I kill some time on social media, scrolling mindlessly until I’m confident that dinner has been fully served—and that my husband and his brothers are occupied with their meals—before quietly sneaking out of the house. I navigate easily to the never-used tennis court, guided by the soft lighting scattered around the property. Charlie is waiting with one of the vineyard’s UTVs on the other side of the chain-link fence. She gives a hushed squeal when she spies me coming.
“Hop in. Let’s go.”
I slip into the seat beside my sister, buckling up. “Where exactly are we going?”
“On a grand trip…to our old house. Which, before you protest, very squarely lies within the bounds of the newly expanded winery borders now, and therefore meets your demands.”
She raises a brow at me.
“Or we can just hang out at the guesthouse—your call,” she adds. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or get you in trouble with the himbo.”
Taking a second, I mull it over. The houseistechnically Bellanti property, but the lines are a bit sketchy. I don’t know if the guards patrol that far, or if there’s any protective oversight. And I should probably let someone know where I’m going—Donovan, at least—but I feel the spirit of rebellion welling up inside me.
Fuck it. I’m going to be impulsive.
Besides, if this is rebellion, it’s got to be the mildest, lamest rebellion ever.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
Charlie lets out a whoop of delight and we take off into the night, at a safe speed but one that has my stomach fluttering with excitement nonetheless.
My sister drives us down a hill and then rounds the property toward our childhood home. A few minutes later, she parks the UTV in our old driveway and we hop out. The house is dark and silent. Suddenly, I’m struck with apprehension.
“You don’t think Dad’s here, right?” I ask.
“I know for a fact he’s not.” She digs around in her pocket and then jangles a key in my face. “Front door key. Thank goodness it still worked.”
“Wait, you’ve already been inside?”
She loops her arm through mine. “Oh, yeah. You’ll see.”
We step inside, and I see battery-powered candles lighting our way through the house. Sneaky of my sister to use the soft flickers for illumination instead of turning on the lights, which might attract attention from my husband or the security team.
Inside the master bedroom and bathroom, Charlie has set up a full-on spa experience for us. Fancy scented Diptyque candles, soft music, face and hair masks, and two baskets full of body products, nail polish, and skin creams. A mini buffet of chocolates, sugared fruit, artisanal cheese and crackers, and other assorted goodies is spread across the top of the dresser.
“This is amazing,” I tell her, awed by the effort she went through. “I love it. I can’t believe you put this together so fast.”
“I’m an event planner. Duh.”
She laughs and gives me a squeeze and then ducks into the bathroom, returning a second later wearing a fluffy pink robe with leopard trim—it’s fussy and fabulous and it could give my lavender and marabou number a run for its money.
“Where’s yours?” she asks.
“In my bag,” I tell her. “I’ll go put it on.”
“We look fa-reaking amazing,” she says once we’re both decked out. “Let’s spa it up!”
Our hair masks go on first, and then we fill small paper plates with treats to eat during the half hour it will take for the masks to set. The bedroom is so big that there’s plenty of space for the upholstered vanity chair and faux fur ottoman Charlie dragged in from Livvie’s room, so we sit on them and drink apple cider out of champagne flutes while we talk.
This is nice, just me and her and a load of snacks. I needed this more than I thought.
There’s just been so much going on…and the constant stress of the danger that DanteswearsI’m in keeps me in work mode from morning till night, just so I don’t have to think about it. It’s still hard to process the fact that I married into the mafia.
After we rinse the masks out of each other’s hair and get started on another round of pampering, I take the opportunity to ask Charlie about something that’s been nagging at me.
“What kind of bad things do you think Clayton has done?” I ask quietly as she’s painting my nails. “And how do you…you know, deal with it?”
Charlie pauses mid-polish and lowers the bottle. She’s quiet as she studies my face, and then finally says, “Why? Do you think Dante did something bad?”
