People like him believe people like her. Not people like me.
I’m going to lose him.
He would never choose me over his family.
“He’ll help us bring her down,” Maria insists.
A metallic taste floods my mouth and I realize I’ve bitten my lip hard enough to draw blood.
It’s like I’m seventeen again, standing in the principal’s office, being told to stop provoking one of the most promising young men in Cove Bay High.
“There’s something about your son that agitates Mr. Rutherford.”
That was her message for my parents. Now it’s happening all over again.
Only this time, the person I love might be standing on the other side.
CHAPTER 59 – CASPIAN
I haven’t heard from Antonio since I dropped him off at the trattoria.
He read my message last night and didn’t answer. I watched the blue checkmarks like they might start explaining themselves if I stared long enough. They didn’t.
I spent the night dismantling our entire relationship, trying to find the reason for his silence.
Not knowing is the worst kind of torture.
I sent him another text at dawn, but he didn’t even read it.
Fuck it.
I’m done waiting.
If anyone is capable of tying himself into a knot and not getting out of it, it’s my stubborn boyfriend.
I drive to his house.
His mother opens the door, looking relieved to see me. She offers me risotto, then coffee, then risotto again.
Only after I’ve declined with the patience of a saint does she tell me he’s upstairs.
“He’s in a mood,” she whispers. “He reminds me of his Nonna. We have a family history of… drama. There’s Scottish blood, too.”
I thank her and head upstairs before she continues with the family saga.
Now is not the time for the whole di Scotti lineage.
I can handle moods. I can handle genes. I can handle every goddamn obstacle as long as my boyfriend is safe.
His door still has an elaborate name sign from his childhood, written in letters that look like ancient symbols.
I take a deep breath before knocking once and stepping in.
The room is a tomb for the living. The curtains are drawn, the air is heavy with despair, and I can practically hear the tragic cello solo playing in Antonio’s head.
He is a lump under the blanket.
He looks up, sees it’s me, and immediately performs the least convincing snoring routine in history.
