Crossing Stars

  Serena studied me for a few moments then shook her head. “You’re insane.”

  “I know,” I admitted with a shrug. “But will you help me?”

  She paced in front of the door, her tall heels tapping. After a few more back and forths, she groaned. “What do you want me to do?”

  I exhaled my relief as I dug a letter from the folds of my dress. The one and only pro to the monstrosity was the couple of pockets that had been sewn into it. “If you see him, hand him this letter. It’ll explain everything.” I’d spent all of last night writing and rewriting the letter, struggling to find the right way to admit who I was.

  Serena’s mouth fell open. “So let’s just say I do spy him out in the hundreds of people on the Moran side. What am I supposed to do? Walk up to him and hand him a letter for the whole place to see? That’s real subtle.”

  She was right, of course. A Costa girl sauntering up to a Moran boy was bound to turn every head in the room. But Serena was nothing if not industrious. She’d figure out a way to make it work. “You’ll think of something more subtle I’m sure.” Heading toward her, which took twice as long thanks to the added weight, I held out the letter.

  “What does it say?” Her eyes narrowed on the letter.

  “The truth.”

  After glaring at the letter like she hoped it would burst into flames, she relented with a drawn-out sigh. “Fine. I’ll deliver your stupid letter. But if he’s not out there, I’m burning the thing. Anyone who’s caught with this in their hands is not going to get away with those hands still attached to their arms.” Serena pinched the letter, flashing her nails at me. “And I just got a manicure.”

  “Thank you.”

  Serena paused with her hand on the doorknob. “What’s he going to do when he finds out?”

  Yet another question I’d asked myself a million times. “I don’t know. But at least he’ll have a little warning before he finds out the girl behind the red cloak is me, Josette Costa.”

  After tucking the letter into her purse, Serena hurried through the door and past Luca without so much as a wink. She scurried along on those heels at a speed I didn’t know could be attained in them.

  “Do you need anything, Miss Costa?” Luca asked.

  I heard the haunting sound of an organ playing in the sanctuary. It was almost time. “A different last name if you’ve got any of those lying around.”

  Luca’s smile was sad. “I’m afraid not.” He was dressed in a more formal suit, fitting for the occasion, but he appeared nervous. Probably because he’d had to leave all of his guns and knives at home. His hands curled, almost like they hoped a gun would materialize from thin air. His eyes scanned the surrounding area with even more vigor. “In a few minutes, I’ll escort you to the door of the sanctuary, where your father will escort you the rest of the way. I’ll stay stationed at the door, watching the crowd, and once the ceremony is over, your father will walk you back down the aisle, and I’ll walk you back to this room.” It was like he was reading from a game-plan book.

  “It sounds like nothing could go wrong.” I patted his arm before slipping back inside the room. I wished I could believe those words, but really, I felt just the opposite. An image of the man who’d been my tutor and would-be assassin flashed through my mind, making me wonder if the cathedral’s walls were the last thing I’d ever see.

  If I could have sat down, I would have, but the corset was too tight for sitting and the skirt too full for it. So instead I waited, pacing like Serena had, but I soon figured out the dress wasn’t conducive to pacing either. In my opinion, it wasn’t conducive to much other than burning. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes before Serena slipped back into the room, but I felt like I’d aged a couple of decades.

  “Well?” I whispered. “Was he out there?”

  Serena shook her head, exhaling like she was relieved. “No fiercely handsome hero to be found.”

  Relief washed over me, but I was just as surprised. I’d suspected Rylan of being involved in Moran’s gang far more than I’d expected he wasn’t. “You’re sure?”

  Serena gave me a look. “Unless he was hiding under a pew or stuffed in the rafters, then yeah, I’m sure. I even checked the men’s restroom. If that isn’t thorough, I don’t know what is.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Thank you so, so much, Serena. I owe you a serious one.”

  “No, you owe me a hundred serious ones. The first of which will be letting me borrow those killer red heels when you’re done with them.”

  Just like the dress they matched, my shoes were incredibly uncomfortable. “You can have them. How about that?”

