Page 192 of Rosetti Family New York
“You need to shower,” I add.
“Yeah. I… Look, I’ll pull myself together, I promise, and help you out. Just give me a week.”
I look him over. He’s right, he’s a mess. I can’t force him to come with me to meet up with a gang member before he gets himself sorted.
I don’t want to have Lucas’ death on my hands because I dragged him into something he wasn’t ready for, forced him into a dangerous situation while he was still grieving Maddy. The thought makes me sick, and I imagine explaining to his parents why he was the one who ended up dead, how I was the one who pushed him into it. The guilt would eat me alive. I can’t let myself make the same mistake twice. It’s my fault Maddy was alone the night she died. I wasn’t there to help, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. Luke said he needs a week. I know he doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s clear he’s barely hanging on, that a part of him still believes Maddy’s coming home. Staying out of it for now might give him a chance to catch his breath and take some of the target off his back.
But no way am I waiting a week, when this Ethan guy might slip away while I’m twiddling my thumbs.
My pulse spikes.
“Sure,” I lie. “Next weekend.”
He nods, looking relieved, like he expected me to fight him on it.
My chest burns. He really thinks I’m going to sit around doing nothing.
Lucas rubs at his eyes, wiping away the exhaustion.
“I’ll be more use to you when I’m not a zombie,” he adds, trying to convince me, or maybe himself.
“We’ll go together. Raise some hell, like old times,” I say, trying to make it sound like I’m in no rush, that I’ve got all the time in the world.
Lucas let out a long breath, one I can almost feel rattling in my own lungs.
“I’ll come by your place when I’m ready,” he says. “Saturday, around noon?”
“Sure,” I say.
“It’s a date,” he says, then laughs weakly.
The air in the apartment presses down like a tight band around my chest. I’m not sure how long I can stand it.
“You need to eat,” I say. “After you shower.”
“Yeah. Guess I do,” he says, running a hand through his hair and then pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll hit you up, Sloane. Thanks.”
I grab my jacket from the arm of the couch and hesitate in the doorway. It doesn’t feel right to leave him alone, but then again, it doesn’t feel right to stay.
“Be careful,” he says.
“Always am.”
I step out into the cold February air, pulling the jacket tight around my shoulders. It feels like the house is still breathing behind me, and I can’t shake the relief of leaving it behind.
My boots crunch on the frozen path as I make my way back to my car. The chill in the air goes right through me, but it’s nothing compared to the cold dread settling into my bones. Iknow Lucas needs time, but Maddy didn’t have time. She didn’t have a choice.
As I slide into the driver's seat, my fingers shake a little as they fumble over the ignition. Shoving away thoughts of Lucas and his grief, I force myself to focus on Ethan Reyes. Rafe is certain of his involvement, and I trust him.
I back out of Lucas's driveway and set a course for home. I’ll go tomorrow. Driving on autopilot, the city lights blur past me as I prepare for what’s to come. Maybe this is reckless—going alone, keeping Lucas in the dark—but this isn't about me anymore. This is about justice for Maddy.
The shower pipes groan as hot water hits my skin. It’s burning in the best possible way, washing off dust, tension, and the ghost of Maddy’s apartment. Steam curls around me, and I sink to the tiles, rubbing the grime from my hair and the memory of those empty, cold, Maddy-sized shoes from my mind.
My own place feels like a sanctuary. The plants aren’t quite so dead, the couch isn’t crowded with half-eaten takeout and overdue bills. Plus, it reminds me of Rafaele, since he was here just last night. Almost slept on the couch. Or somewhere else.
I close my eyes under the spray and imagine him here now, lean and dangerous, that low voice winding around me. My skin pricks with want. I picture his ice-blue eyes meeting mine, the faint rasp of stubble on his jaw, the way he shifts his weight when he thinks. It feels like sparks against my skin.
I trace the hot water over my torso and can almost feel his hands there instead of spray. My heart races, and I let my mind drift to how it would feel if he pressed close, warm breath, solid muscle, a whisper of my name.
