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“She called my mom a whore,” I say matter-of-factly. He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Okay?”
“So I told her to say it to my face, and she was being a real bitch about it, saying I shouldn’t have any power because I was a bastard child, as if she has any power. Fuckin’ Gio Sigano hasn’t had power since the nineties, my god.” I roll my eyes and don’t miss Dante’s smile. He’s been giving me my own little course on all the families in the tristate each night after he fucks me into exhaustion. “Anyway, so I tug her hair and she’s a real little bitch about it, falls to the ground, and I move to sit on her chest. That’s when I hit the table. Then I punched her.”
Dante stops halfway through ripping a packet of gauze open.
“You what?”
“I punched her in the face,” I say, kicking my feet and smiling.
I like the shock there.
I think I’ll have to start doing this kind of thing more, just to see that face.
“You . . . You punched her in the face?"
“Don’t look so surprised. I’ve been dying to do it since I saw that press photo forever ago. Every time she touches you, I want to tug her eyelashes out one by one.”
“She doesn’t touch me anymore, Lilah,” he says, and I remember the truce we came to on that, that they would date to maintain the image but no touching.
And then the way we came to that agreement rushes to my mind and I give him a different kind of smile. Dante looks at the ceiling, shaking his head.
But there’s a smile there all the same. He remembers, too. His hands go to my face, holding me still so he can look at my eyebrow.
“You’re lucky you didn’t go too deep. Marco’s right—you won’t need a stitch, but you might get a scar.” He turns and grabs a hermetically sealed alcohol wipe, tearing it open.
“We’ll match,” I say, reaching up and running a thumb over his eyebrow. “How’d you get yours, anyway?”
He smiles then rolls his eyes. “Punched Tony in the face.”
“You punched Tony?!”
“That’s what brothers do, Delilah.”
“Were you mad at him?”
“Nope.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I say with a laugh. “How old were you?”
“Twenty.”
“So Tony was . . .” I try doing the math in my head. “Thirty five? Isn’t that a bit much?” He shrugs.
“Just dumb shit brothers do.”
“Dumb shit you do at thirty five?”
“You didn’t do dumb stuff with Lola?”
“Lola was like a mom to me. So, no, I never punched my sister in the face.” He smiles a small smile, grabbing a butterfly bandage from the box.
“And those?” I ask, tipping my chin to his hands. He looks down at the small scars on either side of his fingers and smiles.
“Dumb guy shit.” I lift an eyebrow and wince at the pain. “Can’t do that for a while, babe.” His thumb smooths over my eyebrow.
“Dumb guy shit?”
