“Your poem,” I clarify, watching her face. “What do you call it?”
The question catches her off-guard. Good. I prefer her slightly unbalanced, reaching for solid ground.
“Word Collector,” she answers after a moment’s hesitation.
Word Collector. I consider it. Accurate. Efficient. It captures both the subject and the author in four syllables. She hoards words the way others collect art or cars—as treasures, as identity markers, as shields.
“It suits you,” I say, though I hadn’t intended to offer approval. The words slip out before I can catch them. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to go find out what the hell is going on. There were no cars out front—typically my father likes topark his Phantom in the west-wing carport. But it’s not there so...”
I don’t know why I’m telling her this. It’s none of her business. Yet something about her standing there in my space makes me want to explain myself, a rare and unwelcome impulse.
I cross the polished floor to the control panel on the wall near the kitchen, my footsteps echoing in the quiet space. With practiced precision, I press a button that activates the blackout shades. They begin their slow, mechanical descent over the floor-to-ceiling windows, gradually sealing us off from the outside world.
Emmaleen’s body language shifts immediately. Her shoulders tense, her fingers curl slightly at her sides.Finally. A flicker of the wariness I’ve been waiting to see.
“What are you doing?” Her voice carries that careful neutrality people use when they’re trying not to sound afraid.
“I don’t want anyone to know you’re here.” I keep my tone matter-of-fact, watching her process this information.
“Why not?” She tilts her chin up slightly—a small act of defiance that I find oddly satisfying.
“Because I don’t know what’s going on. I need to find out.” It could be anything. We could be at war with a rival family. Someone could’ve died. My father could be making a power move. Who the hell knows. But I don’t enlighten her with any of that. The less she understands about my world, the safer she remains.
It’s only luck—or perhaps the hypervigilance that’s kept me alive this long—that makes me turn at precisely the right moment. Through the narrowing gap in the descending shades, I catch movement coming through the trees. A familiar silhouette that sends ice through my veins.
I lean forward, instinctively moving closer to confirm what I already know. “What the fuck is he doing here?”
“Who?” Emmaleen asks, turning toward the slowly disappearing windows, her eyes scanning for whatever has triggered my reaction.
“Shit.” The word hisses through my teeth, laden with years of history and complications she couldn’t begin to comprehend.
“What?” Emmaleen’s voice has risen half an octave. She’s more than nervous now—I can see the fear beginning to bloom across her features. The blackout shades complete their descent with a soft mechanical click, and the entire place goes dark. The only illumination comes from the digital readouts on the security system, casting an eerie blue glow across her face.
“Stay here. Don’t come out. Don’t open the door.” Without waiting for further questions, I turn to the door, open it just enough to slip through, and close it firmly behind me, leaving her alone in the darkness of my pool house.
As the lock clicks into place, I feel a strange, unfamiliar twinge of something like regret—for bringing her here, for the fear in her eyes, for whatever is about to happen with Rico LaRiccia back in my life.
It’s been five years since we’ve seen each other.
Five long years where I’ve managed to build something resembling stability, where the constant looking over my shoulder gradually faded into a dull awareness rather than acute vigilance.
Five years of peace where his name became just another ghost from my past rather than an active threat lurking around every corner.
Five years of safety, where I could sleep without checking the locks three times, where business decisions weren’t clouded by wondering if they might trigger his particular brand of retribution.
Five years where Pittsburgh and New York maintained their delicate equilibrium, where the LaRiccia family stayed on their side of the invisible boundary that kept our organizations from tearing each other apart.
Five years is not enough.
I put Emmaleen Rourke behind me now as my attention returns to Rico LaRiccia.
He emerges from between the trees like a supervillain, flanked by four enormous men arranged in a diamond formation. Two at his shoulders, two trailing behind. Not associates. Muscle. The kind of men who don’t speak because their only job is to break things when told to.
Rico himself looks unchanged. The same expensive suit that somehow appears both pristine and slept-in. The same swagger in his step. The same cruel mouth fixed in that perpetual half-smirk I’ve seen in my nightmares since childhood.
Behind me, I hear the distinctive rumble of Dom’s Escalade. I keep my eyes fixed on Rico, tracking the sound as Dom pulls up and parks beside my Lamborghini. Good. Reinforcements. Not that Dom and Ricky would be much help if Rico’s men decided to make this visit permanent, but at least I won’t be alone when the inevitable dick-measuring contest begins.
“Hey! What’d we miss?” Ricky calls out across the lawn as he and Dom approach. At least they had the sense to leave their glitter girls behind.