by Lauren Layne
Jill was getting married.
“Jill’s getting married,” Vincent said to his father. Maybe if he said it out loud, it would start to feel like a comprehendible fact.
He sipped his beer. Waited.
Nope. Still felt totally wrong.
“Bullshit,” Tony said.
Vin nearly smiled at that.
His father was, well… exactly what you’d expect a lifelong cop to be who’d once run the entire NYPD without ever having to raise his voice. Tony Moretti was tall, broad, and serious looking, and Vincent sometimes thought his father was the ultimate combination of all his children.
Anth’s protectiveness. Marc’s smarts. Elena’s temper. Luc’s people skills. Vincent’s confidence. Or ego, if you wanted to speak plainly.
“Jill’s not getting married,” Tony said, repeating his disbelief.
“She met a guy in Florida when she was staying with her mom,” Luc said.
“Who. Who’d she meet?”
“Don’t know yet. Haven’t really had a chance to ask anything rational over the conversations about the pros and cons of Tiffany blue as an accent color,” Anth said.
“How do you feel about this?”
It took Vin several seconds to realize that his father was talking to him. And from the steady looks of his brothers, they seconded their dad’s question.
“Why you asking me?” he grumbled.
“Why the hell you think?” Tony shot back. “Maybe because we’ve been waiting patiently for you to get your head out of your ass about that girl—”
“Patiently? Really?” Luc cut in. “I wouldn’t say we’ve been patient so much as—”
“Pushy, interfering, and completely off base,” Vincent said, pushing away from the wall and moving to the table to grab one of the marinated vegetables from his mother’s antipasto plate.
He met his father’s angry gaze as he chewed, and it was one of those stupid but necessary staring contests.
Vincent wasn’t an idiot. He knew his family had long been of the mind-set that he and Jill were just biding their time until their work partnership became a romantic one.
Vin had never paid this any mind.
Neither had Jill. Obviously.
“Honey, did you hear the good news?” This from Vin’s mother, who came scurrying over to her husband. “Our Jill’s getting married.”
Our Jill.
She wasn’t going to be the Morettis’ Jill much longer. She was going to be some other guy’s Jill. She’d never again be…
His gut clenched, and Vincent ran a hand down his face. What the hell was wrong with him?
Despite the fact that Jill got under his skin—regularly, and with glee—he cared about her. Cared about her happiness. And she was happy. Any fool could see that.
So why couldn’t he get happy?
Vincent stepped back again as the men and women melded into one big group. The topic stayed trained on Jill’s upcoming nuptials.
No, they hadn’t set a date.
Yes, she was excited.
No, she didn’t know where the wedding would be.
Yes, she couldn’t wait for them to meet Tom when he came out to see her next weekend.
Tom. She was marrying a guy named Tom.
From here on out it would be Tom and Jill. Jill and Tom.
Never again would it be Jill and Vincent.
Vincent went to grab another beer from the fridge. He couldn’t do another glass of the celebratory champagne—not knowing what it represented. What they were “celebrating.” When he turned around, he almost walked straight into his sister, whose laser-blue eyes were boring into him.
Luc and Elena were the only Moretti offspring to get the dark hair and blue eyes. The rest, Vincent included, had dark hair and dark eyes.
And right now, Elena’s blue eyes were seeing way too much.
“How we doing?” she asked.
“We are doing just fine.”
He started to move past, and she touched his arm. “Vin.”
He shook her off. “Don’t, El.”
Her eyes shifted from wary to hurt. And not hurt for herself. Hurt for him, if he was reading it correctly.
Which was stupid. He was fine.
“Okay,” she said quietly, giving him a small smile before walking away.
He stared after her in surprise. The fact his stubborn, nosy sister had let it drop was alarming. And not at all a good sign.
Thirty minutes later, food was being put out on the enormous dining table—one of Maggie’s new additions to the house—and everyone found their seat.
Vin sat down at the chair within closest reach, and Jill plopped into the seat next to him.
The smell of her familiar citrusy perfume assaulted his nostrils.
She was all smiles as she reached over with a spontaneous grab of his hand as she gave his arm a little shake. “I love this. I love being back.”
“Good,” he grunted, resisting the urge to shake off her touch. She’d always been like that. Touchy. Feely. It didn’t usually bother him, but tonight it felt like too much.
She studied him, her wide blue eyes every bit as assessing as Elena’s had been earlier.
Damn the prying, observant females.
“You okay?” she asked.
He looked up and looked at her then. Really looked at her. Her blond hair was down around her shoulders, a shorter piece near her forehead falling into her eyes as it so often was.
Her mouth was pink and lipstick free, her pointy upturned nose wrinkled at him in concern.
The face was as familiar to him as his own, and he felt a rough twist in his stomach.
“I’m good,” he said.
“So, Jill,” Maria said, capturing her attention. “Your man… he lives in Florida?”
Jill’s eyes held his for a heartbeat before she released his hand and turned her attention back to his mother.
