“I think we both know I’m not most guys.”
No joke. “My dad has the one brother and a sister, who is bat-shit crazy. My mom was an only child—her mom was never able to conceive again. She’s super close to Giada’s mom, and dad is best friends with my Uncle Sal.”
“That his brother?”
“No, he’s not actually related—it’s an honorary title. They’ve known each other since they were kids.”
He paused as he considered. “Makes sense. None of my family, except for Ari, are related to me by blood.”
“Different kind of family.”
“Is it?”
I contemplated his question. I’d always been of the opinion family didn’t have to mean blood relations, but mafia associates didn’t seem to fit the bill. The people you work with weren’t necessarily family. I couldn’t imagine how being sworn into a club would automatically make each of the members feel like family.
When I didn’t answer, Luca continued. “Our loyalty is always to family. I trust them with my life—isn’t that what you would consider family?”
“I guess so,” I muttered.
“It’s not what you’re envisioning, I promise. Just try to keep an open mind.”
“Okay.”
“I have to head out. I’ll come by your place after dinner.”
“kay”
“Night, baby.”
“Night, Luca.”
I wasn’t just sinking; I had removed my lifejacket and was doing a cannonball into the deep end.
CHAPTER 19
ALESSIA
To snowball:to grow or become larger, greater, more intense, etc., at an accelerating rate.
The term is not innately good or bad. Sometimes, ‘snowball’ can be used to describe a series of fortunate events, such as ‘the young actor’s career snowballed after his appearance in an Oscar-winning film.’ Other times, the term can imply a much more catastrophic unraveling of events. In these instances, the term might conjure the image of an avalanche, rather than the friendly snowman it might otherwise invoke. The tiny bits of snow at the top of a mountain peaceably tumble until they gather enough steam and become an unstoppableforce of nature.
For the innocent victim in its path, there is no escape.
The only hope for survival is luck.
As the ground shakes and the massive white cloud comes barreling down the mountainside, those in its path can only brace themselves and hope it will be enough. The tricky thing about an avalanche—you never know when one might strike. One minute, you’re sampling the fresh mountain air, enjoying the view, and the next, you’re buried six feet under, unable to breathe from the suffocating weight of all the tiny snowflakes.
If ever there was a perfect day for an avalanche, it would be a Monday.
I had dreaded that first day back at work but was armed with a plan, so my nerves were contained within reason. Before I went to my office, I rode the elevator directly to the ninth floor and marched to the HR suite. The receptionist wasn’t at her desk, but a peek around the corner told me the employees were gathered in a circle in a small breakroom, raptly discussing something.
“I’m sorry to interrupt—I was hoping someone could help me with a private matter.”
“Not a problem, dear,” said the older woman who worked at the front desk. “We were just talking about what happened over the weekend—so tragic!”
“What happened?” Had I missed a terrorist attack or some other news event? I’d been too busy wrapped in my problems to notice the world around me.
“Roger Coleman was—”
