Epilogue Raleigh

Now that Clara and Thomas have left the reception, I guess my job as maid-of-honor is done. I wave a teasing goodbye to Logan, one of Thomas's generals who's been humoring me for the last fifteen minutes, and head for the door myself.

It's time to grab a real drink and maybe- finally - get laid.

Outside the ballroom, the house is too quiet for me. I don't slow until I reach the garage and my beautiful Bentley, and as soon as the engine's on I turn on my best playlist and gun it down the gravel drive.

Things have been better since Clara moved in. At least, my brother isn't such a hardass anymore. Maybe it's because he's got someone else to bestow all his overprotectiveness on. Or maybe the lack of other sharks in the water makes him feel like he can finally lower his guard.

The reason why doesn't matter. What does matter is that I'm about to turn twenty-five, and for the first time in my life, I can do whatever the fuck I want.

And thank god for that, because if I were still under house arrest with love drunk newlyweds right down the hall, I'd probably throw myself out my window. Or try to start a house fire again.

I refresh my lipstick in my rearview mirror, keeping only a tangential eye on the road, and fluff my dark curls. Clara was a good bff and didn't make me put my hair up, and she was an even better bff for letting me pick a purple dress that makes the green in my hazel eyes pop . I loved it so much I updated my dye job and got an ombre done, from black at my roots to a matching purple at the tips of my hair.

Not to toot my own horn, but I look fucking hot.

For the last six months I've been trying to figure out what I consider a ‘fun night out.' At first, I tried nightclubs, thinking they'd be the perfect place to pick up a guy who'd like to spend a night or two with me. Isn't that how it happens in all the movies? But every one I went to was so loud and dark and smelled like sweat. How's a girl supposed to do any good flirting in an environment like that?

Tonight, I'm trying something different, a lounge in what used to be Speare territory called Olympus. On the outside, it's a white, two story building with columns lining the front and a balcony that seems to wrap around the whole thing. The exterior seats are shrouded by cascading vines glowing purple and green under special lights. I park my Bentley and walk up, doing one last quick finger comb of my hair before stepping inside.

Well. The pictures online did not disappoint.

Every wall is lined with statues in various stages of undress, with vines tangled up amongst their feet and in their hair. The ceiling is hung with lights clustered together inside multicolored glass shades shaped like enormous white flowers. The main seating area is separated into three aisles by panes of glass carved with flora and fauna. Each table is snuggled inside its own private booth, with glass on one side and walking room on the other. Going down one aisle, I pass friends and couples who look like they're actually able to talk.

At the far end of this first room, I find the bar. It's a semicircular counter that's made to look like black marble, and on the far side of it is a second room that looks like it's for dancing and listening to live musicians.

I'm not here for music. I'm here to get my V-card punched.

And just my luck, there are several couples at the bar, but there's also one guy sitting alone. His back is to me, but I like his posture, his black slacks and dark blue button-up, and his thick hair, which in the light looks kind of carmelly-brown.

Okay, Raleigh. He looks put-together. Well off. If he's ugly when he turns around, you can just pretend you're waiting for someone else.

I take a breath, push my shoulders back, and stride up to the empty stool beside the guy. I keep my eyes focused very deliberately on the wall of colorful bottles behind the bar, at the beautiful flower lights above me, at anything at all but the guy sitting beside me. When the bartender arrives, I give him my absolute best smile, the one that brings out the dimple in my right cheek.

"A White Russian please," I say, with bravado I definitely have not practiced to myself in my own mirror. I make sure to pitch my voice a little louder than normal, getting the attention of the guy next to me. "And can I get a dessert menu?"

The bartender returns my smile with gusto and gets on with my order after handing me a menu, which I browse but don't actually see. I feel the subtle glance Guy-Next-To-Me sends my way, but I don't return it. Instead I coil my hair around my finger, bite my lip, and go on browsing my menu.

"Have I met you before?"

Wow, that was quick. And he's using a pretty cliche line too. I consider ignoring him, forcing him to repeat it or lean in closer, but I'm too impatient. I look up with guileless eyes-

And freeze in my seat.

Yes, Guy-Next-To-Me definitely has met me before. Well, ‘met me' are strong words. The one and only time this man was in my presence, he was on the other side of the front gates of Warwick estate.

And his face was a pulpy mess, by virtue of my big brother's fists.

Six months after his run-in with Warwick hospitality, Sheriff Derrick Lindman looks good as new, skin unbruised and freshly tanned by the summer sun. Even his nose appears unbroken. Dare I say it's even more perfect than before? His blue eyes are piercing and unswollen, his lower lip unbroken and stretched into his usual stunning smile. The only flaw in his gorgeous face is the slight furrow of confusion between his brows as he looks at me.

Trying to remember who I am.

Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh fuck shit hell damn .

No, he can't remember me, I tell myself. He wasn't at the Warwick estate to talk to me. He was there to grovel and spin bullshit for Tommy. Would he even notice me standing in my brother's shadow?

Has anyone before?

Besides, it's been six months. And I'm wearing a different shade of lipstick, and I've dyed my hair since then. He has no idea who I am. But I know who he is, and that means I've got the upper hand in this conversation.

After taking just enough responsibility for the very, ah, explosive end of the Speare family to be praised by the media for his decisiveness, the new Sheriff's office has been pretty quiet. Too quiet, honestly.

I know my brother is keeping an eye on Derrick when he can spare one, but lately he's been completely sidetracked: by his wedding, by arranging the estate so it can run itself while he and Clara are on their honeymoon, by hunting down the gangs that have sprung up in the wake of Morgan Speare's death, etc., etc.

So what if… I kept my eyes on Derrick instead? I do have two functional and very bored ones at my disposal, after all. And Derrick is pretty damn easy on them- lying, gutless slug that he is.

Without missing a single beat, I mirror his confusion- but in a fun, sexy way. "I think I'd remember a face like yours," I say, resting my elbow on the counter. "So probably not."

Derrick laughs. I know it's fake because I laugh that way all the time. "Was that a compliment?"

Oh please, pretending not to know he was gifted to mankind by God Himself? I'm saved from rolling my eyes and giving myself away by the arrival of my drink, but once I have it in hand I look back to him. "Why? Are you looking for one?"

Derrick laughs again, and this time he actually sounds a little startled. "You caught me," he admits. "I've been searching high and low."

"Well sorry, but I'm fresh out," I say, with a flash of my dimple.

"If I take a number, will you let me know when you've got a fresh batch?"

Oh my god, Derrick Lindman is trying to pick me up.

An idea, an insane idea, an idea more insane than setting my own house on fire to take out my best friend, unfolds in my mind.

I laugh, as fakely as he did. "It doesn't work like that. If you take my number, how am I supposed to call you ?"

"Well, I never take without giving," he says, lowering his gaze then looking up at me through his eyelashes.

This is going to be so. Fucking. Easy .

"What's your name?" Derrick asks, leaning his own elbow on the counter to mirror my pose.

"Raleigh," I say, before I can think better of it. "You?"

"Derrick," he says, and I'm actually surprised he doesn't give his full name and hand me a business card.

"Derrick," I repeat, careful with the way I shape my lips around his name. He notices, and there's just the hint of a spark of something in his eyes.

Oh, this is going to be so much better than having sex for the first time. It might just be the best game I play in my entire life.

And, if I play it well enough, maybe it'll make up for what a bitch I am, to Tommy, to Clara, to everyone.

I am going to ruin Derrick Lindman's life. Because I'm a mafia girl, and this man betrayed my family, and now… He has no idea what's coming.