Practically every day of her young life. "What are they going to do, kill me? Right here, in the middle of a busy neighborhood, in broad daylight?"
Dante's footsteps stopped abruptly, his grasp on her tightening. "No, Genna, they won't kill you. They won't just kill you, anyway. They'll stalk you, and they'll take you, because you're an easy target, and then they'll do things to you… things that'll make you wish they would just kill you."
His harsh words left her momentarily speechless.
"And that's when they'll kill you," he continued. "Only after you ask them, only after you beg them to end your misery. And they'll enjoy it. Believe me. They'll make sure when we find you… if we find you… that we won't even recognize you."
"How do you know?"
"How do I know?" He raised his eyebrows. "I know because Mom and Dad couldn't recognize Joey."
She flinched at his words, as if she'd been punched in the gut. "That's different."
"Is it?" he asked. "They killed him, Genna, and there wasn't even enough left for an identification."
"I know that," she said, tears stinging her eyes. "I know what happened."
"Yeah, well, I remember it, and I'm not going through that again."
Dante turned the corner, striding toward his car, while she lingered for a moment, casting a look over her shoulder, once more meeting Matty's eyes. He stared at her as if nothing else existed.
She wished, more than anything, that she could trust that look.
"Badass, huh?"
Matty tore his eyes from down the block when Genna jetted around the corner, obediently following her brother… her brother, the one and only Dante Galante. Who would've guessed? Not me. Not in a million years. His gaze fell on Enzo as he stood there, staring at him, grinning like a fool. "What?"
"The Ice Princess," he replied, motioning toward the corner where Genna had been just moments before. "Genevieve Galante. She's a looker, ain't she?"
Images flashed through Matty's mind: Genna beneath him, crying out his name, violently convulsing with pleasure so intense he saw tears in her eyes. When she came, over and over… Jesus, he'd never seen anything so beautiful before. "She's something, alright."
Enzo slapped him on the back jokingly. "Too bad she's one of them."
"Yeah," Matty muttered. "Too bad."
His day went from sky fucking high to in the shitter, and all it took was that one word: Galante. Ironic, he thought. The name meant gallant, brave, amorous, when as far as he was concerned, those people were anything but. The Galante family bred spineless, callous cowards, led by the biggest heartless brute of them all. Primo.
How could that girl, that glowing angel dropped from Heaven straight into his defunct elevator, be that barbarian's spawn?
Matty had been disconnected from the lifestyle for years—most of his life, it seemed—but he knew the stories as well as anyone. His father never failed to fill him in whenever he came to visit.
"Those cockroaches are at it again," he'd say. "Might have to take it to the mattresses soon."
Every visit, same thing for years… another war was brewing, much like the one that had ignited the deadly rivalry sixteen years ago.
He mulled over that as he drove to his parent's house, a vast townhouse near Central Park West. Enzo sat in the passenger seat, yammering away like a little yippee-ass pup. Usually he didn't mind his brother's need for constant chatter, but today he was making it difficult for Matty to think.
"They'll know you're here now," Enzo said as Matty pulled the Lotus up to the front of the house and cut the engine.
He glanced at his brother. "Who?"
"The Galante clan. They saw you're back."
Saying he was back was misleading, as if he were ever really involved in the first place. His little brother was the one knee-deep in the life. Enzo lived it. Breathed it. Loved it. As far as Matty went? He just tried to survive it. He'd been trying to survive it since he was a kid, too young to have to deal with having a bounty on his head.
The son pays for the father's sins.
Enzo burst in the front door of the house, leaping up and slapping the top of the doorframes as he went, creating a ruckus as usual. Sighing, Matty walked in behind him, hearing the soft, feminine voice call out from the nearby den. "Boys? That you?"
"Of course it is, Ma," Enzo hollered, striding right through the downstairs as he headed straight for the kitchen. "Who else would it be?"
