“Because I need a job when I graduate,” King says quietly. “And they’ve already got a lawyer and somebody to do the books. And they look at everybody and everybody’s family. We can’t look like slobs. This is a big opportunity for me. Don’t fuck it, okay? Please?”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, meeting his eyes in the mirror as I do my makeup.
“Come on, Crys,” King says. “Have you ever heard me talking about college? I’m a senior. You know I’m not going to school next year.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my heart suddenly hammering.
“I mean, I’m going back to New York when I graduate,” he says, his face grave. “I’m going to work for the Valentis.”
“What?” I ask, my heart thudding so loud I can hear it in my ears. “Why?”
King shrugs. “Al Valenti is Mom’s uncle.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper. Al Valenti might as well be Al Capone—just a century later. It’s one thing to know my family might take loans from the mob, or do a few dirty deeds for them, but this… Fuck. We’re not working for the mafia. Wearethe fucking mafia.
Have I met this famous mob boss and not even known about it? I’ve heard people talk about Uncle Al. I’m pretty sure that as a kid, when we’d go visit my grandparents on Mom’s side for the Fourth of July or a Memorial Day cookout, Uncle Al was among the relatives. I might have even been to his house. But it’s too hard to remember. I think of all the uncles and “uncles” who’ve come through our house over the years. It’s impossible to know who’s actually related or even whose uncle they are. Mom’s? Dad’s? Ours? Our nonni’s?
And then there’s the fact that half the ones related to us are only related through marriage. Keeping track of which side of the family they come from is hard enough. I’m definitely lost by the time I’m trying to figure out which side of each of my grandparent’s family they’re from. But shit. I try to think of anything I know about Al Valenti—not the Uncle Al slowly forming into a picture in my mind, a rather quiet, watchful man in his fifties who never drew attention to himself at parties—but the legendary mafia boss on the news.
But I don’t watch the news unless it’s assigned for a class. I’m a normal sixteen-year-old. I watch YouTube videos, social media stories, and occasionallyYour Celebrity Eyes,the gossip channel. If I’m feeling really gossipy, I’ll read Page Six. Which is why I know the name Valenti in the first place. There are a couple notorious socialites around my age who carry the name, no doubt part of his family tree.
“So, it’s true,” I say at last, dropping my mascara into my bag and snapping it closed, having done my face while I mulled over his words. “Everything the Darlings say about us, that it’s dirty money—they have a point.”
“Who’s side are you on?” Royal asks, narrowing his eyes.
“I think I’ve proven I’m on your side,” I say through gritted teeth. “Though I’m beginning to question whether that’s the right side.”
“Crystal,” King says. “You know how hard Dad works. You know he earned what we have.”
“I’m going to class. I’m late.” I shove out of the bathroom, and they don’t stop me. Now that I apparently look suitable for the great-niece of a mafia king, they’re satisfied with me.
six
Crystal
Is my protective, caring brother really so excited about working for ruthless killers? Is this an opportunity for him, or is he trying to soften the blow and hide the truth by calling it that? King heals and protects. He’d be a good doctor. Not a killer. So, why is he going to work for Mom’s family? Was he promised in some grisly exchange straight out of a fairytale, a beautiful daughter’s hand in exchange for a firstborn son? Is that what King is? A debt Daddy owes to the mob?
I don’t go to class. I walk past my class, all the way down the hall to the door where Devlin came in that night when we were looking for Royal. Today, the parking lot is full. I find Devlin’s car, and I sit on the hood, and I text him.
And then I think about what King said about Dad making his own money. Nonna told me that they owed money to the wrong people, and that’s why they came here when Dad was a kid. And that he was determined to make it after that. I can put it all together from there. He came up with a plan to expand my grandparents’ little mom-and-pop candy store into an empire. He came up with some ideas for new candies, something of his own to make him stand out. And Devlin’s dad helped him.
That’s what Mom said. That there was some dispute over a patent, ownership of something. Did she say Devlin’s dad tried to steal Daddy’s idea? But I can guess what really happened. I know Daddy’s cut-throat, that he’d step on anyone to get to the top. So, which one was thought up by Mr. Darling in some brainstorming session? Our famous Dolce Drops? Dolce Sweets or Dolce Pops? And then Dad claimed them all for his own. But if the Darlings hated him and this all ended in a big brawl, why was he working with Mr. Darling in the first place?
That’s an easy question to answer. Dad wanted funding, and my grandparents weren’t rich. He must have convinced them to work with him, but when they realized he wanted all the credit, and they were going to just back the operation, they must have pulled out.
Which left Daddy with no money. But he knew someone who would loan him money. They’d already lent it to his parents. Someone with bottomless pockets, and an effortlessly beautiful, glamourous, single niece.
I swallow hard, feeling sick.
Maybe I’m being too hard on him. But all my life, I’ve idolized my father. To find out that he stole someone’s idea and funded his empire with blood money—it shatters all my illusions.
Would he marry someone to get in with her powerful family? Mom herself gave me that answer. Daddy’s ambition always, always comes first, before everything, including her, and us, and anything else in the world.
When my grandparents moved back to New York, he must have contacted Al Valenti for a loan. Maybe he was scheming on Mom then, or maybe he met her through his connection with them. King is right about one thing, though—Daddy works harder than anyone in this world. But if he took a loan from the mafia, even after he paid it back, it’s still dirty money. It’s all blood money because the seed was blood money, and you can’t grow an apple tree from a pomegranate seed.
“Hey.”
I turn to see Devlin standing at the rear of his car, his eyes wary.