GRANDPA BELMONT
Vanessa's grip on my arms tightened, her manicured nails digging into my biceps hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents in my skin. Her wedding dress—an absurdly expensive marshmallow-esque puff of ivory silk and lace—was smudged with dirt.
Nathan loomed behind her, his tuxedo jacket straining across shoulders that had clearly spent too much time in the gym. He was a CEO, not a Mr. Universe contender. His gaze locked onto Raine with the kind of cold calculation usually reserved for serial killers and tax auditors.
Malone, meanwhile, had positioned himself near the exit. His right hand rested near his holster, fingers twitching like he was mentally rehearsing his draw. Nathan told me once that his bodyguard/assistant had once shot a mugger through a subway car window from thirty yards away. If I was in trouble, I'd want Malone to be on the rescue team.
And then there was Nettie.