  “Even better. One down, ninety-nine to go.” Serena clucked her tongue as she turned to leave.

  “See you out there. I’ll be the one floating down the aisle like a human blood bath.”

  Serena shook her head, chuckling, then paused at the door. “I burned the letter, and even though I’d love to tell you to burn the rest of whatever it is you have for that guy, I won’t tell you who to love or how to love or when to love.” Serena’s eyes met mine—a mixture of emotions swam in them. “But I am going to tell you to be careful.”

  “Be careful or be dead,” I quoted one of my father’s favorite lines before nodding. “I will. I promise.”

  Serena had barely left the room before Luca stuck his head inside. “It’s time, Miss Costa. Are you ready?”

  I forced myself to roll my shoulders back. “If I’m not, can I stay here and let the ceremony go on without me?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said once again. He stepped inside the room and opened the door for me.

  “Then I guess I’m ready.”

  As I started for the door, I quickly realized that walking wasn’t only difficult due to the weight of the cape and gown, but also because of the way my mom had laced the corset. It was so tightly cinched, I felt like I could only fill my lungs to half capacity. Instead of taking long, slow breaths, I took five mini ones. True to his word, Luca stayed right beside me, looking behind and to the side of us every few moments. When we were halfway down the hall, he stopped.

  “Your hood,” he said, reaching for it.

  “Nice save.” I helped him pull it over my face, making sure all of my hair was tucked inside. “We wouldn’t want to be responsible for chaffing tradition.” The hood, like the cloak, was part of the show.

  As the two Arms Bearers made their way down the aisles, their faces stayed hidden. Only when my father or Moran announced their name were they able to remove the hood. As a person in the crowd, the whole ritual had seemed deliciously clandestine, but preparing to walk down the aisle as one of the hooded figures, it felt like more of a silly burden. I would be lucky to get to the altar without tripping over my dress or falling under the weight of it. I didn’t need the added complication of barely being able to see.

  The organ music was louder. Even through the velvet hood, I could hear each note moan. For the second time in this stifling dress, I got the chills. With my head bowed to keep my face hidden, the only way I had of knowing we’d made it to my father was when I saw his expensive snake-skin shoes. They were his most prized pair, the ones he’d had specially made from the skins of the blue krait snake. Sure, Armistice Day was about peace and honoring the dead, but it was also about instilling even more fear into your enemies. With those shoes, no one could forget who Salvatore Costa was or how he liked to deal with his enemies.

  “Do not dishonor me,” was my father’s greeting, the first words he’d spoken to me since the White Party.

  Instead of answering him, I glared at the marble floor and wove my arm through his elbow when he extended it. Luca had just enough time to wish me good luck before my father led me down the aisle. The plush crimson carpet had been rolled down it, cutting a path across the ivory marble. I couldn’t see the people on either side of me. I couldn’t see the altar in front of me or Luca behind me. All I could see was the next step I’d ta
ke—none I’d already taken and none I’d take after. I walked the aisle one step at a time, wondering if I’d ever reach the end.

  My father felt more cold than warm, his guiding arm stiff and unyielding. I would have rather escorted myself than be led by the more-corpse-than-man beside me, but tradition was tradition. The sanctuary was silent. Even the organ music was winding down, and in its absence, my heart thrummed in my ears.

  At last, a step came into view. After scaling a couple dozen stairs, the floor leveled out, and I knew the altar was looming beside me. When my father stopped, he slipped his arm from mine like he didn’t want it to be there any longer than it had to be. Standing still, I noticed how labored my breathing had become. I felt like I’d just sprinted down the aisle instead of walked it.

  I knew Moran’s Arm Bearer was already across from me. The male was always first to make the journey to the altar. I wondered if he was as nervous as I was. I wondered if he wished he could stay hidden beneath his hood forever. I wondered if he’d been worried about surprising someone in the crowd like I’d been.

  “Let us commence the pronouncement of the Arms Bearers.” The familiar voice of the priest echoed off the walls of the vast room. The same priest had been performing this ceremony for as long as I could remember. Like my father and Moran, he wasn’t above bribes. His ornate rings shoved onto every finger were proof of his many years of “service” to our families. “Salvatore Costa, who are you presenting this day?”

