Page 65 of Unholy Union
She blinks at it, then glances over at me. “Um, it’s… it’s very vintage, Sab. I’m glad you’re leaning on your faith at a time like this?”
She poses the comment more like a question than anything.
It almost makes me laugh. I shake my head and twist off the top of the cross to show her what’s inside.
“Not exactly. Take a look for yourself.”
Tessa’s learning curve is a lot like mine when I first came across the rosary—her brows knit, she stares at the object like she’s perplexed, then she spots the powder, takes a whiff, processes what she smells, and finally gasps.
Her bright blue eyes widen. “Is that…?”
I nod fervently, then shush her before she can utter the word. “It is. My something blue from Nella.”
“Wow,” she mutters under her breath. “She’s a lot more gangster than I realized. But are you going to use it?”
“Maybe. I haven’t officially decided.”
I’m not sure what I’m expecting Tessa to say.
My best friend isn’t exactly a violent person, but she’s also fiercely loyal and protective. Her answer turns out to be simple.
“I support you either way, Sab,” she says. “Just promise me you won’t let anyone—Cato, your father, even me—decide for you. And please be careful.”
When I hear Cato’s voice in the foyer before sunset, my first thought is that something’s gone wrong. The only time he comes home early is when someone’s bleeding.
Tessa left earlier and I expected to spend another evening eating dinner alone.
But as I come down the stairs and Cato looks up at me, I’m surprised to find out he’ll be joining me.
For the first time since we married, we’llactuallybe having dinner together at home.
The table is set by the staff with their usual attention to detail—candles flickering in polished silver holders, linen napkins folded perfectly, plates and silverware gleaming.
The room’s silent except for every clink and clang of crystal and metal.
We sit across from each other with the long stretch of mahogany acting as both table and battleground.
I catch his eye as the wine is poured. He looks away almost instantly, fussing with the face of his watch like he’s oblivious to the time. I glance down at my napkin and start smoothing out a crease that isn’t there.
Honestly, it’s pathetic. Two people married by force, bound by vows, pretending like this is normal.
When the antipasto arrives—fresh burrata, heirloom tomatoes glistening with olive oil and a red wine vinaigrette, chunks of prosciutto tossed in—he finally speaks.
“So,” he says, fork in hand. “Tessa dropped by today?”
“Yeah, it was nice catching up. We haven’t seen each other since everything with the club.” I swirl a tomato slice through the vinaigrette. “I was thinking next time, maybe we could go out. Lunch somewhere. Shopping, like old times.”
There’s a pause that lasts long enough for my stomach to tighten. I look up in time to notice Cato’s jaw clench.
“I’d have to think about that.”
I let my fork hover for a second, then set it down. “Because of what happened?”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. The muscle ticking near his jawline gives him away as he lifts his wine glass and takes a slow sip.
I lean forward, folding my arms on the table. “How’s Lazaro?”
“He’s alive. Recovering. He should be back at work by next week.”
