“Not yet,” I reply, stone-faced, as if my brother could actually see me.
“That’s disappointing.”
“Not really.” I smile more to myself than to him as a plan begins to take shape in my mind. “I think I might have just found a way to get the precise information we want.”
“Romano?”
“Better. His daughter.”
Chapter 2
Stella
The city glides past in a blur of headlights and shadows, the hum of the engine filling the quiet between us. My mother sits poised, every hair in place, despite the hour, pretending the night wasn’t a complete snooze fest.
“All in all, not a bad night. Don’t you think,piccolina?” she coos at Annamaria, who is staring out the window, watching the world slip by.
Anna gives her a tender smile, not having the heart to say what she really thinks about the party we just had to endure.
I, on the other hand, have no qualms about telling my mother how I really feel. “The whole party was a waste of our time. I felt like we just went through a circle of hell with better hors d’oeuvres. Thank God it’s over.”
My father hides a grin behind his hand, while my mother’s mouth hardens into a razor-thin line.
“I swear, unless there are knives and blood involved, no party will ever meet your standards. Honestly, Stella, if the nightdoesn’t end with someone bleeding, you just can’t seem to enjoy yourself, can you?”
“I like what I like,Mammà.”
“Yes,” she exhales. “That’s the problem.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I snap, offended.
“Only that you’re too clever for your own good. Every word out of your mouth tonight was a reminder—to everyone—how far beneath you you consider them to be. You didn’t need your favorite toys to cut anyone down, Stella. You managed just fine with that tongue of yours and that scathing look in your eyes.”
“I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,Mother.”
“Great. Now I’mMother,” she blurts in frustration. “I can’t say anything without you assuming it as an attack.”
“That’s because it usually is,” I grumble, curling my arms around my chest and leaning back in the seat.
God, I wish we didn’t have to go to that godawful ball in a limo. If we’d gone in separate cars, I would’ve ended my night on a boring note instead of a pissed-off one.
Sensing that my mother and I are seconds away from another full-blown argument, Annamaria—always the peacemaker—rushes to intervene.
“The party did have its peculiar moments,” she says, her tone a little too light to be casual. “Everyone was buzzing when Kirill Petrov walked in.”
My mother and I lock eyes across the back seat, both of us recognizing Anna’s attempt to wave the white flag before our fight grows roots. For her sake, we let the silence win and retreat to our respective corners.
“I do wonder what that was about,” my mother adds to the remark. “I didn’t even know the Petrovswere invited to such things.”
“They’re not,” our father cuts in, his thoughts clearly still on tonight’s unwelcome guests. “Not usually, anyway. Petrov must have pulled a lot of strings to get an invite.”
“But why, though? He didn’t seem like he was having a good time. Why go through all that trouble to attend a party he clearly didn’t enjoy?” Annamaria muses.
“Sweetheart, let your father worry about such things,” my mother interjects quickly.
In other words, leave the thinking to the men.
Ugh. I fucking hate that.
