Page 10 of Mistletoe & Mayhem
He nods and stays silent.
Before I reach the door, I catch sight of Pierce through the window. He’s dressed in a navy shirt and jeans. His life looks neat, deliberate, untouched by chaos. I hate him for it, and I hate myself more for caring.
I want to lunge through the bay window, to tear him apart, to press my teeth into his throat until the old love runs out for good. I want to cry, but his presence dries out every well in me.
I knock three times, each rap harder than the last. The door opens and there he is—Pierce—backlit by that yellow lamp. His eyes widen, pupils dilating in real time. We stand frozen in the doorframe, the threshold between us like a line neither dares cross first.
My hand tightens around the gun in my pocket. Five years of imagined conversations evaporate.
"Say something," I tell him.
He doesn't. His eyes map my face, tracing new lines, old wounds, my mother's scar above my eyebrow. He studies me like a puzzle with missing pieces.
He steps back, inviting me in without words. For an instant I see the ghost of the man I loved, the one who kept orangeschilled in the winter, who brushed flour from my cheek with his thumb.
"Why are you here?" He asks, closing the door behind me.
"You ruined my life," I tell him.
He closes his eyes. "Good. Because you ruined mine."
Chapter 8
Pierce
It’s not the sound of the knock that unnerves me; it’s the way it slices the silence in equal increments, like a metronome for dread. I’ve been home for three days, and already the New York night feels bored by my existence. Ice ticks in the kitchen, the fridge shudders to itself, but otherwise I’m alone. I brace for Mrs. Abernathy from next door, perhaps looks for her runaway cat, but when I pull the door open, time stops cold in its tracks.
It’s Laura Stasio–daughter of a mob boss, Dominic Stasio, and the only woman I’ve ever loved. She looks like she’s come to kill me, and for a moment, I hope she has. Black jacket, black jeans, black boots, her hair a dark river down to her shoulder blades. In her right hand is a handgun—not hidden, not raised, just resting against her thigh. Her head tilts to survey me, and her mouth curves in the way I remember: as if almost everything is a dare.
I can’t help it—I smile. My chest aches so badly my knees almost buckle.
“You ruined my life, Pierce.” The voice is steady, but its surface tension is about to break.
I want to step forward, to greet her with a touch anywhere on that body I still dream of, but neither of us moves. We’reseparated by the width of the borrowed threshold and five years of silence.
“Good. You ruined mine, too,” I say, and now my voice is wrecked with original hope.
She shrugs, just her left shoulder, elegant as hell. “Didn’t expect you to answer the door.”
“You brought a gun.”
She looks down. “It’s not for you. Unless it’s for you. Jury’s still out.”
“I always liked a woman with options.” I step aside and gesture for her to come in. “Want wine? Or should I get you a glass of something that can take the paint off a car?”
Her face does a thing: the corners draw in, as if she’s fighting a smile or scowl, I can’t tell which. I watch her eyes scan the hall—photographing everything, as always—then she crosses the threshold and brings five degrees of winter with her. She doesn’t remove the gun or the jacket.
We wind our way to the kitchen, and I pour two glasses of wine, keep one for myself, and push the other across the counter in her direction.
“Nice place,” she says, meaning the opposite. “The counters are clean. So are your hands.” She’s watching for blood. Or cocaine, maybe, though I never touched the stuff.
I take a deliberate sip, since my hands are shaking, and wait for her to ask her question. She just picks up the glass and leans on the counter, turning the stem between her thumb and finger.
Finally, I say, “Why are you here, Laura?”
She contemplates the wine, the bottle, the room—the loaded gun in her hand. Her eyes flicker at that. A test, passed or failed, I’m not told which.
She drinks. “You could’ve called. Or written. Or fucked off to somewhere people don’t know your name.”
