scattering of trees along the property. Gabriella sat in a chaise lounge chair in the backyard of the house she'd grown up in, one of those cheap plastic get-ups, her legs spread out along it. Her black flip-flops lay discarded in the neatly trimmed grass to her right, her bright red toe polish gleaming in the sunlight. It was the only stitch of color on her that afternoon: black sundress, black sunglasses, and black wide-brim sun hat.
Black soul, too, according to her superstitious grandmother.
'You look like you're in mourning!' she'd declared when Gabriella showed up forty-five minutes late. 'You'll never find a husband looking like that!'
Never mind the fact that Gabriella hadn't been looking for a husband. Her grandmother wouldn't understand that, though. Her family, for how unique they were, tended to be conservative when it came to relationships, but getting married wasn't exactly her priority.
Nor was it even something that interested her.
"So, are you gonna tell me why you were late?"
Gabriella glanced up, meeting her mother's stern gaze, grateful to be wearing sunglasses. They felt like a shield, a protective barrier to keep her mother from digging too deep. Victoria Russo was a no-nonsense woman, the kind that went toe-to-toe with men twice her size, a product of her upbringing. And while Gabriella had been raised to cower from no one, her mother was one of those rare folks who scared the day lights out of her sometimes.
She shrugged, figuring it was best to be honest. "I really didn't want to come, so I almost didn't."
"Well, I'm glad you came to your senses. You would've been missed."
"That's under debate." Gabriella looked over her shoulder, back toward the house, where most of the guests gathered. "Half of these people don't even remember I exist. Unless you're packing a penis in your pants, your existence means nothing. Can't measure it to prove my worth, therefore I must not be worthy."
Victoria stepped over to her, reaching down and grasping Gabriella's chin, pulling her face up to look at her. "What's wrong with you today?"
"Nothing."
Her response was immediate. It was also a big, fat lie. She'd woken up the day before to find Dante gone from her apartment, and there had been no sign of him since. She wasn't sure when it happened, or even how, but somewhere along the way she started to really care about the guy. Worry consumed her. Was he well? Alive? Had he passed out in an alley somewhere and ended up in another hospital? Or geez, maybe he made it to the morgue this time…
A lot was wrong with her.
She was losing her friggin mind over a guy.
A guy who had no regard for his own safety.
A guy who once told her he felt dead inside.
"Your father's in the house," her mother said, not buying her 'nothing' nonsense. "Why don't you go say hello?"
Gabriella knew better than to argue. "Yeah, maybe I will."
Standing, Gabriella snatched up her flip-flops before trudging through the back door. People packed the house, all of them family in some way, although Gabriella only recognized maybe half of their faces. They ran the gauntlet of Italian surnames, mixed through marriages, with a few notables missing.
One being the whole reason any of them were there to begin with. A birthday party with the birthday boy skipping it.
"There's my girl!"
Gabriella's attention turned to the source of that voice when she stepped inside, seeing her father sitting at a table in the kitchen, accompanied by a few other guys as they played a game of Texas Hold 'Em. Alfie Russo, card shark extraordinaire, was a car dealer by trade, specializing in high-end vehicles for a select clientele, playing a role in a scripted show most people thought was reality. He sold bright colored Ferraris to the filthy rich while driving a plain black Ford Crown Vic. Whatever they asked for, he it got for them with a smile, no matter how insane or absurd he thought it was. He had one heck of a poker face.
God, she wished she'd inherited that.
"Hey, Daddy," she said, stopping beside him, eyeing the thick stack of crumpled cash on the table in front of him. "I see you're winning."
"Always," he said with a grin.
Laughter rang out from across the table. "That's because the bastard cheats."
Gabriella glanced over at her Uncle Johnny, the table in front of him pretty much cleared. Her father did cheat. That was common knowledge. He cheated at cards. He cheated on his taxes. He'd probably cheat