Page 8 of A Love Most Fatal

“I think you should leave,” he repeats, now sounding more tired than furious.

I stay sitting a moment longer before I nod and push up from the desk. I’m not used to men calling me entitled or spoiled, no matter how true either of these things may or may not be. It’s almost refreshing, being talked to as if I’m a normal, albeit unhinged, aunt and not someone that’s killed a number of people I will not disclose with my bare hands. I should feel embarrassed, put in my place.

Instead, I’m fuckingthrilled.

“I’ll talk to Artie,” I say once I reach the door. His head snaps in my direction. “He’ll have his missing assignments in by Monday. Can’t do anything about the other kids, though. Maybe try that stern talking to, though. See how they fare.”

After another silent moment of his eyes studying my face, he gives the briefest nod.

“Thank you,” he says.

With one last glance at his face, his body, his hands now relaxed on his backpack strap, I leave, sliding my sunglasses on my nose before getting outside.

Everyone’salready eating by the time I finally get home, gathered around in the kitchen, Willa and my mom standing, Willa’s kids sitting at the island stools. Mom’s already put together a plate for Leo who kisses her on the cheek and goes to join Mary and my brother-in-law, Sean Donovann, watching football in the living room. The meatballs smell delicious, and my stomach garbles at the spices in the air.

My meetings went way too long after I left the school, dragging on until I almost made Leo knock someone out justbecause he spoke too slow. Damn southerners are not meant for Boston, and I stand by that.

“Here, Princess.” Mom offers me a plate after I get through my own round of cheek kisses and hugs.

My niece, Angel, is wearing a shirt and pants with a skeleton printed over her own bones; her Halloween costume that she’s worn at least twice per week since October. She says she’s paying homage to this singer and that I wouldn’t get it because I’m too old and know nothing about music. I tell her, singer or not, she looks badass.

Before I’ve even taken a bite, Angel’s pulled out her sketchbook and is bustling to where I stand to show me her latest work. She, like her twin, is too good for the world she’s been born into. I’m never entirely sure how they got to be so sweet with their dad the way he is (Irish, mafioso, second in line to the Donovann estate, etc.) but maybe that’s exactly how: Sean acts tough, and can be as scary and hideous as he needs to be—and with his lot, he does. Often. But he’s got a soft spot for Willa. An even softer spot for his kids.

“I’m going to shoot hoops,” Artie says through a mouth full of food as he brings his plate to the sink.

“Nope,” I say and point back to the stool he just vacated.

He looks warily back at me, his mom told him I met with Mr. Gilbert no doubt, and he’s afraid of what I’ll do to him. He should be, it means he knows he’s messed up.

“Sit,” I say and take my time looking at some of Angel’s new drawings. A still life of some fruits and vases, a pencil drawing of a tennis shoe, a cartoonish portrait of their cat. I delight in the fact that, at almost thirteen, she still wants to show me her artwork.

“Beautiful,” I say. “You’re getting really good at shading, look here, Willa.” I point at the tennis shoe and nudge my older sister. Willa hums in agreement.

“Very good, baby,” Willa says, and Angel beams.

I give Angel one more kiss on the forehead before starting on my own food. Angel tells us about her day while Mom starts packing up leftovers. Artie squirms in his seat, waiting to hear his fate after the parent-teacher conference.

“So, what happened with the teacher?” Willa finally asks. “Can he play?”

“Oh, he can play,” I say, and Artie lets out a breath. “If he turns in all his homework by Monday.”

“What?” he whines.

“What happened?” Willa asks.

I shoot Willa a look. “What happened is that your son has started a small revolution in his math class that’s led to bullying.”

“I don’t do any of that,” Artie says. “I’m not a bully.”

“No, but the bullying has come at a result of you disrespecting your teacher.”

“Mr. G and I are cool. I don’t disrespect him!”

“By being obstinate and not doing what you’re told—what your teacher assigns to help you learn—you’re disrespecting him and his time. You also disregard your parents’ time by making them deal with it, and furthermore, since I had to talk to him about it, you’re disrespectingmytime.”

“What—”

“Artie,” Sean barks from the living room. “Don’t fight with your godmother.”