"Well," I say, changing the subject, "at least you're a gracious loser. That's something."
"I try."
We lapse into silence. Tony navigates through late-night Manhattan traffic, and I find myself noticing things I haven't before.
"You never drink," I say suddenly.
Dante goes very still. "What?"
"At poker night. Everyone else was drinking—wine, whiskey, beer. But you?" I gesture to the water bottle in his cup holder. "Just water. All night."
"I don't drink." His voice has gone flat.
"Ever? Or just around people?"
"Ever."
"That's weird." I'm pushing, I know I am, but the wine has loosened my tongue. "Adrian?—"
"Don't." The single word is sharp enough to cut.
I blink. "Don't what?"
"Don't compare me to Adrian. Don't bring up drinking like it's some measure of masculinity." His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping. "Just don't."
"I was just?—"
"I know what you were doing." He turns away again. "Subject closed."
The reaction is so visceral, so immediate, that I know I've stumbled onto something. Something raw and painful that he keeps buried.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I didn't mean to?—"
"It's fine." But his voice says it's not fine.
More silence. Uncomfortable this time.
I want to push, want to understand what just happened. But the look on his face tells me that would be a mistake.
Tony clears his throat from the front seat. "Traffic's bad tonight. Might be a while."
Great. Trapped in a car with Dante after I just prodded a wound I didn't know existed.
"We should play a game," Dante says suddenly.
"A game?"
"Twenty questions. We need to know more about each other if we're going to convince my family we're in love." His eyes meet mine. "Unless you'd prefer awkward silence for the next forty minutes."
"Twenty questions is fine."
"Good. I'll start." He shifts to face me more fully. "What does your mother mean to you?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness.
"Everything," I answer honestly. "She's the only family I have. The only person who's ever—" I stop, swallow. "She's everything."
"Your father?"