  The woman was always announced first, but I wasn’t ready to be announced. I wasn’t ready for the entire world to know who I was. I’d been hidden for so long, the thought of being in the open was crippling. I heard my father’s steps behind me. I felt his cold hands slide over the edge of my hood.

  “It is my great honor to present this day my very own daughter,” he said, his voice settling in the sanctuary like a thick fog. “Josette Mariella Costa.”

  The hushed crowd was already buzzing from the mere mention of my name. When my father pulled back my hood, revealing me to his enemies for the first time in over a decade, that buzz morphed into a dull roar. I’d never felt so naked—so exposed. I was plastered in yards and yards of fabric, and I felt as bare as the day I’d been born.

  The room went from a hushed buzz to a louder one, mostly coming from the Moran side. Poor Luca standing guard in the back couldn’t keep up with all of the Morans shaking their heads and pointing and whispering to their neighbors. The priest had to raise his hands for silence, but even that took another minute to attain. So many people were staring at me—some with sheer awe that standing before them was the phantom daughter of the Blue Krait, some with unadulterated hatred, some with marked confusion. Their eyes trailed from me to my father like they couldn’t figure out how I had come from him. On the surface, our similarities were next to none, but beneath the surface layer, the similarities were zero.

  When some manner of decorum had settled back around us, the priest cleared his throat and motioned to the other side of the altar. I’d been so busy staring into the crowd staring back at me that I hadn’t even noticed the two men standing across from me and my father.

  Patrick Moran was older than my father by a couple of decades, but his back hunched less and his waist didn’t bulge over his belt. He’d lived plenty of time, but it hadn’t seemed to touch him. At least, other than his eyes. Patrick Moran’s eyes were a shade of blue so light, it was a bit frightful to look into—but I could tell the darkness those light eyes had seen. It was written in their very irises, along with the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes.

  I didn’t know why, but whenever I’d seen Patrick Moran, instead of feeling dread that he was the leader of our sworn enemies, I felt something more along the lines of sympathy. His wife had been killed only a couple years after having their first and only son—shot in the back of the head on her way home from an evening show. Of course the Costas had denied any involvement, but some crimes didn’t require fingerprints and hard evidence to solve. Three years later, his son had been murdered as well. Or kidnapped. Or whatever had happened to make a young boy up and disappear and never be heard from for close to twenty years. Patrick Moran’s life had been seasoned with pain and tragedy, and it was impossible for me not to feel some sympathy for him . . . despite knowing it was probably him who’d put the hit on me back when I was five.

  The young man standing with Patrick Moran was hidden behind a cape as well, although he wore all black. That’s what the ceremony came down to: darkness and blood. He stood a bit taller than Moran, but it was difficult to tell his bulk since the heavy cape obscured him. He was so still, I wondered if the person beneath that cape was even alive.

  The priest extended his hand in a lavish sweep toward the Moran side of the altar. “Patrick Moran, who are you presenting this day?”

  Moran was silent for a moment, his eyes shifting to my father. His face stayed expressionless, but I didn’t miss the storm rolling through his eyes. The unabashed hatred in them never dimmed.

  It was no secret that Moran and my father despised each other on a level that went beyond enemies and beyond arch nemeses. Their hatred for one another ran so deep, I didn’t doubt both of them would sacrifice their first-born children before they’d shake hands.

  Finally, Moran’s stare broke, and he looked out into the crowd. From the look on his face, one would think a noose had just been cinched around his neck. “Today I present . . .”—his hands moved around the hood, slowly pulling it back—“Patrick Rylan Moran. My son.”

  The room that had been buzzing when I’d been presented was now in an uproar. I could sense my father’s shock, it was pulsing from him so strongly. I heard the crowd’s shock, mainly coming from the Costa side. I saw so many faces look like they were seeing a ghost come back from the grave. I tasted the doubt and uncertainty from both sides, and I sensed what everyone else was feeling.