“Not full-time. He was just there temporarily, doing something with a new condo community. He’s in real estate development.”
Luc wiggled his eyebrows as the food was being passed around. “So he’s loaded.”
Ava used a piece of bread to gesture at Jill’s left hand. “Look at that ring. Of course he’s loaded.”
Vincent numbly accepted the salad bowl Anth shoved at him and scooped some onto his plate before handing the bowl to Jill.
But Jill was in the middle of telling her proposal story, both hands flapping around in excitement, so he scooped a pile of salad onto her plate and passed it over her head to his father at the head of the table.
Feeling eyes on him, he glanced across the table to see his mother watching him. She’d clearly seen the gesture and her eyes were… sad.
God.
This misplaced sympathy really had to stop. His family had to quit acting like he was some victim here. Some little boy left out in the cold because the girl he liked, liked someone else.
Except he didn’t like Jill. Not like that.
And even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.
Because Jill was getting married.
CHAPTER FIVE
Vincent and Jill both lived in Astoria, a residential neighborhood in Queens that was perfectly lovely.
And not at all close to Manhattan.
Which meant, as usual, Vincent was driving Jill home.
Except not like usual, the silence in the car was… deafening.
Jill was used to being silent with Vin. You don’t survive a six-year partnership without knowing how to be silent together.
But tonight felt different. Tense.
And it didn’t take a genius to identify the elephant in the room. It was sitting on the fourth finger of her left hand.
Vincent Moretti had always been the only person in Jill’s life with whom she didn’t feel she had to make small talk. Not that she didn’t chat his ear off from time to time. She did. Often.
But she’d never felt compelled to fill silence.
Tonight, she did.<
br />
But before she could think up a safe, non-wedding-related topic, Vin shocked the hell out of her by beating her to it.
“How’s your mom?”
She glanced over at his profile, noting the way the city lights illuminated his harsh, unsmiling features.
“She’s good. Really good.”
“Glad to hear it. Always liked your mom. Never been able to figure out how a classy woman like that raised a smart-mouthed pain-in-the-ass like you.”
“Really?” Jill drawled. “This from someone whose parents are practically saints and yet somehow produced a complete grade-A—”
“And your flight?” he interrupted. “Flight was good?”
Jill stared at him. “Seriously. We’re doing this?”
“Doing what?”
Jill reached over and punched him in the shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in three months, and you want to talk about my flight?”
He lifted a shoulder. “What do you want to talk about?”
Oh, I don’t know. How about the fact that you never called. That I barely heard from you. Or hey, here’s an idea. How about we talk about the fact that I’m getting married.
And then there was that doughnut.
Sure, it was just a doughnut. A smashed, mutilated doughnut.
But it was her favorite kind. From a bakery not at all near Anth’s house, which meant that he’d gone out of his way to get it.
What was that about? And why did her stomach fill with happy butterflies every time she thought about it?
“So Maggie’s big, huh?” Jill asked, still clamoring for a topic that was safe but not completely generic. “I can’t believe we’re going to have a baby in the family.”
Vincent gave a rare smile. “Yeah. Nonna’s already knitted at least a dozen pairs of those little foot cover things.”
“Booties,” Jill said. “And Nonna knits?”
“Supposedly. Although Mom swears she saw Nonna snipping a Target tag off the last one, so who knows?”
Jill gave a happy sigh as she settled back into her seat. “I missed them.”
Missed you too.
“Since when have Anth and Maggie started hosting family dinners?” Jill asked.
“Since Luc moved out.”
Ava shook her head at that. “I still can’t wrap my head around that. Them not living together anymore?”
“That’s what ‘move out’ means.”
“I know,” she said somewhat glumly. “But it’s like the end of an era.”
“Or they just decided to be grown-ups,” Vincent muttered.
Although he’d never admit it, Jill was pretty sure that Vin had always been a bit jealous of the fact that his oldest and youngest brothers had roomed together.
Their grandma had an awesome rent-controlled home on the Upper West side. Too good of a deal for someone not to take advantage of, and since it wasn’t like Vincent was the “roommate type,” Anth and Luc lived together.
Still, despite his insistence that he’d go crazy living there, she sometimes got the feeling that he felt left out.
Especially after their other brother Marco moved to LA awhile back to follow his girlfriend, leaving Vin as the only New York Moretti brother not living on the Upper West Side.
Vincent pulled the car up in front of her apartment, and Jill gave a little happy sigh. Home.
Vin was already out of the car, pulling her bags out of the trunk. “Okay, so Luc’s moved in with Ava, Maggie’s moved in with Anth. What about you?”
He didn’t look up as he easily hoisted her bag to the ground. “What about me?”
She rolled her eyes. “How are you?”
Instead of answering, he reached into the trunk, grabbed her second bag. “What the hell’s in here, rocks?” he asked, hauling her biggest suitcase out of the trunk.
“Yes. Rocks. I just ran around Mom’s backyard this morning finding all the biggest, heaviest rocks I could find and then put them in my suitcase just for you.”
