—
Funnily enough, Vince and I spend our first full night together not having sex. After I finish my homework, we cuddle on the couch and watch some TV. When he loses interest, he starts pestering me until we’re kissing and touching, but it’s less sexual and more comforting just to be with each other.
I obviously didn’t bring anything to sleep in, so he gives me one of his T-shirts for tonight.
When we turn off the lights and climb into bed, I curl up in his arms and we talk until I drift to sleep.
Waking up the next morning is a little jarring, because I’m not used to waking up in strange places. Vince is already in the shower, and when he gets out, he tells me there’ll be breakfast waiting downstairs.
Breakfast is usually a Pop-Tart, a bowl of cereal, or a cup of yogurt, depending on how much time I have. Breakfast at Vince’s house is eggs with bacon, home fries, toast, and little bowls of fruit. Also orange juice poured from a crystal decanter. It’s a hard life.
Mateo’s not around, but Cherie is at the table this time, studying some handwritten notes while she eats. She doesn’t even look up when I come in.
“Vince didn’t leave already, did he?” I ask, since I expected him at the table.
Finally looking up, she says, “Oh, no, not yet. He’s in with Mateo.” After another minute of studying her notes, she finally stuffs them back inside a folder. “How was your first night as a mob wife?” she asks, lightly.
I laugh shortly, caught off guard. “I wouldn’t call myself a mob wife, but last night was nice. Much nicer than the early parts of the day,” I add, derisively.
“Yeah. I’m glad it more or less worked out for you, though. I don’t know all the details, but I know Vince was really worried about Mateo ever finding out about you.”
I stab a quartered strawberry, not offering anything more on that since my life sort of depends on my discretion.
Chapter Sixteen
“Wait, you want me to have dinner with who?”
It’s been weird trying to explain this to my mother, but since I have to leave soon for dinner at Vince’s (and I assume Mateo is expecting a response), it has to be done.
“It’s Vince’s cousin. He’s Vince’s guardian, I guess. Vince doesn’t live with his parents.”
“Who raises him?” she asks, frowning.
That’s a good question, actually. Though, thinking back over the wine and the lack of weirdness about him having his girlfriend sleep over in his bed, it doesn’t seem like they treat him like a kid.
Shaking my head slightly, I say, “Anyway, can you go or not? He wanted me to invite you, and I’ll have to let him know tonight so he can make arrangements.”
“That place is expensive,” she tells me, clearly wondering if I’ve lost my mind.
“He’s paying. They have money.”
“Well, yeah,” she says, since that much is obvious. “Gee, I don’t know, Mia. Is this safe? I always heard that family was bad news.”
Safe was too strong a word to use, considering I’d spent much of the night before lying in bed, remembering how it felt to have Mateo’s gun resting on my forehead. Instead of that, I say, “It’s safe. It’s fine. You’ll like him.”
I expected her to agree, and she doesn’t disappoint. She did have plans with Brax, but the prospect of dolling up to go entertain a mob boss at a restaurant she can’t afford is more excitement than she can resist. Once she agrees, I tell her I need to borrow a dress for dinner tonight, and go to raid her closet.
As soon as I get out of the shower, however, Mom is outside the door, practically bouncing with excitement.
Tucking my towel, I frown at her. “What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t think you need to borrow a dress,” she says, sing-song.
“What?”
Flashing me an exuberant grin, she takes off down the hall. I follow, warily. On the couch, there’s a Nordstrom shopping bag and two garment bags draped across the back. A note is tied around the handle of the bags, a rich, creamy business card with gold edges. In bold black, it says simply:
“Open it, open it,” my mom says, more excited than I am.
I roll my eyes at her, but I can’t stifle a smile myself. It’s not often I get presents, and I have a good feeling about these ones. Peeking inside, I find two shoe boxes. I pull out the one on top, labeled Jimmy Choo. My mom is already losing her shit, and I haven’t even taken the lid off to see what they look like.
“Do you know how much those cost?” she demands.
They’re beautiful—a burgundy-purple suede pair of heels.
My mom grabs them, inspecting them like they might be fake. I move on to the second box, but I don’t need to read the name to know what kind they are—the bold red soles of the shiny black pointy toe pumps tells me right away they’re Louboutins. They’re also instantly my favorite, with a fancy criss-cross strap on the front