I have him at my mercy. I could beat the shit out of him. I could fucking kill him. At the thought, an image of the last man I beat, his head smashed against the concrete pavement outside of a dive bar in Southie, flashes in my mind. I’m serving time for involuntary manslaughter. I meant to give him a beating, teach him a lesson for bad-mouthing The Family. I didn’t know he was gonna hit his fucking head. Didn’t know it would kill him.
And I don’t want the blood of another man on my hands. Not now. Not over bullshit like this. I don’t like spilling blood unless it’s necessary.
It’s why my father hated me. He did it for sport.
The alarm sounds, too late. Planned.
Guards come in, prepared to cuff and restrain. Dario speaks up. “Orlando was attacked, and he did nothing. Check the cameras. These guys came after him because they're jealous."
Goddamn it. If they fucked anything up…
A guard comes with a set of keys and shakes his head. “You’re lucky you’ve got a friend in here,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m here to let you out.”
I blink. “Let me out?”
“Yeah, brother. You dodged a damn bullet, man. Dodged a fuckin’ firing squad.”
Dario grins at me. He called it.
“Remember, Dario,” I tell him as I’m led out in cuffs. “Remember what I said.”
“I will, brother,” he says, nodding with a sad smile. He clears his throat and calls the next move out loud and clear. “Checkmate.”
CHAPTER 2
“Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.” ~ Twelfth Night, Shakespeare
Angelina
“Look what I found.” Elise grins at me, surrounded by boxes and bags and hangers and clothes.
“I have literally no idea how you find anything in this mess,” I say with a grimace. “Honestly, girl. You know I’m all about live and let live, but this takes the cake…”
Elise has a stack of boxes by the door, name brand designer shoes, and brown paper bags with embossed golden lettering, also name brand. Whenever we come to Italy, she stocks up. And that's saying something. At home, it's not exactly like she's conservative or moderate.
She pulls out a stack of paperback journals from behind her back. She sings in a singsong voice, “Do you remember these?"
I gasp. I was completely unaware that she still even had these.
"Of course I remember these!" How could I forget?
We called each other gemella, twin, when we were younger. We looked so much alike people would often mistake us for sisters, though these days I’m smaller than she is and she’s the one with the designer clothes. We were inseparable.
These are the journals we wrote, lists to each other, letters that we shared from when we were younger. I was traveling abroad with my family, and she traveled abroad with hers. We were best friends from childhood but didn't get to spend anywhere near as much time together as we'd like, so we relied on writing to each other. Her nanny would mail the journal to me, and I would mail it back to her.
Those were such simple times. Times before we both had to grow up much too quickly. I reach for them. “Give them here!”
“Ah ah,” she says, shaking her head. “Say please.”
“Oh my God, you are the biggest bitch!” I tackle her onto a pile of bikinis she was trying on for our trip to the hot springs in Tuscany. She laughs and keeps them out of my reach, but I finally get her to cave when I yank on her bikini strap.
“Fine, here, here!” She tosses me one of the books. “I bookmarked where you listed the traits you want in a future husband.” She giggles her head off.
“Oh my God.” I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry as I grab the journal and flip through the filled pages. A part of me already mourns the innocence of the girl who wrote in these pages.
I open the book to see hearts and flowers and swirls, Elise's name in thick black letters shaded as if they're blocks. I was always doodling, making artwork out of nothing. I still do, sometimes. We each have a bulleted, numbered list, one labeled Elise’s dream husband and the other Angelina’s future mate. Future mate? God!
I giggle and read in a high-pitched voice. “Elise.” I laugh even harder. “Number one. HANDSOME. Underlined and asterisked and circled. Apparently, looks were top of your list.”
She nods and absentmindedly twirls a piece of her hair. “Naturally. What else?"
"Is kind to animals, very, very smart, and doesn't mind how much money I spend shopping." I collapse into laughter at her list. It's so teenager, so juvenile. Yet so adorable and still… her.
“Oh, go ahead. Laugh at my list. Wait until we get to yours." She giggles uncontrollably. She grabs the book back; I reach for it, but she keeps it out of my reach, reading out loud. "Must have really, really nice eyes. Maybe blue, maybe purple." She gives a loud laugh. "Purple, Angelina? Are you serious?"