“I’ve been in fucking denial!” he shouts. “And I guess it’s hard to get your first love out of your head.”
I stagger backward, my hand falling to my side. “Y—your firstlove?”
He freezes. Stares at me like he’s only just realized I’m there. Time stretches. Seconds into minutes, the space between us getting hotter and hotter, until he eats up the distance in two long strides and crashes his mouth onto mine.
My fingers snake into his hair like it’s life support and my lips open for him. My tongue searches for his, tangling and tasting like they were never apart. My knees buckle and an arm bands around my waist. My nails scratch down his skin, claiming him for my own, if only for a moment.
That young, tender boy who wanted so badly to help me is this same hard-muscled, bitter and dangerous man I’m drenching myself in now. And I want both of them. I want all his chaos, all his contradictions. I wanthim.
But the way he’s kissing me… it’s intense, it’s unsustainable.
It tastes like goodbye.
So I allow myself to sink into him mindlessly, to lose myself in this last moment of pure, inevitable bliss.
He removes his lips and holds his cheek against mine, his breaths heating my hair. His chest presses into me with each ragged inhalation.
“Why did you do it?” His voice is gravel. “We could have been something, you and me.Avremmo potuto essere tutto. We could have beeneverything.”
He isn’t seeking answers; these are his final words to me. I bite down on my lip and squeeze my eyes tight.
“I would have taken you to the wedding. I would have made that statement—told the whole world youbelong to me.”
A sob hiccups out of me and more tears touch my cheeks. I don’t know if they’re mine or his anymore.
“But my brothers are my life—my blood. I have to choose them.”
He releases his hold on my face and when I bow my head in despair, he drifts a gentle kiss over my crown.
Then he walks away.
He hasn’t shot me between the eyes or hacked me to pieces with a machete, but he’s killed me in every way he can.
I gave him my heart and he just ripped it to shreds.
And the worst part is… I deserve it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Fiero
Fifteen years ago.
Rainwater seepsinto my shoes as I run the considerable distance from the PATH train to the school gates. It doesn’t help that holes are worn into the soles. I once waited until Papa was in a good mood when asking him for money to replace them, but I misjudged. Needless to say, I haven’t asked again.
Nora, our housekeeper, sometimes brings clothes her kids used to wear, for me and my brothers. They’re often made for younger kids though, so even though I’m short for my age, the pants don’t quite meet my ankles. She sees how Papa neglects us, but she isn’t stupid enough to say anything.
I don’t understand our papa. He doesn’t care about appearances at home. He leaves us to our own devices, never makes us meals. We pick at the leftovers he leaves around the house or steal from the local grocery store. Again, Nora hascome to our rescue on more than one occasion with some home-cooked meals she snuck in when Papa was out.
He’s never been involved in our upbringing, even when Mama was alive. But after she died, his treatment of us—in particular, me—worsened. I’m no stranger to the feel of his fists and the imprint of his boots.
But appearances outside the home are different. He boasts about his family of boys, as if his masculine sperm is entirely responsible for creating four tiny penises. He buys us clothes for formal events that make us look half respectable. In his line of work, there are funerals to attend frequently, so we each have a tailored black suit.
Appearances aren’t just about the clothes. Papa wanted me to go to a school in Manhattan—Berman High. It’s notorious for raising mobsters. The sons of many a Di Santo capo have attended this school. It’s where they form alliances and build armies.
Berman High spews out generation after generation of made men. There has to be a steady supply, after all. Half of them are shot dead or go missing within their first year after graduation.
Papa is a mob man himself, but in Gianni Di Santo’s sweep of the small-time gangs, he was pushed south into Jersey, back to his home state where he turned his focus to Atlantic City.
