A Love Most Fatal (Morelli Family #1)

6. Vanessa

6

VANESSA

Morelli family tradition rules that we try to make it to all of Artie’s basketball games. Angel doesn’t play any sports, but for a time she did ballet, and we went to every performance, holed up together in the studio which smelled like hairspray. Tonight is not the last game of the season, but it is the last home game and Artie is starting. His math grade somehow made its way to a very respectable B- after submitting a massive stack of assignments.

The gym is relatively quiet, mostly just parents and coaches since the bulk of the student section won’t show up until the high school games later on. Artie is on the C team, which is all of the middle schoolers if I’m to judge by just the size of the players. Artie is not the best by any means, but he is improving. I would know, seeing that Willa throws a fit if any of us are so much as late for a home game.

We’ve mostly moved on from the crisis with the bombs, but I still feel restless. Like I can’t let my guard down for even a second. I still don’t know exactly who sabotaged us, and that’s not a comfortable feeling. We ruled out most of the other families in the city, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s someone who knows how we work. The motive, too, concerns me. If it’s someone that just wanted some money that is one thing—a problem, but ultimately not a huge one—but if someone wants to use the weapons against us. . . Well, then that’s a bigger issue.

The sharp trill of the ref’s whistle reminds me that now is not the time to dwell. Now is the time for me to cheer for Artie like the good godmother I am, tell him to get back up and not worry about it when he misses a free throw, scream when he manages to sink a three. We were the loudest people here, but a few of the student council students have shown up by now, and not to be outdone, are chanting for the boys. The cheerleaders, too, with their pleated skirts and high ponytails are cheering on the sidelines.

Artie gets subbed for another kid who’s faster than him, but not as good at making baskets, and we all send him thumbs up when he looks at us from the folding chairs that make up the bench.

“I’m going to get a so-da,” I say, exaggerating the O because it makes Angel giggle. “Anyone want anything?”

They all wave me off, Mary and Angel are huddled over a Nintendo Switch, and Sean and Willa are leaning close, whispering something or other back and forth. The two of them have always been like this, excruciatingly in love. Their mushiness never fades, and I will not pretend that part of me doesn’t envy this level of love and devotion.

Leo is sitting a few rows behind, his back against the cinderblock wall as his eyes scan for potential danger, and I don’t have to say anything to know he’ll follow me.

It feels good to stretch my legs, I swear I’m experiencing hypertension from all this shit happening, but I don’t let on.

Before I reach the lobby, I spot Artie’s math teacher leaning against a wall typing on his phone, a school lanyard hanging around his neck. I see what Willa meant about him being weirdly hot. His light brown hair sits in messy waves and his shoulders are slightly pulled forward, but he’s got a sharp jaw with a shadow of a beard and, bad posture or not, he seems somewhat built. Not exceptionally tall, but at least six foot. He is handsome, I think. Not mafioso handsome, but most definitely math teacher handsome.

He sees me looking at him as I’m about to pass and his face lights up in recognition. I nod and look away, but he slides his phone in his pocket as he heads my way.

When he sidles right up next to me, I send Leo a look that translates roughly to this is fine before he thinks to interfere.

Of all the people here, I would guess that Artie’s math teacher is the least dangerous.

Today he wears an outfit much like the one he had on the last two times I saw him: a button-up with the top button undone, rolled at the sleeves, a tie pulled from his neck, black JCPenney dress shoes. The shirt isn’t fitted, unless he’s aiming for a sort of rectangular fit.

“Ms. Morelli,” he greets. “What a surprise.”

“Mr. G.,” I say. “Nice to see you again.”

He gives a sort of mock bow, his hands remaining in his pockets. “Come around here often?”

“Required attendance,” I explain. “Family mandate.”

“How supportive of you,” he says. His eyes are a striking green, and they flit to my face and then away, scanning around the gymnasium instead of meeting my eye directly even though he is the one who approached me.

“And you?” I ask.

“Oh, I don’t have to come to the games, but middle school basketball is better than any professional sport. More inspiring, more exciting.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” We round the corner into the lobby. “Were you also in need of a mid-game soda?” I ask.

“Always,” he says. “But these booths live in the dark ages. Cash only.”

“Oh?”

He bobs his head in an exaggerated nod. “Luckily for me, I ran into someone who I have under good authority carries a number of large bills on her person at any given time.”

I would balk at the audacity of this man if he wasn’t also somewhat amusing.

“Very lucky for you.” We join the brief line outside of the concession booth.

“I just hope she knows that I would love a bag of sour Skittles,” he says and I can’t help it, this time, I laugh aloud. Leo’s head darts in our direction at the sound. “And a water.”

I’m next in line and repeat his order, adding on three cans of soda for me, Leo, and Sean. I get a sleeve of Starburst for Mary and Angel to share, and then I slip the goods into my bag.

