I shove Gio backward, probably harder than necessary, my heart hammering against my rib cage, thud thud thud.

David and Marco are frozen in a tableau of surprise. David has his hand at his back and Marco is halfway up from his seat.

And me?

I’m grinning crazily, backed up against the wall, Gio’s hands still on my hips.

“Sia, girl, what the hell are you doing in this backwater town?”

Portia.

Portia is here.

Against all odds, against all hopes, Portia is here, brandishing a gun so shiny and dark that it’s like looking into a black hole. Her hands are absolutely steady, not the slightest shake, and oh my fuck, she looks like a beautiful ninja. Black tank top. A leather strap over her shoulder and across her chest. Is that a fucking knife? Black pants that hug her supermodel hips. Everything about her is perfect, from her hair slung into a ballerina bun at the back of her head to the sleek black shoes on her toes.

Somehow, they match her outfit completely.

I grab Gio’s hand and run for it.

On the way across the kitchen, he grabs his backpack and slings it onto his shoulder.

“Go, go, go,” Portia says, lowering one hand to slap my ass as I go behind her, into the living room.

“What the hell, man? It took me forever to catch up with you. This place—”

She shakes her head, then turns her attention back to Marco and David. “Hands in the air, asshole,” she says to my uncle, but there’s no bitterness. It’s almost friendly, how she says it. “Slowly. I’ll have you on the ground before you can blink if there’s a gun in your hands. And you, old man—” She grins at Marco. “You’ve got a cute old man look going on, really. But sit your ass down in the seat. My guess is that you don’t have a gun yourself. You hire other people to do your dirty work. Don’t you? Yes?” Marco sits down, a little half smile on his face that reminds me so much of Gio my heart squeezes.

“That’s what I thought.” David’s hands are in the air.

“Portia, how the hell—”

“Shh,” she says out of the corner of her mouth. “We can talk on the drive.”

“Portia, I—” My uncle tries his best.

Portia isn’t having it. “You know, I never suspected you.” Portia purses her lips. “You made pizza for our fucking study sessions. What’s wrong with you? You think this is the way to live? You’re going to have to be better at it than that if you’re going to make a career of it, buddy.”

David puffs up his chest. “I have a perfectly fine career, and—”

Portia rolls her eyes as only a nineteen-year-old beauty queen can. “Please. Any man who would fuck around with the Morettos needs to reevaluate his life choices. That would be you,” she finishes with a wink that makes me want to burst out laughing. “Okay. We’re going to be going. You two are going to sit here for the next thirty minutes. Got it?”

They say nothing.

“I’ll say it one more time,” she says, her voice light and free, like she’s flirting for tips at a restaurant.

“You’re going to sit here for the next thirty minutes, and then—”

“Spare us,” says Marco, smiling more broadly.

Portia stomps forward, the tip of the gun swinging closer to Marco’s face by the step. “Hey, fucker, do you understand what I said or do you need me to make it clearer?”

Marco spreads his fingers out on the surface of the table and with a jerk and quiver of my heart I realize Portia was right. He doesn’t have a gun. If he did, he’d have shot her when she walked through the door. And David wasn’t quick enough on the draw.

That, or…

Marco gives her one sharp nod. “I understand.”

My heart swells with pride. I squeeze Gio’s hand.

“Sia, take your boyfriend out to the car. My car. Do not get into any other car. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I don’t hesitate. I don’t have to. In this moment, I trust Portia more than anyone in my life, including Gio.

“Sia—” There’s only the hint of indecision in Gio’s voice.

“Later,” I tell him, and turn him around. He follows me like he’s made of putty. I kiss his knuckles. Six steps and we’re at the wide-open door, which is hanging from its hinges like Portia kicked it in with her foot. That’s what it sounded like, anyway, and I’m more than a little in awe.

A little black SUV waits outside, and I climb into the backseat. There, right in the middle, is the little purse I was carrying that night at the club with Portia. Gio pulls the door shut and I raise that stupid sequined purse to my lips and kiss it. “She’s an angel.”

“What’s that?”

“My purse.”

I unzip it. Everything’s there—my cards, my ID, the emergency cash I tucked in the secret pocket.

It’s all here. Even my old phone. It’s in the glitter case that I bought with Portia a million years ago at the campus bookstore.

I don’t trust it.

I give it an appreciative pat, roll down the window, and tip the phone to the ground. My uncle pays the bill for that. I can’t go anywhere, least of all away in this SUV, with something like that on my person.

A gunshot startles me out of my fascination with the purse, and Gio lurches to the door, his hand on the handle. Portia is backing away from the house, gun still pointed at the cottage. She walks backward all the way to the car and hops in the driver’s seat. She flips the gun in her hand and gives it to Gio. “Cover the house.”

“What the hell was that?” He sounds incredulous but takes the gun.

“A warning shot,” Portia says with a grin. “Just to make sure they stay in the kitchen.”

“Damn.”

Gio rolls down the window and points the gun at the cottage while Portia starts the car.

There’s no movement inside the house.

“Where’d you aim?” I ask her, jittery from waiting, jittery from this incredible relief, this incredible anticipation.

“Way up top, my friend.” She puts the car in drive and steps on the accelerator. “Don’t worry. They’re going to be fine.”