upset at the arrival. Gianna Moretti sweeps through the room, garnering the attention of half the men she passes as she heads for us. She looks anything but happy—is that part of her costume though? Everything on the woman is black, including the wings on her back.
She also looks frazzled. Very frazzled. Her hair isn’t as smooth as usual, her dark eyes are clouded with annoyance, and there’s a tiny bit of red lipstick missing from her lower lip, as though she’s bitten a piece of skin off and forgotten to touch it up. I’ve rarely seen her like this, but she has enough Italian blood in her that God help anyone who pisses her off now.
“Are you all right, Mom?” Drake’s eyebrows draw together as Gianna approaches us and plasters a smile on her lips.
“Of course.” She kisses his cheek then leans across him to kiss mine. “How are you, cara? Preparing for your funeral, I see?”
I grin. She knows what’s up.
“Trying to give the old bat a heart attack to remind her she won’t live forever.”
“Of course, of course.” She glances over her shoulder.
“Mom, are you sure you’re okay?” Drake asks.
“I’m fine. Just a little flustered with this dang dress. That’s all.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire!
“Let’s get a drink.” Drake puts his beer bottle on the table behind me and hooks Gianna’s hand through his elbow.
Before she can protest, he sweeps her off toward the bar, although it doesn’t stop her quiet murmur of annoyance.
“Damn,” Jason whistles, watching as she goes. “Is it me, or do Italians age really, really well?”
I slap his arm. “Stop that. You’re about to be on a date with my best friend. I will put my Louboutin up your ass.”
“I’m hearing that so often that I’m starting to think it’ll never happen.” A smile stretches across his handsome face.
“If you’re hearing it that often, then it means you’re a giant brat.” My smile matches his, but my eyes don’t linger on him for long. My gaze finds its way over his shoulder to where Drake and Gianna are standing at the bar. They’re discussing something animatedly but quietly, and she keeps looking over him, toward the door.
“What are you thinking?” Jason asks me quietly, following my line of sight.
I catch a glimpse of my flame-haired best friend as she leaves the bathroom and joins Drake and Gianna at the bar. “Nothing. Not really,” I half lie.
Technically, I’m not thinking. I’m feeling—and I’m not feeling good.
My stomach is tight, like it’s waiting for a bomb to drop somewhere, and my heart thumps erratically and loud three times. It feels like…a warning.
“Then what are you feeling?”
“How do you know I’m feeling anything?” I bring my glass to my lips and drink.
“Like you, I’m trained. I also watched you a lot during the case with Eddie. You get a look in your eye when you’re feeling something you don’t want to feel.”
“I just feel…unsettled,” I admit.
God, it feels so good to have said those words out loud. The tightness in my stomach recedes until it’s bearable once more.
“Yeah,” Jason says quietly, turning back to me. “Me too.”
If I learned anything during my time in Dallas before it all went tits-down-ass-up kinda fucked, it’s that an unsettled FBI agent is a dangerous creature. Not because he’s liable to shoot your ass, but because it usually means my already-tight gut feeling is probably correct.
Naturally, that means I’ve been at my wits’ end for the last hour, and Nonna hasn’t even arrived yet.
If I got all dressed up and she doesn’t show, it’s gonna go down tomorrow morning.
On the brighter side, it looks like Bek and Jason’s date is going well. They’ve been chatting at the bar for a while now, and the last time I saw her laugh this much was when she explained the “bibbity, bobbity bullshit” Tinder conversation. My nephew is running around, waving his lightsaber with enthusiastic whooshes in front of anyone who won’t mind—and those who will—and Aria has slinked off with her friends.
Ahh, to be a tween. I wish I could slink off with my phone and simply have everyone roll their eyes behind my back without yelling at me. I’d probably have to take less headache pills. And I’d retain my sanity for a little longer.
Like, a day longer. But a day is a day.
I have a horrible habit of people-watching at parties like this. My whole family insists it’s because I’m an ex-cop and now a private investigator. They’re wrong. It’s