  But I couldn’t feel my own emotions. As I stood there facing him, his expression as grave as a tomb, I felt empty. Everything inside of me had been siphoned out, but at the same time, I felt a hundred different emotions lying in wait, just waiting to be let in.

  My breathing had grown more labored until I felt like my ribs were going to burst through the corset or the corset was going to break through my ribs. What is he doing here? Why is Patrick Moran calling him his son? What is he doing staring out into the crowd when I’m feet away from him, trying to determine what manner of nightmare I’ve just stumbled into? I nearly reached for my father’s arm to steady myself, but steadying myself on him would have been a wasted effort. I took a breath, and then another one, and tried to coax myself back from the edge.

  The priest held his arms high, waiting for the room to quiet, but it wasn’t up to the task. Patrick Moran’s son, the one we’d all been so sure had been killed and dropped in some body of water years ago, stood before them now—a man and heir to one of the most powerful crime syndicates in the nation. The crowd’s roar was dimming when the man in black finally turned away from them. He turned slowly—I couldn’t tell if it was more out of formality or hesitancy—but only after he’d stopped across from me did his eyes lift to mine.

  I could have been looking into a mirror. Rylan’s eyes went wide, his stare unblinking, while his breath caught in his throat. Then his forehead lined, and his gaze shifted from me to my father, back and forth again. Mine, though, stayed on him. I didn’t need to glance between him and Moran to see the similarities. Patrick was decades older and his light eyes were a different color than his son’s, but the rest was very much the same.

  When Rylan’s eyes traced back to me, they closed as he let out a long breath. All of those emotions that had been begging to be let in came pouring into me. They were so strong, they choked and crippled me. I wanted to flee as much as I wanted to run into his arms. I wanted for me not to be a Costa or him not to be a Moran. I wanted to leap into the past, before I’d learned who Rylan was. I wanted to jump into the future to a place where
time had tempered the shock.

  Everything I wanted, I couldn’t have. That realization had never been more obvious than it was right now.

  “Let us commence the exchanging of the arms.” The priest had to speak over the crowd, but he was obviously done waiting for them to be quiet. “Josette Costa, please lay your selected arm down at the altar.”

  When the priest noticed me, his brows knit together. I didn’t know what I looked like, but I supposed it was alarming. I’d heard the priest’s words, but I hadn’t heard them. My father had to shove the weapon into my hands before I realized what part of the ceremony was taking place . . . or that there was still a ceremony taking place.

  The gun was cold. My hands trembled so badly, the gun almost slipped from them, but I caught it just in time. As I lifted the gun onto the altar, I felt Rylan’s eyes watching my every move. I sensed him studying me, asking himself the same questions I’d just asked myself. I felt my shock morphing into disbelief before melting into anger. Anger that, of all of the billions of people out there, we’d had to fall for the one person life, fate, family, friends, and duty would never let us be with.

  Placing the gun on the corner of the altar nearest me, I pulled my hand back as soon as the weapon was in its place. I’d been around guns my whole life, but I’d never gotten used to them. Especially this kind. Instead of hollow points, it was loaded with darts filled with venom. Blue krait venom, to be precise. It was a cruel weapon for a man who liked to make his enemies suffer before they took their last breath. The crowd had gone quiet at last, although their silence was more deafening than their uproar.

  The priest nodded as I completed my part of the ceremony. He turned slightly toward Rylan. “Rylan Moran, please lay your selected arm down on the altar.”

  Rylan stayed motionless. His stare was so intense, it pulled my eyes up to his. The agony in his expression was so raw, I felt a sob winding up my throat. Swallowing it, I gave him the slightest nod, hoping to encourage him that everything would be all right . . . though I knew it couldn’t be. But whatever all of this meant, I wouldn’t risk the entire cathedral finding out that Rylan and I were more to each other than just Arms Bearers. If anyone found out, or even suspected, we’d forged a relationship, one half of the sanctuary would be after him and the other half would be after me. The boy who’d been a ghost for two decades would become an actual ghost if we didn’t keep us hidden.