is important to me, too. They’re a part of me, as much as my height or the color of my eyes.
For Simone, it’s probably stronger. When you move around all the time, your family is the one constant. They’re the center of your world. I have sympathy for her position.
In fact, I even understand how her parents feel. Simone is a hothouse orchid, rare and beautiful, pruned and protected. She’s been painstakingly raised all this time so she can be the showpiece of her family. Because of her sister’s illness, her parents transferred all their hopes and dreams onto Simone.
Simone was never meant for me. They probably thought they’d pair her up with some Duke or Earl for fuck’s sake. She’s certainly gorgeous enough. Not to mention well-read, well-spoken, and well-mannered.
Then there’s me. The opposite of what they’d want in every way. Simone is a stained-glass window, and I’m the stone gargoyle outside the cathedral.
High-school education. Criminal record. My family’s got money and power, but from all the wrong sources. The Gallo name is as dark as our hair.
None of that will pass unnoticed by Simone’s father. As soon as she tells him about me, he’ll put his people to work, digging up every skeleton I’ve buried—figuratively speaking, I hope. Though it could be done literally, too.
It’s dangerous, putting myself in his crosshairs.
And I plan to do a fuck of a lot more than just draw his attention. I’m going to make myself his enemy—the would-be thief of his baby girl.
I know as well as Simone that Yafeu Solomon won’t accept that. Not for a second.
But there’s no way around it.
Not if I want to be with her for real, forever.
So I pick up my phone and I send my message to her:
No more hiding. I want to meet them.
I wait for her response, my mouth dry and my jaw tense.
Finally, she replies:
I’ll tell them tonight.
I set the phone down, letting out a long sigh.
I hope I’m not making a huge mistake.
Papa tells me to meet him at Stella so we can have dinner with Vincenzo Bianchi, the head of one of the other Italian families. His son got himself in trouble, driving drunk with two sixteen-year-old girls in his car. He went off the road in Calumet Heights, and one of the girls went through the windshield. Bianchi is trying to keep his son out of prison.
“It’s this fuckin’ DA,” Bianchi says, shoveling up a mouthful of ravioli. “He’s on a fuckin’ witch hunt here. My Bosco is a good boy. Never been in trouble once in his life. And just because this is his second DUI—”
Bosco is not a “good boy.” Actually, he’s a piece of shit. Thirty-two years old, making a fucking mess of his father’s businesses, roaring around the city with jailbait in his passenger seat, coked out of his mind. We’d all be better off if the prosecutor locked him up and threw away the key, before Bosco brings down any more heat on the rest of us.
But because Papa is Don, he has to do his best to help Bianchi—whether he deserves it or not.
“I’ve got some pull with the district attorney’s office,” Papa says. “But you have to understand, Vincenzo, he may do some time over this. If we’d been able to get there first—put one of the girls behind the wheel . . . it’s not good that the cops found him in the car. They did the drug test and the breathalyzer . . .”
“Fuck the drug test! Bosco doesn’t do any fuckin’ drugs.”
“Maybe we get some of the evidence to go missing,” Papa says. “There’s always some cop willing to ‘misplace’ the paperwork for a couple grand.”
Papa looks over at me, swirling his wine in his glass.
This is where I’m supposed to chime in with suggestions, or some encouragement for Bianchi. Let him know we’ll help him out with the usual threats, bribes, intimidation of witnesses . . .
I haven’t been paying attention, though. I’m distracted, agitated. Thinking about Simone. Wondering if she told her father about me yet. Maybe she doesn’t want to. Maybe she’s embarrassed of me. My chest burns at that thought—burns with shame and anger.
“What do you think, Dante?” Papa prods me.
“Is the girl dead?” I say abruptly.
“What?” Bianchi says, looking offended.
“The girl that went through the windshield. Is she dead?”
“She’s in a coma,” Bianchi grunts. “I’d pull the plug if it was me. Why keep a fuckin’ vegetable hooked up like that?”
“You should be glad