"I was going to say pregnant," Gabriella said. "You're pregnant."
"Oh, yeah." Genna grasped her stomach. "I'm that, too."
Gabriella had no idea what to say. In all of their conversations, Gavin had never once mentioned that fact, despite acknowledging seeing her. "I had no idea. Gavin didn't say anything."
"My brother didn't, either?"
"Your brother?"
Genna eyed her warily. "Yeah, Dante?"
"How would he…?"
"He was the first one to know," Genna said. "He figured it out before I did."
Gabriella was stunned. "He never mentioned it."
"Oh... well, then. That sucks. Did he mention me at all?"
Gabriella sensed the apprehension in that question. "All the time."
Genna smiled, her relief palpable.
"I'm guessing he's not here," Matty said. "If he was, he probably would've taken a swing at me by now."
"Oh, no, Dante's not here."
"Do you know where he is?" Genna asked.
Gabriella hesitated, not sure how much Genna knew, not wanting to have to be the one to tell her. "He mentioned something about going home."
Genna pursed her lips as she looked at Matty. "And you said you weren't taking me to my father's house."
"I'm not." Matty pulled out a set of keys. "You can take yourself, though."
Genna took the keys, scowling. "I was kidding about the going our separate ways thing."
"I know." He nudged her chin before kissing her, pressing his palm flat against her stomach. "I just figure, knowing your brother, it might go over better if I'm not around when you see him."
"What are you going to do?" Genna asked.
"He can hang out here," Gabriella suggested. "I have macaroni… or well, I had some." She grimaced at the mess on the floor, shoved behind the door. "We can order a pizza."
"There you go," Matty said, slipping around Genna as he backed up into the apartment. "You go do what you gotta do, while I eat pizza… real pizza… without pickles."
Genevieve scrunched up her nose, lingering in the hallway. "That sounds terrible."
"I bet." Matty grasped her face, cradling it between his hands. "Go. See your brother."
Genna bit her bottom lip. "But what if—?"
"Don't do that," he said. "We just drove the entire way across this country for you to see him. The time for second-guessing was two thousand miles ago."
"Fine," she grumbled, shoving away from him. "I'll go, but you better save me some damn pizza, Matteo. With pickles."
"Whatever you want."
Genna pressed a quick peck to his lips and stalked away, grumbling. Gabriella couldn't make out most of the words, something about bossy Barsantis. Her footsteps echoed through the building as she stomped down the stairs.
"Does she not want to see Dante?"
"Oh, no, she does." Matty stepped into the apartment. "She just gets mean when she's scared. Galante family trait."
"Ah, right." Gabriella shut the door, bending down to pick up her bowl and clean up the macaroni. "I've seen her brother do that."
"So have I," Matty said. "It's what killed Enzo."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Soft, fluffy flakes fell from the night sky, a splattering of white in the stark darkness. Dante sat on the damp railing of the second-story balcony, his legs dangling over the side. His laces hung loose, swaying, his shoes on the verge of falling off.
Coldness seeped through his dark sweats and the NY Mets shirt he wore, but the liquor running through his veins, radiating out through his pores, proved enough to keep him warm. He was probably dying from fucking hypothermia, but he sure didn't feel it.
His nerves were numb.
The doors to the balcony stood wide open, letting cold air burst through, into the quiet house. Behind him, Genna's bedroom. She'd always loved the balcony. How many times had he found her sitting out there? It's too suffocating inside, she'd say. I can't breathe.
Although true, Dante always told her she was being dramatic. Their father had her on lockdown, yes, but Dante never minded keeping her company. But man, what a pain in the ass, not being able to take a breath without somebody monitoring each inhale.
So he got it, why she found it suffocating.
He understood the feeling.
He wished he could tell her that.
"Christ, please tell me you're not planning to jump."
The incredulous voice echoed through the vacant room, striking him. Genna. Dante tensed, his muscles rigid as he clutched tight to the oversized bottle of whiskey, already half drank despite cracking it open just an hour earlier.
Did hypothermia cause hallucinations?
Drunken delusions?
Was he already fucking dead?
"Seriously," she continued, "because at most you'll probably just break your leg, and I am in no condition to try to carry your dumb