“So, what happened?” Her voice cracked with emotion.
I shrug. “My mom died. I moved to Chicago to live with my aunt. I never saw him again.” Okay, it was way more complicated than that. But I just didn’t have the strength to go into the whole story tonight.
Sloane’s lips twist in confusion. “But why didn’t you keep in touch?”
I sigh. “It’s a long story. One we’ll need a lot more time and tequila to get into. Raincheck?”
She squeezes my arm supportively. “Of course. I’m assuming by how much anger was radiating off that man, it was your decision not to keep in touch?”
“Yeah.” I had finished my drink and had a nice numb buzz going. “I saw a lot being around the mafia growing up.” A lot of violence.A lot of pain. Probably why I chose the field I did. “It just wasn’t a life I could justify being a part of.” Another simplification. Another half-truth. “And now he’s…” I choke on a sudden lump in my throat. “He’s marrying a mafia princess, which is what happens in their world so I shouldn’t be surprised. And I’m not. Not really.” Just devastated. My voice drops to a whisper as I add, “But why her?”
Sloane moans. “Oh, babe. You knew her, too?”
Nausea rolls through my stomach. I nod. “Giada Zerilli. Mean girl meets mafia is no joke. She did everything in her power to keep me away from Sandro, made it clear every chance she got that I wasn’t good enough for him.”
“What a bitch,” Sloane bites out. “If I would’ve known, she would’ve accidentally had a lapful of champagne.”
I snort, knowing she’s serious. “Yeah, that’s why I didn’t tell you. You don’t want Giada Zerilli as an enemy, trust me.”
Sloane is eyeing me with a heavy dose of sympathy. She leans forward and grabs the remote. “All right, time to get your mind off Mr. Hottie Mafia Guy.” Unmuting it, the sexy dance music pumps through my small apartment, and we settle in to watch Channing shake his ass.
***
My resolve is toast. At midnight, I’m pulling boxes out of the spare room closet until I reach the one I haven’t opened in ten years. The cardboard is soft with age, the packing tape yellowed and already peeling at the edges. I take a deep breath, ignore my pounding heart and my brain sending a “danger, red alert” signal through my body and rip the tape off the top. It feels like I’m ripping open an old scab. Which technically I am.
I remove a few wrapped items until I hit the bubble wrap. Slowly lifting it from the box, I fall back on my butt and cradle the heavy object in my lap.
My vision blurs as I unwrap it to reveal the snow globe. Shaking it gently, I watch as the tiny, sparkly flakes swirl around a replica of New York City.
When Sandro gave this to me for my seventeenth birthday, it came with a promise that he would take me to New York one day. That we would spend a whole day at the Metropolitan Museum, and picnic in Central Park. That he would teach me how to snow ski. And then when he’d come back for that last summer, it became a catalyst for the conversation we could no longer avoid.
He sat on my couch, holding it up to the light, his tone one of trepidation as he asked, “Would you be willing to move to New York when you turn eighteen in a few months?” He’d turned to me then, showing me the desperation, the fierce emotion in his eyes. “Go to college there? I would get you an apartment. You wouldn’t have to work.”
And that’s when I knew my time with him was almost over.
Chapter 6
Alessandro
My feet pound the pavement, my T-shirt soaked as I run along Bayshore Boulevard. It’s a little past six in the morning. The sky is a lemony yellow along the horizon, brightening every minute as the sun rises higher, and the summer air is already thick with promised rain. I’ve only encountered a few other restless or health-conscious humans on the six-mile run so far, plus an elderly couple pushing a fluffy white dog in a baby stroller.
Gunnar is at my side, his strides smooth and matching mine. His deep voice cuts through the sounds of squawking seabirds and a boat roaring across the Bay. “Remember what you told me, Sandro? When I asked why you didn’t go looking for her?”
I don’t turn to him. The fact that he knows I’m still thinking about last night, and seeing Lennon again, is a testament to how well he knows me. “Yeah,” I grunt on an exhale.
Because she doesn’t belong in our world. She’s too sweet. Too soft. I didn’t want anything to change that. I still don’t.
Though I have a feeling her mother’s death changed her, stole some of her light.
But I also can’t stop the floodgates of memories, of need that opened when our eyes met again. She was just a ghost haunting me. I could only remember pieces of her: A pink, sunburned nose, nail-bitten fingers with pink polish entwined with mine, an echo of her laugh. Now she’s real and whole again.
I know what he’s getting at. He’s reminding me why I let her go.
A white heron perched on the concrete Balustrade wall squawks and flies off as we get too close.
“How do you think she’d react if she found out what we did after she left?” he asks.
I grit my teeth and pick up my pace, ignoring the stitch in my side. “I don’t know,” I breathe. And I don’t. Would she be grateful? Probably not. Revenge is part of our world, not hers.