He wheeled them up the sidewalk to her front door and Jill followed after him, digging her keys out of her bag.
She brushed past him to unlock the door as she’d done a hundred times before, but tonight she was strangely aware of his closeness. Of his smell, and his warmth, and…
Oh shit. Shit!
Tom. She’d forgotten about him.
For one terrible, traitorous moment had she actually forgotten she was engaged?
She glanced at Vincent’s irritated profile and swallowed dryly.
Yes. Yes, she had forgotten. Vin had made her forget, and that was just all kinds of weird.
Jill shook her head. She needed to call Tom. They’d texted earlier, the whole “landed safely, love you!” thing, but she needed to talk to him.
Needed to hear his voice.
Needed to stop being so aware of Vin.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said, turning to face her partner.
He lifted his eyebrows. “You don’t want help getting your bags inside?”
She rolled her eyes. “They wheel. I can handle tugging them over the doorstep.”
His eyes narrowed slightly as though knowing something else was keeping her from inviting him in, but he said nothing.
They stood still for a long moment, looking at each other.
Jill was oddly relieved to see that he looked exactly as he had when he’d dropped her off at the airport three months ago.
Relieved that despite all the recent changes in her own life, this one thing would stay the same.
His clothes were the same. As homicide detectives, both she and Vin were plainclothed (i.e., no uniform) most of the time, but she liked to joke that Vin had a uniform all his own. Dark jeans. Dark top. Leather jacket.
His always-present aviator glasses were shoved up onto his head, even though the sun had set long ago.
Jill smiled fondly as she reached up to remove them. He always forgot they were there.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly, taking the glasses from her without meeting her eyes.
“You got a haircut,” Jill said. “It looks nice.”
His eyes looked up then, and something flickered. Something she didn’t recognize.
Then he shrugged. “I was past due. Mom had been getting on my case.”
She nodded, jingling her keys in her palm. This was normally the point where she would have said something. Would have chattered on happily about how she was getting her hair cut later that week, or did his barber still smell like garlic? Or even a teasing you sure you’re not getting gussied up for a girl?
Tonight, she said none of those things. Tonight, she said what she really wanted to say, even though it betrayed more than she wanted.
“Thanks for the doughnut,” she blurted out. “It was… It meant a lot.”
He rolled his eyes. “It was just a doughnut, Henley.”
Was it though? she wondered.
“Well,” she said, looking down at her keys. “Thanks anyway.”
“Whatever,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”
He turned away without another word and started down the walk to his car.
“Hey, Moretti,” she called before she could think better of it.
He turned back.
“I really did miss you,” she said.
He said nothing. She didn’t expect him to.
But he smiled. A real smile.
And that was something.
CHAPTER SIX
Jill’s first day back on the job was a big one.
As in… the biggest of her career.
Not because the crime was particularly unique. Being shoved off a staircase wasn’t common, but neither was it particularly creative.
No, it wasn’t the crime that was career breaking.
It was the victim.
Jill hunched down, linking her gloved hands between her knees as she studied the blank, staring eyes of the dead woman.
“I’d forgotten how creepy it is when you talk to the vics,” Vincent said.
Jill glanced over to where her partner crouched across from her, his posture mimicking hers on the other side of the victim’s body.
He didn’t look back at her. His gaze never moved away from the gruesome scene in front of him.
“Well I think it’s creepy that you don’t talk to them,” she said. “They’re people. Not ‘vics.’”
This time he did meet her eyes. “Exactly. They’re people. And it’s my job to figure out who stole their humanity away from them.”
“Right,” she said, standing up. “Your job. Because I’m just here because you’re such great company and I love all the blood.”
“Not much blood with this one,” he mused, standing with her.
He was right. As far as crime scenes went, it was clean in more ways than one. No footprints, no broken windows, and Jill was willing to bet as soon as the forensics guys finished up… no fingerprints.
But the method of death too was cleaner than most in that there was less blood than a stabbing or a shooting. But somehow the pristine crime scene almost made the death more gruesome.
Jill’s eyes followed the gorgeous, old-fashioned staircase all the way from the marble floor where they stood up to where it curved up around a magnificent chandelier. Then on to the point where Lenora Birch must have spent her last seconds of life.
“She could have fallen,” Jill said.
Vin came to stand beside her, his eyes repeating the exact motion hers had. “She didn’t fall.”
Jill was inclined to agree; nothing about this scene felt right. But they had to explore all options, as Vincent well knew.
Jill took the stairs two at a time, and Vincent followed her up. It was an exceptionally beautiful home. Most of the old walk-ups in this part of town were.
Jill and Vincent didn’t get many cases in the Upper East Side. The crime rate in the uppity part of town was lower than other parts of New York.
“This is too pretty a place for someone to die,” Jill said quietly. She held her gloved hand over the immaculately polished wood railing, hovering just an inch above so she didn’t actually touch it. “Do you think this is prewar?”