Page 45 of Nemesis

“My youngest has officially moved out,” he informs me. “And I put your cake on hold, seeing as the excitement of the day got away from us.”

He joins me at the table with his own little cup, although he knowingly slides me the crystal jar of sugar and a pitcher of cream.

I fix up my espresso and sip it, considering his words. They’re officially empty nesters, yes. But also the fact that he is still acknowledging the birthday. The one that started with cliff jumping, reliving trauma from Terror, a fake tattoo, and ended with a bomb threat.

“Is the house too quiet?” I ask.

He makes a noncommittal noise and watches me closely. His keen eyes pick up too much. He clocks the blood on my elbow, the tenseness in my face and shoulders.

Maybe even the dark circles under my eyes.

“No more quiet than usual,” he says. “Is it too quiet for you?”

Antonio is the father figure IwishI had growing up. I guess I did get him for half of my teen years, technically. He is an authority figure, a source of comfort and knowledge, and he does his best to keep me safe. Along with the rest of his family.

All that to say—I’m not going to drag him into it this time.

“Nope,” I deny. “Everything is fine.”

He grunts, muttering about bomb threats.

Vittoria comes downstairs, and she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see me. She kisses the top of my head, her warm hand on my shoulder.

“Good to see you, Tem. Happy birthday. Belated.”

My face heats. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop by.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. We’ll find a calmer time to celebrate.” Her fingers squeeze my shoulder gently. “How are you?”

Antonio hops up to fix his wife an espresso. They have a fancy machine that hisses and groans, but his movements are practiced and steady. In no time, she’s joining us with her own little cup.

In classic Antonio style, he seems comfortable in a dark-blue quarter-zip sweatshirt, Bow & Arrow’s logo stitched on the breast, and a white dress shirt under it. His jeans are clean and free of rips, although he’s currently wearing moccasins instead of his signature leather loafers.

Vittoria, by contrast, has her long dark hair loose around her shoulders, the knit sweater she has draped over a long-sleeved shirt and yoga pants giving her a warm and cozy appearance.

“I’m okay,” I tell her.

“You’re bleeding,” she comments.

I’d been trying to ignore my elbow, but it isn’t so easy when it’s dripping blood.

Sighing, I peel off my jacket and examine my skin. I must’ve landed on a rock or something, because the cut is jagged and deep. Antonio hands me a damp cloth, which I press to the wound.

Vittoria goes for the first-aid kit.

“Are you going to tell us what happened?” he questions.

“Fell off my bike.”

“Your bike isn’t here…” Vittoria narrows her eyes. “What happened to it?”

“Collateral damage.” I wave away her concern. “It’s fine, I’m going to handle it.”

She pulls my arm toward her and removes the cloth. She takes her time laying out supplies—bandages, antiseptic ointment, witch hazel—on the table.

“Did Saint crash your bike?” Antonio demands. “Or this Reese guy? I knew he was bad news?—”

“No, you didn’t.” I roll my eyes, wincing when Vittoria dabs at the cut. “And it wasn’t either of them. You sent the sheriff out on a goose chase for Reese, but he’s not dangerous.”

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