Bloody Heart (Brutal Birthright #4) - Sophie Lark Page 0,33

Tata,” I say, “I have something to tell you.”

My mother looks expectant. My father is frowning—he doesn’t like surprises.

I take a deep breath. “I met someone. We’ve been dating a couple of months now.”

Mama smiles. She looks pleased, like she already expected this. “It’s Jules, isn’t it?” she says. “I saw his mother at brunch last week, and she said—”

“It’s not Jules,” I interrupt.

“Oh.” Her smile fades, but not all the way. She thinks it must be some other boy from Young Ambassadors, or a friend of Emily’s.

“His name is Dante Gallo,” I say. “He’s from here. From Chicago.”

“Who is he?” my father asks at once.

“He’s, well, uh . . . his family works in construction. And the restaurant business . . .” I say. I’m trying to list the least-offensive of their professions.

My father isn’t fooled for a minute.

“Is that who you’ve been sneaking out to see?” he barks.

“Yafeu, why are you—” Mama says.

“Don’t think Wilson hasn’t told me,” my father says, not taking his eyes off me. “He drops you off at the library, and you call him six hours later. You disappear from dinners and parties . . .”

“I didn’t realize I was under surveillance,” I say coldly.

“Sneaking out?” Mama says, frowning. “I really don’t see—”

“What are you hiding?” my father demands. “Who is this man you’re seeing?”

I’m sweating and my stomach is rolling over and over. I hate this. But I’m not going to cry or throw up—not this time. I have to stay calm. I have to explain.

“He’s a good man,” I say firmly. “I care about him . . . very much. I didn’t want to tell you about him because I knew what you’d think.”

“What?” my father says with deadly calm. “What would I think?”

“His family has . . . a criminal history.”

My father swears in Twi.

My mother is staring at me, wide-eyed.

“You can’t be serious, Simone . . .”

“I am. I’m very serious.”

“You’ve become infatuated with some . . . some malfaiteur?”

“He’s not like that,” I say.

I didn’t want to lie anymore, but I don’t know how to explain what Dante is, actually. He’s strong, he’s bold, he’s intelligent, he’s passionate . . . I hate to hear him described in the awful terms my parents are using. But at the same time, I can’t exactly claim that he’s innocent, that he’s never broken the law . . .

“I want you to meet him,” I say, in the firmest tone I can muster.

“Out of the question!” my father scoffs.

“Wait, Yafeu,” my mother says. “Maybe we should—”

“Absolutely not!” he says. Turning to me, he orders, “You’re not going to see this man again. You’ll block him on your phone, you’ll give his name and description to the staff, and from this moment on—”

“No!” I cry.

My parents fall silent, staring at me in shock.

I don’t think I’ve ever told them ‘no’ before. I’ve definitely never shouted.

Heart racing, I say, “I’m not going to stop seeing him. Not before you’ve even met him. You can’t say anything about him now when he’s a stranger. You don’t know him like I do . . .”

My father looks like he wants to shout something back at me, but Mama puts her hand on his arm, steadying him. After a moment, he takes a breath and says, “Fine, Simone. You’ll invite him here for dinner.”

Even Mama looks surprised at that.

“Dinner?” I say.

“Yes,” he presses his lips together in a thin line. “We’ll meet this man who’s insinuated himself into my daughter’s heart. And we’ll see exactly what sort of person he is.”

Blood is thundering in my ears. I can’t believe he’s agreeing. It seems like a trick. Like the other shoe is about to drop.

But my father doesn’t say anything else. He waits for my response.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “I’ll invite him tomorrow night.”

“Good,” Tata says. “I can’t wait.”

The dinner is a disaster.

From the moment my father opens the door, I know that’s how it’s going to be.

He’s put on one of his best suits—the navy Brioni. This isn’t as a gesture of welcome or respect. He wants to appear as intimidating as possible.

He greets Dante coldly. My father can be horribly stern when he wants to be.

The problem is that Dante is equally stern in return. He’s wearing a button-up shirt and a pair of slacks. His hair is nicely combed, and his dress shoes are polished. But he doesn’t look refined like Tata. With the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his meaty forearms are