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“She wouldn’t tell us. Not even Cora. But we⁠—”

“Enough. Get back inside.” I turn away from him and get in my car. Unthinking, I slam my door, too pissed off to be gentle. Beside me, Brioni stirs awake.

“Hey, you,” she says, and my mood softens instantly.

“Hey, you.” It takes everything in me not to reach out, to tuck her hair behind her ear. It’d be overstepping our friendship. A violation, especially with her this drunk. I start the car and drive us away from the pub. “Let’s get you home.”

She settles back into her seat, her eyelids fluttering closed again. As she falls asleep, her hand flops onto the center console, almost like she’s trying to reach for me. A speck of glitter on her thumb catches the low light. I wonder if it’s from an art project she did with the kids from her youth group.

She’s so good to them. I can only hope they deserve her. They’re mostly elementary schoolers, innocents in this fucked-up world. So maybe they’re still good enough to deserve her.

I’m not.

There’s too much blood on my hands already. Blood I chose to spill when I accepted my role as the firstborn son. It doesn’t matter what the role itself does to me, how heavily it weighs me down. I’ve accepted it. And by doing so, I’ll never deserve Brioni and all her kindnesses.

The best thing I can do for her is keep her away from that side of me.

I drive us northward, out of O’Sullivan territory. When we cross the invisible barrier, I feel more exposed. Instead of a huge dome around the neighborhood, our bubble of safety has reduced to this car.

I’ll feel better once we’re back at the penthouse. The high-rise is on an O’Sullivan-controlled block, a satellite to our South Side neighborhood. After an enemy attacked our building, Brady heightened security to the point that it’s the safest place in the city.

At a red light, I look over at Brioni in the passenger seat. The streetlight casts a square glow through the windshield, illuminating her cheekbone and bringing out the lighter streaks of blonde in her hair.

So peacefully asleep, she looks like an angel. Too good for my world.

Chapter 3

Brioni

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

I am extremely hungover. I know that before I open my eyes. The light piercing my eyelids stabs directly through to my headache, a dull pounding that won’t stop. I’m lying down, but I need to get up, to get water.

I risk opening my eyes and have no idea where I am. My body tenses in panic. I look around wildly and⁠—

I see Liam. I let out a breath. Wherever I am, I’m safe.

Liam’s asleep in a chair beside my bed. Only, it isn’t my bed, and I don’t recognize the oversized bedroom. I do recognize the chair. It’s mid-century dark leather, and it should be in his penthouse’s living room.

I’m in Liam’s penthouse.

I’m in Liam’s bed.

Meanwhile, he spent the night sitting upright in a low-backed chair, gallant as ever. He doesn’t even have a blanket. I try to remember the details of last night as I slip out from beneath the luxurious sheets. I’m still in last night’s clothes: the white cigarette pants and pink blouse that I’d picked out for craft night, knowing there’d be no paint involved.

I wore this outfit to the pub, thinking nothing of it until Cora suggested I wear an apron to protect my pants from any spilled whiskey. We were all drinking, but Liam wasn’t there, then Liam was there, and… It gets a bit fuzzy. I groan inwardly, keeping silent for Liam.

He’s so good to me. I was irresponsibly drunk, and he took care of me, made sure I had a safe place to sleep and watched over me rather than sleeping out on the couch.

I tiptoe to the main living space, an expansive room finished in white marble and black steel. With full glass walls overlooking the city, it’s immense to the point of intimidating. Despite there being three giant couches, the whole space looks uninviting. Everything feels cold and impersonal, except for a single throw blanket, a chunky knit chenille in emerald green. The housewarming gift I made for him.

Years ago, when Liam, Brady, and Finn first established their stack of penthouses at the top of this high-rise, I knitted one for each of them. Black for Finn, his favorite color. Blue for Brady to match his seascape paintings. Green for Liam to match his eyes.

I lift the emerald-green blanket to my nose. It smells like him, warm and safe. He’s been using it, and that thought makes my chest flutter. But he didn’t use it last night, for some reason. He must’ve been preoccupied, making sure I didn’t choke on my own vomit. He’s too good to me. I pad back to his bedroom, blanket in hand.

Liam’s still asleep. With the sunlight behind him, his hair is even more golden brown than usual. It softens him. He’s folded his tall frame into the low-slung chair, his fingers laced over his toned stomach. Through his white T-shirt, I can see the outline of his muscles in the morning light, and I take a moment to admire the definition of his chest. Everything about him is usually so tense, but right now, he’s at peace. In a way I haven’t seen in years, he’s unguarded, beautifully so.

He’s not the thirty-eight-year-old man burdened by his responsibilities.