Crap, crap, crap.
“Benito!” I yelled.
“Why are you shouting?” Adriana asked as she breezed into the kitchen in galaxy leggings and a sports bra.
“Your fiancé shot Tony!”
“Dead?” She raised a brow, focused on picking the best apple out of the bowl on the counter.
“Where’s Mamma?” I asked.
She shrugged, peeling the sticker off a green apple.
I sighed. Fine. If they want to play this game . . . I nudged open the swinging door and shouted into the hallway, “I’m calling 911!”
On cue, Benito, Dominic, and my papà pushed their way into the kitchen.
Papà narrowed his eyes on me, but then noticed his only son lying on his back in a lot of red. He spoke quietly to Benito—he always spoke quietly unless he was mad—and then my cousins hauled Tony up, one under his arms and one by his ankles, and carried him out of the kitchen.
“Not Vito,” I told my papà. “The hospital.”
“Yeah, yeah, Elena. They’re taking him,” he said dismissively, his gaze coasting over the blood on the floor.
I eyed him, wondering if he was telling me the truth. My papà never took any of us to the hospital without a fight.
He glanced at me, noting my suspicious gaze. “It’s just as good as a hospital,” he snapped.
Ugh. I had no idea where they were taking my brother. Most likely a doctor Papà had on his payroll.
“Hey, has anyone seen my drawing pencils?” Adriana interrupted.
“Behind every great fortune, there is a crime.”
—Lucky Luciano
I MIGHT NOT HAVE HAD a good reason to dislike Nicolas Russo in the beginning, but after meeting him, after he shot too close to my head, and after he put a bullet through my brother’s hand, I now had substantial motive to immensely dislike him.
The whys of it all didn’t matter.
Tony had been gone all night. It wasn’t until I’d gotten back from dance practice twenty minutes ago that I learned he was going to be okay. He was given a 75 percent chance of having full function of his hand again.
Apparently, Jenny had volunteered to move into his apartment and help him out. My mamma told me this with a roll of her eyes. She really didn’t like Jenny. And after hearing she’d cheated on Tony with Nicolas, I wasn’t sure what to think about her either. Granted, I would have dumped Tony years ago if I was her, but I didn’t understand sticking around if you weren’t going to be faithful. It made me believe she was only around for one thing.
I sat cross-legged on the couch, watching a documentary on recent humanitarian crises, still dressed in my sweaty leggings and an off-the-shoulder top. It was one of the hottest days of the summer so far, and Benito had left the windows down the entire drive home. He’d said the wind did great things for his hair, and so I never got to cool off. I pressed a cold water bottle to my face.
The front door opened and my papà’s voice filled the foyer. A rush of awareness ran from my nape down the length of my spine. I realized Nicolas was here before I even heard his voice, deep and indifferent. A strange dance began in my stomach.
Even though I stared at the TV, I had no idea what was happening because I was hyperaware of every noise coming from the foyer.
As their ste
ps went by the living room’s double doors, a cell phone rang.
“Take it,” Papà said. “I’ll be in my office.”
Since it was silent, I imagined a nod from Nicolas. My papà’s footsteps drifted down the hall.
“Yeah?” Nicolas drawled. A couple of seconds passed before, “Motherfucker.”