We lived in what they called the Italian Market section of South Philly, where everyone knew each other and your neighbors treated you like family.
At the market, they sold everything from curbside fresh fruits and vegetables to fish and meats. You could sip coffee right on the sidewalk at the cafes, drop by the butcher shop to pick out your steak, and stop at one of the vendors for a sample of lunchmeats and cheeses.
In less than a minute, I reached 9th Street on foot. Brightly colored metal awnings—mostly red, green, and white—covered the storefronts. Produce tables, boxes, and carts lined the streets and sidewalks. People sat outside at café tables sipping coffees and eating pastries. As usual, the market was bustling.
Running my hands down the front of my jeans, I walked over to the produce vendor on the corner. A twenty-something girl with sandy blonde hair flipped her long strands over her shoulder as I approached the table.
“Hey, Angelo.”
I felt like a dick for not remembering her name. Everyone knew our family around here. They practically rolled out the red carpet, yet I couldn’t even recall the first letter of her name. In my defense, there were only two women in my life worth remembering—Ma and Gianna Carlini. No woman ever compared to either of them.
I winked at her. “Hey, how’s it going?”
“Can’t complain.” She tucked her hands into her apron pockets, blushing. “What can I get for you?”
I scanned the green vegetables and came up empty. “Do you have any basil?”
She shuffled through the overcrowded table, picking up heads of lettuce, celery, and a few others, and then held up a bushel of basil, victorious. “Last one.”
“I guess it’s my lucky day.” I flashed a quick smile, and she giggled.
As I reached into my jacket pocket, about to pull out my wallet, she stopped me. “Mr. Rizzoli said your money is no good here. It’s on the house.”
“Right. Of course, it is.” I slipped my wallet into my pocket.
My family offered the vendors in our neighborhood free protection from other gangs to ensure none of the business owners had the threat of our competition. Still, I believed we should pay for what we ate. No one would expect me to whack someone for free. For men like Mr. Rizzoli, it was about honor and pride—two things our family understood well.
She placed the basil into a plastic shopping bag and handed it to me with a cheeky grin, her blue eyes wide and full of life. “Have a nice night.”
I took the bag from her and slipped it over my wrist. “You, too. See ya around.”
“I sure hope so,” she said.
I turned to leave, my back facing her when I heard a commotion, followed by a woman screaming, “Thief!”
I looked at the girl who waited on me. She had her finger pointed at someone wearing a dark hoodie and jeans running down the street. We had an obligation to Mr. Rizzoli to protect what was his just as he looked after us. Without another thought, I took off down the street, dodging people as I ran. Not until he reached an alleyway did he slow down.
I came up behind the person, pushed him into the brick wall, and pulled the hood from his head. A smirk tugged at my mouth, my hand reflexively going up to her cheek. “Gia,” I muttered, out of breath. “What the fuck?”
Gianna Carlini was the only girl who ever made my black heart beat. She made me feel things I never thought were possible. My entire world was full of darkness, nothing but sin and ruin. Nothing and no one ever got under her skin. Gia could handle my lifestyle because her father was part of it. She grew up eating dinner with Made men. While everything about our lives wasn’t normal, she was the one part of my world that made sense.
Tilting her head to the side, Gia brushed her cheek against my hand, planting a kiss on my skin. She looked up at me with those grayish blue eyes I easily became lost in. “I knew you would do the right thing, Angelo. It’s like you can’t stop yourself.”
I stepped closer, slid my other hand behind her back, and pulled her into my chest. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re not the hardened criminal your dad wants you to be.”
“Only you and Ma see the good in me,” I confessed. It was the truth.
“If only you could see it for yourself.”
I’d loved Gia for most of my life. We met when we were babies, though neither of us had any memory of meeting before we were fiv
e years old.
“I have good news, G.” I stroked my thumb along her jaw, and she smiled so wide it reached up to her eyes.
“You got in, didn’t you?”