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I didn’t hear any footsteps chasing me, but I glanced over my shoulder just to make sure.

Junior stood in the middle of the hall, legs spread, hands back in his pockets as he watched me leave.

Something about his stance felt like a power move.

He was indolent, smug. Like a cat who’d just knocked a glass off a counter and wanted to know what the fuck you planned to do about it.

I whipped back around and picked up my pace.

Alec turned at the sound of my approach, his charming smile a twin for his older brother’s. I wasn’t about to fall for it a second time.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

I lifted my hand from my purse and pointed my taser at his face.

“Away from you two assholes. Don’t think I won’t drop you in front of everyone if you get in my way.

” These people already thought the worst of me; it wasn’t like tasing a man in a church would make much of a difference.

If anything, it’d probably be the highlight of their morning and give them something to gossip about for the next week.

Behind me, a low chuckle echoed through the corridor. Of course Junior would find the idea of me face-tasing his brother hilarious.

Alec lifted his hands and stepped wisely out of the way. His smile seemed genuine. “Atta girl. Glad to see you’ve grown a spine since high school.”

“Unlike you,” I shot back. “Still your brother’s little crony, I see.”

He gripped his chest and pulled a pained expression. “Shots fired.”

I rolled my eyes and kept walking, stowing my taser back in my bag as I reemerged into the safety of the event room.

My Nonna Bianchi, sharp as a tack even at eighty-eight , noticed something was off as soon as I sat down. “What happened?” she asked, her gaze going to the corner of the room, where Junior and Alec stood together at the mouth of the hall, watching me. “Did those boys give you any trouble?”

I shook my head and forced my gaze away from them. “I’m fine.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she gripped the table like she was getting ready to stand. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

I grabbed her arm, hoping to keep her in place.

Knowing her, she’d hidden a wooden spoon (the analog version of my taser) somewhere in her purse and was about to go hit the Trocci brothers about the head with it.

“Nonna, I’m fine. Junior was just being.

..Junior.” There was no other PG way to describe what just happened, and I doubted she’d believe me about Sister Mary Francis.

She shot the men one last glare before turning back to me. “I didn’t know they would be here. Usually, it’s just Moira and sometimes Nico in their pew.”

I gave her arm a squeeze before releasing her. “It’s not your fault. And nothing happened that I couldn’t handle.”

“Are you sure?” she pressed. “I’m certain Moira would give them a good whooping if I told her they needed one.”

The thought made me grin. “I’m sure, but I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

She nodded, her gaze going past me. “In that case, I want you to meet my friend Barb.” One bony arm rose, and she waved it overhead.

“Barb! Over here!” Nonna let out a huff and pushed back from the table.

“One second. The woman is blind as a bat.” She stood, grabbed her cane, and started tottering away.

“Let me go get her before she walks into another wall.”

An hour and a half later, I strode through my apartment door, feeling drained. Junior had left shortly after our run-in , and Alec not long after. My relief at their absence had only been momentary, though, because Nonna’s friends were a lot .

We’d spent a good chunk of coffee hour talking about my father.

Nonna and I tried to change the subject away from him and downplay his alleged disappearance, but the other ladies were full of theories.

Several thought he must have pissed someone off and had to flee to Florida.

A few others were convinced he’d been picked up by the Feds. Three more thought he was dead.

Nonna downplayed every one of them. Tommy—he hadn’t earned the right to be called Dad—came and went as he pleased, and I’d hardly spoken to him in years.

He could have disappeared months ago, and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Or cared. To me, he was just the man who’d contributed half my DNA.

My real father—and mother, while we were at it—was Nonna Bianchi, who’d raised me and my older sister, Kristen, since I was still in diapers.

“Incoming!” Ryan called, all the warning I had before Walter came flying straight at me.

I managed to turn sideways just in time to keep from getting taken out again as he wiggle-butted his way around me in excitement, his tail slapping the shit out of my legs, a happy whine climbing out of his throat.

He had his favorite toy—a battered elephant with half the stuffing pulled out—clutched in his mouth, which meant that he and my roommates had probably been in their usual Saturday morning spot before I walked in: crowded together on the couch watching reruns of Love Island —we all agreed the first five UK seasons were the best.

I slipped my heels off by the door and followed Walter into the living room.

Ryan and Taylor swiveled their heads over the back of the couch to look at me.

“How was church?” Ryan asked.

In answer, I flopped face-first onto the chaise longue beside them and let out a loud groan.

“That bad, huh?” Taylor guessed.

“Junior was there,” I said, but it was so muffled by the cushion that I had to raise my head and repeat myself.

Ryan winced when they heard the name.

Taylor looked between us, confused. “Who’s Junior?”

Ryan and I met over a decade ago, during my senior year at my new school, when I was still a mess after everything that happened, so they knew all the sordid details.

We’d met Taylor five years later, after I’d banished thoughts of Junior from my mind.

This was the first time I’d ever even spoken his name around her.

Ryan unfolded their tall frame from beside Taylor and strode toward the kitchen. “We’re going to need mimosas for this story.”

Taylor’s eyes widened as she looked from them to me. “Oh, really?”

I nodded. Walter chose that moment to round the chaise and shove his toy in my face. The stench of drool hit my nose, and I recoiled. “Let me go change, and I’ll tell you the whole story.

I was halfway up the stairs when my phone rang. “Nonna” flashed across the caller ID, and I answered, thinking she had one last bit of gossip to fill me in on.

“Are you okay?” she asked, sounding out of breath.

I frowned. “Yeah, why? What’s going on?”

“Someone slashed a bunch of tires in the church parking lot,” she said. “I was worried that you’d been picked up by street youths.”

“I’m fine, Nonna,” I assured her.

“Oh, thank god,” she said. “The neighborhood is going to shit, I tell you.”