"Twenty questions," I say. "I think we should get to know each other better."
He looks at me with cautious eyes, but I can see he's intrigued.
"Okay," he says, popping a cracker into his mouth. "Let's play."
"I'll start," I say. "What was your first tattoo?"
"There's an hourglass on my back," he answers. "I got it when I was fourteen."
"What does it mean?"
"It's a reminder," he says. "Of where I come from."
There's something calculated in his eyes. I get the feeling that he's trying to be honest without giving too much away.
"What's the deal with your mother?" he asks.
"That's a can of worms I'd rather not open," I say. "But long story short, she's a narcissistic, abusive woman who's obsessed with control and beauty."
"How was she abusive?" he asks, his eyes hardening.
I drop my gaze to the cheeseboard between us. I don't like discussing this. But I learned that it's important for me to talk about it. The power my past has over me grows weaker every time I do.
"Munchausen syndrome by proxy," I say. "She would get us sick on purpose and then take us to the hospital. My sisters and I were in and out of hospitals our whole lives. And when we tried to rebel against her in any form, she would hurt one of us to keep the others obedient."
Her sick games were all I knew. It wasn't until my sisters left home that I learned I could let myself dream about what I wanted, too. But by then, it was already too late.
"And your father?" he asks.
"He's always been a weak man," I say. "And she only made him weaker."
"He let her hurt you?" Dante asks.
"He was a victim too," I say. "My sisters never saw it that way, though. They’ve always resented him for not protecting us when we were younger.”
"Where is he now?" Dante probes.
I remember the last time I saw him. He was behind metal bars, withering away into a wisp of the man he used to be.
"Isn't it my turn to ask a question?" I say.
Dante leans back and pops a grape into his mouth. He doesn't say a word, but I can tell by the hard set of his jaw that he's on edge.
I feel the need to probe into his mind. I want to understand him better, because he's still very much an enigma.
"Last night, I was practically throwing myself at you," I say. "But still, you refused to touch me. Why?"
"Because I didn't have your consent," he says. "You were under the influence of the aphrodisiac.”
"So consent is important to you?" I ask.
He narrows his eyes at me. "What are you getting at,piccola?"
"I grew up with wealth," I say. "I could get anything I ever wanted. I could get any designer bag or any diamond bracelet. But the one thing I never had was freedom. My mother took that from me. And now, it's you."
There. I finally said it.
I don't care that he's a dangerous mafia man who rules over a big chunk of Italy.
