"He said enough people died. He didn't want my blood on his hands. He thought Matteo was dead, so I guess that means I got to live."
"Huh, you know, in a way—"
"Don't say it."
"—that means—"
"Stop."
"—Matty totally saved your life."
"No, he didn't."
"Yep, he did," she said, "which means you owe him."
"I owe him nothing."
"You do, so you have to cut him some slack. Give him a break. He's a good guy, whole Barsanti thing aside. When we were away, he got a job. He worked in a diner for minimum wage just so he could try to give me a life, a real life… a safe one, like normal people have. He baked me cakes any time I wanted them. He didn't complain when I blew every penny he made on some project to keep myself busy. He ate pickles on pizza, for Christ's sake. Gabriella isn't the only Saint. The guy puts up with me. So you don't have to like him, but just… respect him."
"Does he respect me?"
"Doubtful."
That didn't surprise Dante.
He laughed under his breath, watching as his sister swirled her ice cream around, melting it, before drinking it right out of the side of the bowl. Silence surrounded them, and maybe it was the whiskey still sloshing through his veins, but Dante no longer felt the tightness in his chest, no longer felt that gaping hole that had been there when he woke up in the hospital.
"I need a drink," he said, pushing away from the counter to stagger through the kitchen.
"Wait, we're supposed to be sobering you up here, not letting you get drunker."
"I'll sober up tomorrow," he said, spinning her direction. "In the past forty-eight hours, I was dragged to a meeting with the heads of the families, I witnessed Dad kill Barsanti before somebody killed Dad, I punched my now ex-best friend Gavin after my former friend Bert was murdered, I walked out on my girlfriend, and my pregnant sister came back from the dead to tell me she married Matteo Barsanti. So I need a drink, Genna… especially if you expect me to give you my blessing. I definitely need a drink for that."
"Dante? Psstt… Dante!"
Genna grabbed her brother's shoulder and shook him hard. He barely moved, laying flat on his back across the black couch in their father's office, clothes disheveled and only one shoe on. His eyes were closed, his chest rattling from snores.
"Damnit, Dante," she grumbled, shaking him. "Wake up!"
He stirred a bit, rolling over, shrugging her off and grumbling, facing the back of the couch. Genna scowled, looking around the bright room. It was well after sunrise, and Matty had to have been worried, since she'd never returned. She'd spent all night at the house, going to sleep in her parents bed, while Dante passed out on the stiff couch… same one her father used to always sleep on.
It looked uncomfortable. How the hell had the man slept there every night for years?
"Wake up, Dante," she said once more, giving him a moment. No response. Fuck this. Sticking her pointer finger in her mouth, she sucked on it, getting it good and wet before plunging it right in his ear, twisting.
Dante jolted, rolling over so fast he damn near fell off the couch. Grabbing his ear, his eyes opened to greet her standing above him.
It took a few seconds. Confusion. Annoyance. Total fucking shock. Eyes wide, he sat straight up, staring like he was seeing a ghost and seeing that ghost for the very first time. "Genna?"
His voice was as gritty as sandpaper, obviously uncomfortable, based on the way he grimaced, gripping the side of his head. He blinked, the whites of his eyes painfully pink.
Genna sighed. "Don't tell me you were so drunk last night that you forgot I was even here."
"No, I remember." He scrunched up his nose, making a disgusted face. "Did you just wet willy me?"
"You wouldn't respond."
"I was sleeping."
"But I needed you to wake up."
"Why?"
"Because I need to leave."
And just like that, panic flooded his expression. "Leave? You just fucking got here!"
"I don't mean leave-leave. I mean I have to leave the house. Matty's probably worried."
"So?"
"So I need to go see him and let him know I'm alright."
"Ugh." Dante scrubbed his hands over his face. "What time is it?"
"Ten in the morning."
"What day is it?"
"Monday, I think…"
"Month?"
"March." She tried to stick her finger in his ear again, but he blocked her attempt. "The first of the month, actually, in case you lost