I’m not entirely sure why I did what he said, maybe because I’m seldom ordered around and wonder how far he’ll take it. It’s not like I’m scared of him. I could kill this man in no less than a dozen ways, many of which with just my hands, but he seems harmless enough. It’s disarming. I don’t think he could hold his own in a fight, and that fact endears him more.

Nate pops a few sour Skittles into his mouth and his lips pucker at the taste. He wipes the powder from his fingers on the side of his slacks.

“I’ve got another favor to ask,” he says.

“Do tell,” I say as we walk down the track towards the other side of the court where everyone sits. Little squeaks of sneakers on the floor sound from the court below us.

He stops and leans on the rail looking over the court and I watch his eyes scan the students running back and forth. He’s nervous, I’m sure of it now. I can see it in the tension in his shoulders, the way he gnaws on the inside of his cheek.

“Hear me out,” he starts after draining a quarter of his water bottle. “There’s a wedding.”

I pride myself on my ability to school my face into an unfazed expression in all critical conversations. A vital skill. But I can’t control my eyebrows now, and they’ve shot halfway up my forehead, which is as alarming to Nate as it is to me because he rushes to continue:

“It’s my cousin Rex, and he’s the fourth cousin in my family to get married, and my parents are getting antsy that not only am I working with children instead of with investments, but I am also unmarried.”

“Oh, wow,” I say before I can hold back. It’s startling how much there is to process there, and I can barely begin to before he barrels on.

“So, you see, it’s a big deal that I go and tell my aunts and uncles that I work at a fancy private school now and an even bigger deal that I bring a date.”

“Reasonable.” I’m lying, but I nod. We are both leaning against the railing and facing each other, and the scoreboard above our heads beeps.

“I don’t have one, though. A date. I need one.” After a pause, he adds, “I want you to be my date.”

My jaw falls open before I snap it closed again. I have once again been left without words by this strange man.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know very many women.”

“Flattering,” I say, wry.

“And even if I did know many women, you might be the most beautiful one.”

I blink at the relative ease in which this man just delivered a flirty compliment. Him calling me beautiful also makes my neck flush, but I will not be investigating why that is at this time.

I look down at the court instead. In the stands, Willa and Mary are staring at us, Willa waggling her eyebrows and Mary squinting at Nate. I would flip them off if there weren’t so many children here.

“And while teaching children about fractions and finding the hypotenuse of a triangle is apparently not ‘grandson of the year’ material, having you there to escort me would most definitely put me in the running.”

I throw my hands up. “You’re kidding! The hypotenuse might be the most important thing they learn all year.”

“Finally,” Nate breathes, “someone who gets me.”

He pops another palmful of Skittles in his mouth, and once again, winces. It doesn’t look like a wholly pleasant experience, eating sour candy, but he carries on.

“The wedding is Friday and if I don’t have a date, my mother may never forgive me, and then I won’t be invited home for Thanksgiving or Christmas. All of the major holidays will be spent alone with my dog eating grocery store sushi. Is this what you want for me, Ms. Morelli?”

I consider, a smile pressing into my cheeks.

I’m not sure why I’m humoring this—boredom maybe?

No, he’s charming in his way. He’s totally unlike nearly every other man I spend my time around. Those men are macho with shallow egos, cruel, and they struggle in our every conversation to balance the respect they know my position deserves with how much respect they feel they ought to show me as a 28-year-old unmarried woman.

Nate is nothing like that. He talks to me like I’m an equal, like he can just request I buy him sour Skittles and tell me I’m spoiled and entitled with no recourse. It’s rare.

“You don’t do dating apps?” I ask.

“Please don’t relegate me to a dating app, Vanessa, it’s unsafe! I could be in very real danger. I’m sure non-murdering women are on there, but which of them is going to say yes to a date with a stranger in two days?”

I blink at his use of my first name after so much Ms. Morelli, and further, at his assumption that I’ve never murdered anyone. It’s not lost on me how much danger he’s in just by speaking to me in public, where anyone can see and think he’s working with me.

I should say no. Obviously, I should say no, if only because I have no reason to say yes. But I want to say yes.

The realization surprises me and I’m halfway to convincing myself that I only feel this way because of all the drama recently, but before I can make it all the way to that conclusion, I am speaking again.

“What time?” I ask as the buzzer sounds off behind me again, longer this time, the end of the third quarter.

Nate looks astounded, like in a million years he wouldn’t have thought I’d actually say yes.

“I can pick you up at six.”

“I’ll come to you,” I say. Leo would rather drive me and keep watch through the evening, which reminds me that I will have to try to explain this to Leo and, shit , my sisters. Willa is going to have an absolute heyday about this.

“Alright, wow. Shall we, I don’t know—exchange numbers?” he asks.

“I have yours,” I remind him. “From when you. . . hit my car?”

“Right. Yes. Well, I am looking forward to it.” Nate starts backing away. “And I’m leaving now before you tell me you were joking.”

“Okay.”

“O-kay,” he repeats and with one last nod walks away. I watch him go for just a moment, not entirely sure how I ended up here.