A Love Most Fatal (Morelli Family #1)

18. Vanessa

18

VANESSA

My eyes are burning as I stare at the spreadsheet that accounting sent over, the numbers blurring together. I don’t usually look at reports like this, but three sites have come in over budget this month, and not by a small margin by any means. My site managers have written lengthy explanations to state exactly why this is the case, all referring to their spreadsheets and noting where cuts can be made. Whatever the problem is, trying to get to the bottom of any of it is mind-melting and not in my purview.

“You’ve looked better,” a low voice says from my doorway. Cillian leans against the frame, a crooked smirk on his face.

I lean back in my chair with a huff and rub my eyes.

“Thank you kindly, asshole.”

Cillian holds his wide, tattooed hands up in surrender. “I thought honesty was our top rule in this relationship. That and, of course, never go to bed angry.”

“Sure, sure.” I stand from my desk chair and stretch my hands over my head then roll my neck back and forth. Cillian slides my glass of water across the desk to me and I take a sip.

“What do you need?” I ask. “I didn’t think you were coming here today.”

“Was in the area.” Cillian picks up a piece of paper off my desk and holds it up to squint at it. “Picked your darling mother up one of those butter cakes. Just who are you interviewing with questions like these?”

I try to pull the sheets from his hand, but he holds it up out of my reach and my pride is much too large to try to jump for it.

“I told you I’ve been looking for a husband,” I say.

“And what does this have to do with finding a good husband?”

“You wouldn’t know what it’s like having to vet men to make sure they won’t murder you in your sleep or get half of the town pregnant.”

“Well, have you had any luck so far?”

I stalk back to my chair and drop into it. “No.”

“How many have you interviewed?”

“Recently, none. The math teacher is going to do it,” I say.

Cillian barks a laugh at the idea of Nate sitting across from various men in the mafia and asking them questions about how tenderly they might treat a woman, namely me.

“I know,” I say with a sigh and swivel my chair in a full circle. When I’m back to facing him, he’s not laughing anymore, but still grinning. “But not all of us can just go on unmarried until their soulmate comes along.”

“You think I’m looking for my soulmate?” Cillian asks.

Cillian has never been one for serious relationships. I don’t think I’ve known him to have even one long-term girlfriend, everyone in that area of his life is temporary. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t, probably, if he met someone.

“Isn’t everyone? Looking for someone who matches them?”

“Ah you see, those are different things. You can meet any number of people who match you, who would make good partners, but I don’t think soulmates exist, not like that.”

Willa mentioned once that Sean and Cillian’s parents had a loveless marriage. We were never so unlucky as to have a home with no examples of love.

“Whether they exist or not, I’ll be lucky to find someone generally compatible on that list.” I point to the folder of men. “I can only do my best to find someone half-decent who knows his place.”

“You want a weak man?”

I don’t say no, but to hear it put like that, that’s certainly not what I want. What do I really want? Someone who pushes me, who makes me think about every side of a problem, someone helpful, and loyal, someone who won’t make me and our children miserable.

“I want someone that I can trust.”

“Am I on your list?”

I laugh but cut off when he doesn’t join me.

He quirks an eyebrow. “You don’t trust me?”

“I trust Leo, but he’s not on the list.”

“Yes, Ness, because Leo is your cousin,” he says.

“And you’re family.”

Cillian glances again at the paper and then hands it out to me. “Let me sit for an interview.”

I scoff but after a quiet moment, I meet his eyes. “Don’t ridicule me for doing my duty.”

Cillian only nods and points again at the paper. “Ask.”

After another unyielding moment, I sigh and lean forward to look over the typed list of questions Nate dropped on my desk this morning. I haven’t been able to review them yet, so they’re as new to me as they will be to Cillian. I motion for him to take a seat and then I get up, only to sit on the other seat next to him. He scoots his to face mine and when we’re all settled in, I take a deep breath and nod.

I start with a simple one: “How many children do you want?”

“A whole brood of them, if I’m lucky,” Cillian says. “I like the sound of five .”

“You’re lying,” I say.

“I’m not. I always wanted more siblings.” Cillian pockets his shirt’s cufflinks and rolls the sleeves up his forearms as he speaks. It’s possible the man may have more rings and watches in his rotation than my sisters and I combined.

“And how will you treat this basketball team of children?” I ask.

“Fairly.”

“How do you mean?”

“I won’t shield them from this life like you have our niece and nephew. I will teach them and treat them with respect. We all have obligations, and they must understand that. Petulance can only be tolerated for so long.”

“Before what? You hit them?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

Cillian shrugs. “Is the child a little boy or a 30-year-old menace? The man-child may need to be knocked around if he’s fallen too far from grace.”

“Hm.” I hadn’t considered my children as adults living and making decisions as old as I am now. They exist in my mind more as a concept than breathing things that will actually take my place. It’s not something I like to imagine too concretely.

Next question.

“And how do you feel about moving?”

He doesn’t laugh like I expect him to, and doesn’t scoff at the mere thought of relocating from his family home.

“Would I get my own office like this one?” He waves his finger in a circle.

“Maybe a bit smaller,” I say.

“Good, yours is too large. Who needs a fireplace in their office? Citizen Kane?”

I skip the three questions about sex because I do not want Cillian to think of me as a sexual creature on this decent Friday afternoon.

“What do you do if a beautiful woman propositions you?” I ask.

“I remind her of the beautiful woman I have at home.” His eyes snake for the barest moment down to my chest before returning to my face, which , so much for not thinking about me as a sexual being.

“What if your wife wants to do business you have no part in? What if you aren’t included in everything?”

“Will she extend me the same courtesy?” Cillian leans forward, his forearms on his knees.

I consider this. Too much outside business could lead to a loss of power, but Cillian has his own dealings to maintain, ones I’m glad not to have to manage, ones that are already pivotal to my own dealings.

“Some,” I say.

“Then, some.”

“Would you ever consider marriage counseling?” This is obviously a question added by my mother, who swears up and down it was the one thing that saved her and Dad’s marriage in the beginning after they had Willa.

“I don’t like it—someone having access to my most personal matters—but I would consider it.” This is more than can be said for the other men I’ve spoken to thus far who would divorce before they considered a counselor.

I look at the rest of the questions, many of them I already feel like I know the answers to. He has that going for him, I suppose; the years between us.

I make up my own question, “And what if she can never love you?”

Cillian doesn’t answer at first, but moves his hand over my knee, his fingertips barely brushing the bare skin there. I meet his eyes, so piercing blue with the afternoon sun lighting up his face through the windows.

“Consider this my hat in the ring,” he says, his voice low.

“Why?” I whisper.

“I can’t stand the thought of you marrying some idiot,” he says, and leans closer still, his breath warming my cheek. “It’d be bad for business.”

This makes me crack a smile, and he follows suit. He moves to stand, but first presses a loud kiss on my cheek, just like Willa does.

“Are you staying for dinner?” I ask.

“Can’t. But I will be here for the pool party. Gotta see what the fuss is about with this teacher.”

“Ah.” My mom’s doing each year when it’s finally warm enough outside to swim. I’d forgotten about the pool party, much like I’d been forgetting any social engagement for the last three weeks.

I flick my hand in a wave and he offers a mock salute before leaving me be in my office, the quiet and dust settling around me in his wake.