After a moment, Gavin frowned. Pity. Dante could see it in his eyes. "When's the last time you ate, man? You're wasting away."
"Don't do that." Dante shook his head. "You pity me and I'll never fucking speak to you again."
"I don't pity you."
"Don't want your sympathy, either. I'm not a charity case. I'm not your responsibility. You don't have to look out for me, nor do you have to worry about me."
"You make it so easy, though," Gavin said. "Christ, just, why don't we go grab a bite to eat?"
"It sounds a lot like you're asking me on a date, G, and that's bunny boiling territory again."
"It's a friend buying a friend a slice. That's it."
"Friend? Is that what you are to me?"
"Always thought so," Gavin said, "but then again, I'm not one to judge people by their name. Barsanti, Galante, Brazzi… doesn't matter. I've met a couple of each I wouldn't mind seeing dead, but a few others I'd be happy to call my friend."
Dante considered that until his phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, he glanced at the screen. Bert.
He answered it, buying himself a moment. "Yeah?"
"Got something to do," Umberto said. "Where are you?"
"Little Italy. Across the street from the bar."
"Pulling onto Mulberry now," Umberto said. "Pick you up in thirty seconds."
The line went dead.
Dante waved the phone toward Gavin. "Seems duty calls, so maybe some other time."
A black BMW screeched to a stop in the middle of the street beside where they stood. Dante nodded to Gavin before heading to the waiting car.
"Don't get yourself killed," Gavin said.
Dante stepped out into the street, looking back as he grabbed the door handle on the passenger side. "Don't lose any sleep over me."
He climbed in the car, barely getting the door closed before Umberto hit the gas, the tires squealing. Dante shot him a look, not bothering to put on his seatbelt despite the constant dinging from the dashboard warning him.
"Was that Amaro you were with?" Umberto asked incredulously. "Did you forget that jackass punched you last night?"
"That was nothing." Dante rubbed his jaw. "You gotta admire the guy. Took balls to swing on me like that. Besides, it was my fault."
"How was it your fault?"
"Long story," Dante said. "So, where are we going?"
"Jersey."
Jersey.
That hadn't been the answer Dante expected. "What's going on in Jersey?"
"We figured out where Matteo had been living before he showed up," Umberto said. "Your father wants us to go check the place out."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, 'why'?"
"What's the point? What's he hoping to find?"
"Anything," Umberto said. "We're talking about Barsanti's kid… who the hell knows what we might find."
Dante shook his head, looking out the window as Umberto sped through the city. If they thought they'd find anything about the Barsanti family, they'd be sorely mistaken. If Matteo had possessed anything important—and Dante doubted it—Barsanti would've retrieved it long before then.
He didn't say that, though.
Who was he to argue?
No matter how senseless…
"Where'd you go last night?" Umberto asked, giving him a brief once-over when traffic slowed them near the tunnel leading out of the city. "I know you never made it home."
"Hung around," he said. "Stayed in the city."
"With Amaro?"
Suspicion laced Umberto's voice. If Dante didn't know any better, he'd say his old friend was phishing for information. "Yeah, Amaro and I made pottery and watched the fucking sunrise."
Umberto looked at him like he actually believed that.
It was beneath him, but Dante rolled his eyes. "With a girl, Bert. I stayed with a girl."
"Making pottery?"
"You can call it that if you want."
Umberto whistled. "Look at you, back in the game! Was it that curvy broad, you know, the one with the big tits that you used to mess with around there? What was her name? Leslie?"
"Lisa, but no… I haven't seen her."
Not since what happened to him. He'd seen none of them, none of the women he used to occupy himself with on the weekends. Dante had never been a relationship kind of guy… it was never his style. Relationships took too much time, and he'd never met a woman he felt compelled to put in that kind of work for. Love was fleeting, a feeling akin to the sensation that rushed through his body whenever he was buried balls-deep inside a pussy. He loved women. He couldn't deny that fact. But he'd never been in love with a woman, not the kind of love others talked about. That kind of love