but he refuses to acknowledge that I’m the one in charge? Jackass.”

“He is,” Cillian agrees. He presses his fingertips on my desk and waits until I meet his eyes. “But this is four hundred million dollars we’re talking about.”

I heave a long sigh. Cillian is generally removed from the workings of Morelli Construction—he has his own dealings for the Donovann clan that keep him plenty busy—but he has been instrumental in getting deals for new builds from the old Irish of the city. They want what we can offer in terms of unofficial add-ons (see: rooms and basement levels not listed on any blueprint for the less above-board dealings), but they only want it so long as they can go through Cillian. It’s been over a decade since Willa and Sean got married, tying our families together, but some prejudices run deep.

It doesn’t help that I’m a woman—a disgrace in their eyes, even if they don’t say in so many words.

“I’ll pull the deal right now,” he says. “It’s up to you.”

He means it. There’s no judgment behind those pale eyes.

“Keep moving forward,” I say.

After a moment, Cillian knocks on the desk. “Okay.”

“Nice watch, by the way,” I say, and he looks at the gleaming thing on his wrist like it’s just fine.Pretty niceinstead of thirty-five thousand dollars of vintage gold and leather Rolex. Cillian loves his watches.

“This old thing?” He heads for the door but pauses before he can step through to the hallway. “Teasing aside, Ness, I would marry you. If you needed, of course.”

Cillian smiles and I give my best estimation of a genuine one in return. It feels a bit stale on my lips.

“Thank you, Cillian.”

He leaves without another word, his gait so sure in every step. I recognize the confidence, so much of what we need to be is the same, but I need to be tougher, smarter. He isn’t underestimated by default.

6

VANESSA

Morelli family traditionrules that we try to make it to all of Artie’s basketball games. Angel doesn’t play any sports, but for a time she did ballet, and we went to every performance, holed up together in the studio which smelled like hairspray. Tonight is not the last game of the season, but it is the last home game and Artie is starting. His math grade somehow made its way to a very respectable B- after submitting a massive stack of assignments.

The gym is relatively quiet, mostly just parents and coaches since the bulk of the student section won’t show up until the high school games later on. Artie is on the C team, which is all of the middle schoolers if I’m to judge by just the size of the players. Artie is not the best by any means, but he is improving. I would know, seeing that Willa throws a fit if any of us are so much as late for a home game.

We’ve mostly moved on from the crisis with the bombs, but I still feel restless. Like I can’t let my guard down for even a second. I still don’t know exactly who sabotaged us, and that’s not a comfortable feeling. We ruled out most of the other families in the city, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s someone who knows how we work. The motive, too, concerns me. If it’s someone that just wanted some money that is one thing—aproblem, but ultimately not a huge one—but if someone wants to use the weapons against us. . . Well, then that’s a bigger issue.

The sharp trill of the ref’s whistle reminds me that now is not the time to dwell. Now is the time for me to cheer for Artie like the good godmother I am, tell him to get back up and not worry about it when he misses a free throw, scream when he manages to sink a three. Wewerethe loudest people here, but a few of the student council students have shown up by now, and not to be outdone, are chanting for the boys. The cheerleaders, too, with their pleated skirts and high ponytails are cheering on the sidelines.

Artie gets subbed for another kid who’s faster than him, but not as good at making baskets, and we all send him thumbs up when he looks at us from the folding chairs that make up the bench.

“I’m going to get a so-da,” I say, exaggerating the O because it makes Angel giggle. “Anyone want anything?”

They all wave me off, Mary and Angel are huddled over a Nintendo Switch, and Sean and Willa are leaning close, whispering something or other back and forth. The two of them have always been like this, excruciatingly in love. Their mushiness never fades, and I will not pretend that part of me doesn’t envy this level of love and devotion.

Leo is sitting a few rows behind, his back against the cinderblock wall as his eyes scan for potential danger, and I don’t have to say anything to know he’ll follow me.

It feels good to stretch my legs, I swear I’m experiencing hypertension from all this shit happening, but I don’t let on.

Before I reach the lobby, I spot Artie’s math teacher leaning against a wall typing on his phone, a school lanyard hanging around his neck. I see what Willa meant about him being weirdly hot. His light brown hair sits in messy waves and his shoulders are slightly pulled forward, but he’s got a sharp jawwith a shadow of a beard and, bad posture or not, he seems somewhat built. Not exceptionally tall, but at least six foot. He is handsome, I think. Not mafioso handsome, but most definitely math teacher handsome.

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