Stepping into the den, Matty paused momentarily and gazed at her sitting on the corner of the plush burgundy couch, huddled up with a thick fleece blanket like it was the middle of winter and not eighty-eight fucking degrees. Even sick and growing frail, she still had a softness to her face, her round cheeks slightly flushed, her hair naturally curly, her eyes vivid as they zeroed in on him.
"Hey, Sugar Cube," she said, lightly patting the couch beside her in a silent invitation.
He strolled over and sat down on the edge of the cushion. "Mom."
"You doing okay?" she asked, smoothing the hair on the back of his head. "You look a little down."
"I'm fine," he said. "Just having one of those days."
He could feel her eyes on him, assessing and judging. She didn't believe him for a second. His mother was an intuitive woman. Had to be, to be married to his father. And as much as he hated lying to her, he couldn't tell her this. No, he couldn’t tell her the Galante girl had him wound tight, wrapped around her finger stronger than her legs had wrapped around his waist when he plowed into her on the pool table he'd gotten from his parents for his birthday.
Christ, he needed to stop thinking about that.
"You sure about that?" she asked hesitantly.
"Yes," he lied, turning to look at her. "More importantly, how are you?"
"I'm hanging in there." She smiled, a knowing twinkle in her eyes. "It's good to have you around, you know. I've missed you."
"Missed you, too, Mom." Those words nearly caught in his throat. He'd missed a lot, but especially her. Despite the circumstances, being cut off from his family for years, he and his mother had remained close.
"So what are you up to?" she asked. "Any exciting plans tonight?"
"You could say that."
"Really? What?"
"I intend to spend it making dinner for the most stunning woman on earth."
Her expression lit up. "Is that right?"
"Absolutely," he said. "Then we'll probably watch movies."
"Really?"
His lips twitched as he fought back a smile at the barely restrained eagerness in her voice. "Yep."
"Anyone I know?"
"Oh, definitely."
Her eyes widened. "Who?"
"You."
All at once, her excitement turned to exasperation. She hit him lightly as she shook her head. "You can't do that to me!"
"What?" He laughed as he blocked her weak punches. "It's true."
"I thought you meant a girl," she said. "I thought you finally met a girl."
"A girl more beautiful than you? Impossible."
"As charming as you are, Matty, you'd think you'd have found someone to settle down with by now. You're pushing twenty-five for crying out loud!"
"I have time," he said, immediately regretting those words when he saw the reality in her eyes. He might, but she didn't. They all knew it, even if none of them wanted to admit that truth out loud.
"I just want you to be happy," she said softly. "I want all of you to be happy."
"I know."
Before they could get into it anymore, Enzo strolled in, clutching a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He took a big bite out of it, obnoxiously chewing as he plopped down in a chair and threw his feet up on the corner of the coffee table. Their mother glared at him silently until he dropped his feet flat to the floor, tossing her a sheepish smile. "Sorry, Ma."
Upstairs, a door opened, heavy footsteps ambling down the hallway like steel against the hard wood. They approached the stairs, slowly descending the
m, each footfall sucking a little more of the warmth from the room.
Roberto Barsanti, short and stocky with a cleft chin and dark hair that faded to gray along the sides, oozed bitter coldness. He was severe—all business, all the time. Matty could never relate to his father, not like Enzo did, but he worshiped their mother and that was enough, for the moment, for him to maintain Matty's respect.
Roberto's beady blue eyes scanned the room when he stepped into the doorway, eyeing Enzo with approval and their mother with love, before shooting stern daggers straight at Matty. "Matteo."
He cringed. His father was the only one who insisted on always calling him by that name. "Father."
"It's good to see you."
Unlike when his mother said it, Matty felt nothing genuine in those words. "You, too."
"Speaking of seeing people," Enzo said, words muffled from a mouth full of food. "Guess who we ran into today, Pops."
"Who?"
"The Galante kids."
Matty's chest constricted at the reminder, while his father sneered, his lip curling angrily. "Where?"
