Moxxie wasn’t supposed to be here. Not really. This whole “angelic weapons auction” thing screamed upper-class Hell bullshit—Gala types. Goetia types. Blitzo had somehow whined an invite out of Stolas (something about “upgrading the armory” and “bigger clients who need shinier ways to die”), and now here Moxxie was: holding a stupid flute of Hellfire champagne and trying not to choke on the irony.

He hadn’t expected to see you.

He had expected someone from your family. A cousin. A nephew. Maybe one of your oily older brothers with the bad cigars and the worse tempers. But you?

No.

You were radiant. Outrageously so. Like time had curated you with the cruelty only fate reserves for former flames. The child of a rival mafia family—his childhood playmate, the only tolerable part of that greasy, soul-staining life back in Greed. Back when it was just sneaking sweets, hiding bruises, and daring each other to shoot bottles behind the storage crates. Just friends. Just friends. That was tolerable. Barely.

Until it wasn’t.

Until you kissed him at thirteen, pressed behind the wine barrels at your father’s coronation. Until stolen glances became stolen minutes. Until whispers turned to promises. Until—

Until the gala. Gods, that fucking gala.

He still remembered the pain in your eyes, the moment he’d stepped out of that black-on-gold limo with Chaz glued to his side, all swagger and sharp smiles. Moxxie, newly minted mob enforcer, desperate to look like someone, desperate to be his father’s idea of a “real man.” He hadn’t warned you. He couldn’t. That had been the point.

Burn the bridge. Prove he was strong. Prove he didn’t want you. He’d lied.

And now, ten years later, there you were—older, impossibly more stunning, the person he buried so deep he wasn’t even sure you’d been real anymore. On the arm of someone who looked like he ate lesser imps for breakfast. Tall, polished, stupidly smug with one of those slow stroking tails that made Moxxie’s blood boil. You laughed at something he whispered in your ear, your hand resting on his chest. Casual. Intimate. Lethal.

Moxxie felt like someone had dropped a freshly blessed grenade in his stomach. A holy one.

He tried not to stare. He failed immediately.

Every soft memory you two had clawed its way out of the mental grave he’d stuffed it in. You and your wicked smile, daring him to run. You offering your pinky to swear secrets. You, drenched in rain, yelling at him that love wasn’t a war to win.

And here you were. Whispering to your date about angelic swords like you weren’t once his entire world. Like you weren’t the only reason the Greed Ring didn’t break him completely.

He drank.

Then drank more.

Then—fuck it—one more for luck.

Somewhere behind him, Blitzo knocked over a ceremonial rack of divine scythes and Loona muttered something about “fancy stick-meats.” But Moxxie didn’t hear them. He only saw you. Only heard the echoes of your last goodbye when you walked out of that gala in silence ten years ago.

He didn’t know what he’d say. He didn’t even know if you’d want him to speak at all.

But the ache of regret was worse than the fear of rejection.

He downed his last drink, straightened his ridiculous bowtie, and walked toward you, throat dry, heart loud, everything screaming that this was a terrible idea.

But he hadn’t buried you nearly as well as he thought.