Fawn: …K.
I like Kaya, Xander’s fiancé, despite her being my opposite. She was raised with money and station—the kind of woman who knows what Gucci underwear looks like. Her problems seem shallow to me, but then again, perspective iseverything.If being poor with a dad in prison is the worst thing to ever happen to you—then it’s the worst thing to ever happen.
I don’t want to be the type of girl who laughs awkwardly saying, ‘Try havingnodad, a mum who shot herself in the head while you were home, being raped by your three foster brothers, and miscarrying their baby.’ That won’t lighten the mood or cheer anyone up. You don’t make friends with trauma—or salad—which is why I make cupcakes.
Kayaisnice, though.
She makes him happy.
I tap my nail against the phone, hoping Xander catches the hesitation in my ellipsis.
And this moment of pause...
Xander: Fawn, what’s wrong?
I sigh.
Fawn: I overheard Sir on the phone… Most of the Family from Sicily will be here for the wedding. What if… What if they see how trashy I am? Going from Aurora to me is like trading a purebred for some stray mutt from the pound… I don’t know dog breeds.
Xander: I’d peg you as a Samoyed, Fawn. Not a mutt.
Fawn: …K…
I Google 'Samoyed’ and up pops a medium-sized fluffy white dog that looks pretty useless.
Ugh, pretty and useless.
I scroll down.
Temperament and personality: friendly and affectionate.
Thanks, Xander.
Intelligent and mischievous.
Hm.
Prone to barking.
I snort.
Prone to obesity.
Hey!Well… I do eat a lot of cake these days.
My phone pings with another message, popping up above the image of a fluffy white puppy standing in a bed of daisies with its long pink tongue hanging out.
Yep, that’s me.
Xander: Being serious now, girlie? Alright. Forget what they think. I won’t bullshit you and say they’ll love you. I don’t know what they’ll think. I mean, my big brother divorced Jimmy Storm’s eldest daughter, and that is not something we do.
Fawn: Because you’re Catholic.
Xander: Because we are the Cosa Nostra.
My lower lip is getting a rash from my nervous gnawing as the text sparks a memory. Clay told me once that there are no divorcees in the Mafia, only widows. Meaning, someone has to die to break that kind of religious and legal contract.
But he did it.