"Little Italy, of course," Enzo said. "Matty was picking me up when they were coming down the street."
"Did they say anything to you?"
"Nah, of course not," Enzo said, taking another bite of his sandwich. "Dante tucked tail and ran like a little bitch."
"En," their mother chided. "Language."
"Sorry, Ma," Enzo said, hardly missing a beat before continuing. "His sister followed him, but not before they both saw Matty standing there."
Roberto's eyes widened as that dawned on him. "Did they recognize Matteo?"
"Dante, most definitely. The girl, nah. It's doubtful she's ever even heard of him."
The few times Matty ventured to the city over the years, he had been around during run-ins with some of the Galante crew. Dante and him had come face to face for the last time when he was eighteen, but Genna?
Never saw her before yesterday.
"Yeah," their father agreed. "You're right. Medusa wouldn't know him."
Matty grimaced at that nickname as their mother gasped. "Bobby! Don't call her that! She's just a girl!"
"My apologies, Savina," his father said. "I forgot."
More like he forgot she was listening to their conversation. They had called her that for years, so much so it was the only damn name Matty remembered.
Medusa. The Ice Princess.
Despite himself, he snickered bitterly under his breath when it dawned on him—as many times as his father had warned him away from her in passing, cautioning him about the dangerous Galante girl, he'd unknowingly fallen right into her trap.
"Something funny?" Roberto asked, staring at him.
"No," Matty said, shaking his head. It wasn't really funny at all, but the whole thing was still starting to feel like a big goddamn joke.
Roberto studied him for a moment before striding over, leaning down and kissing Savina softly on the corner of her mouth. "Call me if you need anything, honey."
"I'll be fine," she said, smiling as she reached over and wrapped herself around Matty's arm. "I have my handsome boy to keep me company tonight."
Roberto's eyes shifted from her to Matty, and he saw the hesitance in his father's expression. It wasn't exactly distrust, but it was some apprehension, as if he hadn't yet decided what to make of Matty's ongoing presence.
Enzo jumped up, stuffing the last bit of sandwich into his mouth, noisily chewing as he held his fist out. Matty bumped his to his brother's before he jogged away, following their father out of the room.
Saturday night. They would be gone until the wee hours of the morning, robbing people blind and drinking themselves into a stupor, gambling and smoking, chasing skirts and doing whatever the hell else they did out on the streets.
"So, what are you hungry for?" Matty asked once they were alone, turning to his mother as he stood up.
She smiled softly. "We can just have some sandwiches."
"Nonsense," he said. "Tell me what you want to eat."
She pondered that for a moment. "Surprise me."
Surprise me. It would be no surprise. She knew exactly what he would make—it was the first thing she had ever taught him to cook, the one thing they always made together. It was her favorite meal: spaghetti with homemade meatballs.
Leaning down, he kissed her soft cheek before strolling to the kitchen. The staff had weekends off, so it was quiet and dark, the air chilly. Flicking on the light, he set to work right away, pulling out everything he needed for dinner. He tossed the meat in the microwave to defrost and pulled out pre-packaged pasta, knowing it broke every rule of an Italian kitchen, but he was in a bit of a time crunch. Besides, he knew she wouldn't complain… much.
He pulled out jars of her pre-made sauce and put it in a pot to simmer as he chopped up some onions and peppers, just enough for a little bit of a kick. He shoved up his sleeves and took off his watch before mixing together all the ingredients by hand, shaping the mixture into gooey round balls and slapping them on a baking sheet. He had just finished and was washing the gunk off his hands when he heard shuffling behind him.
"Need help?" his mother asked.
"No," he said. "I got it."
She ignored him, of course, and grabbed the pan of meatballs, placing it in the oven just as it preheated. She set the timer for twenty minutes before turning to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of red wine.
