Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Rocked by the revelation, I frown. “I didn’t know. He never came to see me.”
“He never spoke to me about it. But one night I overheard him telling Papa that you had moved on.”
I shake my head. “I’m so confused right now. He was supposed to come and find me on my eighteenth birthday, but he never showed.”
She huffs out a breath. “Boy, by eighteen, he was a different person,” she says. “I don’t know what happened when he came to America the first time, but it changed him.”
Social media isn’t an option when your parents are Mafia. Even more so for ex-Mafia. My father’s defection was seen as a betrayal to some, and he made enemies out of families who were once allies, people who might try to get to him through me.
Because of this, I wasn’t allowed a phone or email. Which of course only made me feel like more of an outcast. When you’re the new kid in town and have no socials, your classmates wonder what you have to hide.
Imogen tried to help me once. She set up a fake profile on Facebook, but my father’s bloodhounds discovered it within hours. Same with the email and the Instagram account she created for me.
Instead of helping us keep in touch, technology formed an impenetrable wall around Nico and me being able to communicate, and it didn’t take long for that gulf to widen.
Frowning, I try to figure out what he saw that made him so brokenhearted.
Then I remember that he has kidnapped me, and I’m his prisoner, and I decide I don’t care.
“Please let me go,” I whisper.
She looks surprised. “You don’t want to eat?”
I look at the calzone, and my stomach rumbles. Marianne De Kysa used to make a mean calzone, and I could never pass one up, and this one looks just as good as what she used to make.
I mean, I am hungry.
“If you’re feeling better, we can eat in the kitchen,” Arianna says.
I look at her, surprised by the suggestion. “You’re letting me out of this room?”
She laughs like it’s ridiculous that I’m even asking.
“Oh course, silly. As I said, you’re not a prisoner. This room wasn’t supposed to be locked.”
“So I can go home?”
“Nico said you’d ask. Told me to remind you that you have a deal, whatever that means, and he’d take you leaving as breaking that deal. It comes with consequences.” She shrugs. “My brother speaks so cryptically sometimes, but I guess you’ll understand what that means.”
I roll my eyes and reach for the calzone.
“Yeah. Unfortunately, I do.”
We sit at the massive kitchen table. Arianna drinks red wine while I devour the calzone and cannoli she prepared for me earlier.
“You’re right. This tastes just like your mama’s,” I say, stuffing another mouthful in. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. “You’re a very good cook.”
Her smile beams across at me. “Thank you.”
Marianne De Kysa was tough on her kids and never had much time for them. Only when she was in the kitchen teaching them to cook would her usually stern face soften and her body language relax. It was almost as if she became someone else when she showed them how to make everything from silky pasta to the most luscious tiramisu you ever tasted.
Come to think of it, it was the only time I ever saw her smile.
“Tell me more about Nico coming to America,” I say, swallowing another mouthful of calzone.
Arianna bites down on her lip. Now that she’s had time to think about it, she probably realizes she’s already said too much. “I probably shouldn’t have told you about that.”
Bingo.
“It’s just… as far back as I can remember, it was always you and Nico, you know. I thought you two were soulmates. Star-crossed lovers.” She shakes her head dreamily. “I know I was young, but even back then, I saw how you looked at one another, and I remember thinking that was exactly what I wanted when I met the right boy.”
“Did you meet the right boy?” I ask, biting into the cannoli.
“Not yet.” She raises an eyebrow. “Can you imagine what it’s like with two older brothers like Nico and Massimo? It makes dating difficult. The moment any potential date finds out who I am and who my brothers are—poof, they vanish quicker than you could say I don’t want to date the sister of the most powerful don in the city.”
I raise my glass of wine. “I hear you, sister.” I take a mouthful, and goddamn, it’s the nicest, berriest wine I’ve ever tasted. “It’s hard to be the sister or daughter of powerful men. But finding a guy who rises to the challenge will happen. You’re smart and sweet, not to mention stunningly beautiful.”
“Did it happen for you?”
A sarcastic chuckle leaves me. “Haven’t you heard? I’m about to marry the most powerful man in the city.”