Page 236 of Rosetti Family New York
I watch her reaction, noting the slight furrow of her brow. "He's pretty persistent."
"Yeah. I haven't told him everything yet. I've been meaning to, but..." She trails off, staring at the message. "I don't know why he's so insistent about it."
Her uncertainty strikes me as odd. It's natural for him to want updates, but something about her reaction suggests his behavior goes beyond normal concern.
"You trust him?" I ask, curious about her hesitation.
"Of course," she says immediately, but there's the faintest pause before she answers. "He's like family. Why wouldn't I trust him?"
I shrug, keeping it light. "No reason. Just seems like you're not sure about calling him back."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "It's complicated. I love Lucas, but sometimes... I don't know. It feels like we're not on the same page anymore."
The words hang in the air, revealing a strain in their friendship I hadn't fully noticed before. It makes me wonder what else is going on between them.
"Grief changes people," I say, giving her an easy out. "Sometimes in ways we don't expect."
She studies me for a moment.
"Just sort through your own grief before you worry about other people's. You can't tie up your guilt around your dog with guilt around your friend," I say. "Bear didn't die because of you. Maddy didn't die because of you."
"Didn't she?" she whispers.
"No. She died because someone made a choice. Not you."
And whoever it was, they'll pay for it. She doesn't see it because her eyes are all on the fire, but I mean every word.
"It's not your fault, Sloane."
She doesn't argue. Doesn't believe me either.
"Why do I feel like it is?"
She glances up, searching my face for something I don't know if I can give her. Reassurance, maybe. Or an answer. Something solid and real.
She lets out a long breath, a soft sound that tugs at me, makes me feel the things she doesn't say.
She can't say it, but I know what she means. What if she never finds out what happened? What if Maddy's death hangs over her like the dog's, like a sentence without parole?
I think of how determined she is, how this search for truth drives her. It's admirable and concerning all at once. She's diving deeper into dangers she doesn't fully understand, and I'm not sure if I can protect her from all of them.
I pull off one glove, then the other. The leather is soft and worn, like a second skin. She watches me, curious. No one ever sees them come off. No one sees me without them.
The significance of what I'm doing weighs on me like a physical pressure. These gloves aren't just accessories. They're a barrier between me and the world, a constant reminder of the violence my hands are capable of. They've been my shield and my prison for years, keeping me isolated, keeping me separate from normal human connection.
Taking them off now, with Sloane watching, feels like stepping out naked into a blizzard. I'm exposed, vulnerable in a way I haven't allowed myself to be since I first put them on. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I wonder if she can hear it, if she knows what this means.
"You never take those off," she says, her eyes on my bare hands, surprised.
"They're not for warmth."
My voice sounds strange to my own ears. Raw. Honest.
"Then what?"
I stare at my hands, my past an echo in every line. Knuckles still bruised. Fingers that broke a man's jaw last week and shook the first time I ever ended a life. The memory burns like the fire in front of us.
"My first job for the family… I was nineteen," I say, hearing the chill in my own voice. "The guy wasn't much older. He fought back. I had to finish it with my hands. Cold."