"Let me get that for you," he said quickly, reaching for the bottle, but she smacked his hand away and pushed past him, heading straight for the wine opener. Sighing, he leaned against the counter and put his watch back on, gazing at her as she struggled to uncork it. He kept his patience for as long as possible before sighing exasperatedly. Stubborn woman. "Give up yet?"
"Never."
He smiled at her determination. It took another few minutes, but she managed to finally pop the cork. She shot him a satisfied look as she grabbed a wine glass and poured a bit into it, taking a sip and closing her eyes, a look of sheer ecstasy crossing her weary face.
"Now that's good," she said, grabbing another glass and pouring a bit into it before holding it out to him. He took it and sipped, gagging at the bitter tang. She laughed. "Oh, quit whining and just drink it."
"I'm not whining," he said, taking another drink and grimacing. "Ugh, it's disgusting."
"Now you're whining," she pointed out as she motioned across the room toward the oven beside him. "And get your meatballs out before they're overdone."
He glanced at the stove just as the timer went off. How the hell did she do that? He pulled them out and plopped them in the sauce, letting them simmer while he boiled the pasta. Despite his protests, his mother insisted on setting the table for the two of them, dismissing his reservations with a sarcastic, "I'm not dead yet, you know."
He flinched at her words, trying to keep it from showing on his face, but she noticed, based on the apologetic look she cast him. Wordlessly, he dished them both out some food before joining her in the dining room and sitting down across from her. She immediately dove in, taking small savory bites as she hummed thoughtfully. "Pretty good."
"Thanks."
"You could've made your own pasta, though."
"I could've."
"And it could've been a bit spicier."
"It could've."
"But still… pretty good."
Like he said, she wouldn't complain much.
He picked at his food, his stomach protesting every bite he forced down, as his mind wandered back to thoughts of Genna. He replayed their night together, still trying to make sense of everything. The girl had clawed her way under his skin. What the hell was he supposed to do about it?
His dilemma must have played out on his face because his mother eventually stopped eating and pointed at him with her fork. "Okay, buddy. Spill it. Now."
He raised his eyebrows. "What?"
"Don't 'what' me, Matteo." Ah, shit. She used his real name. She meant busines
s. "I can tell something's bothering you tonight, and I want to know what it is."
Sighing, he stared down at his plate, smashing a meatball with his fork. "You were right, I guess. There was a girl."
From the corner of his eye, he saw her tense—not what she had expected to hear from him. "A girl?"
"Yeah, but don't go getting worked up about it, Mom. I said there was a girl, not that there is one. It turned out she was everything I shouldn't want."
"But you still wanted her."
It was a statement, not a question, but he answered anyway.
"Yeah, I did." Man, he really fucking did. He hadn't wanted something—or someone—so much in his life.
"So what happened?"
"We happened."
"Oh." She was quiet for a moment as she started eating again. "So I'm guessing this girl figured out you're one of the notorious Barsanti boys?"
"You could say that."
"And that bothers her?"
"It should," he muttered. "If she's smart, and I think she is…" Smarter than I might've given her credit for. "…she'll never even look at me again."
"But you still want her."
Another statement. She knew him well.
"Yeah, I do," he muttered. "I shouldn't, but I do."
"I raised you to be independent, Matty. I know your father has expectations, things he wants you to do with your life, but I've always been proud of the fact that you made your own path. You've been that way for as long as I can remember. I'll never forget all those years ago, my strong-willed eight-year-old son, putting his foot down and standing up to his father for the first time. Do you remember that? That day?"
Matty sat quietly for a moment, surprised where the topic was diverting. "Of course I do. He wouldn't budge, though. I told him I hated him for it, hated him for making me stay away, and it didn't faze him a bit."
She laughed dryly. "You and I remember it a bit differently. It certainly bothered him."
"He locked me in my room," he said. "When he finally let me out, he sent me and Enzo to live with Aunt Lena and Uncle Johnny. And when he came back for me—when I thought he came back for me—it was just to ship me off to boarding school."