Looking at Dad was like looking at a stranger who simply looked like me, and I had to force down the weight of its heaviness as I ignored him and stepped deeper into the room. My heavy steps caused the black antique rug to ruffle, but I ignored that too, pushing him away from Fiorella as I sat in the nonexistent gap between them.
It was then that I heard the snicker and noticed the second man beside the cardboard one. He was slouched, grossly manspreading, a black leather jacket covering his body that didn’t belong to Lucca territory; that much was obvious from the small Outfit, the Chicago mob, insignia on the sleeve.
That was…interesting;a detail I’d keep close in my mind.
“What the hell is happening, Fiore?” I said under my breath to my sister.
Fiorella looped her fingers into mine, the jade eyes we had inherited from Dad suddenly pure fire and raging. “They want me to marrythatasshole.”
Dad had always been desperate to marry us off to strangers, but he had ruined that chance before it even started by not dismissing the rumors that we were the faceless pornstars in his videos. It was either have us be good, clean prostitutes and destroy the reputation that my family used dirty ones, or have us be perfect daughters, and Dad had always made it clear that he cared more for his reputation than his family.
Nobody wanted touched goods, nobody except Milan Lucca apparently, which begged the question ofwhyhe was so desperate to sully his reputation with our name. What had he done that meant nobody wanted him either?
“My auditory capability is functioning well,” Lucca said unexpectedly, narrowing his eyes at our connected fingers.
He spoke like a robot; maybe he truly was cardboard all the way through.
“Great,” I replied firmly. “So, you’ll hear me when I say that my sister will absolutelynotbe marrying you.”
His stare bore into me. It was calculating, an attempt at intimidation that I wouldnotallow, yet under his direct scrutiny, I still felt the color of the world around me drain. Dad’s manor had always been dark gray walls and even grayer furniture, but I could always find the details, notice the little things, and suddenly I couldn’t.
His voice made things feelmuted.
“You speak out of turn,” he stated plainly, like he was mocking me.
My lip pulled in a snarl, and Fiorella shuddered as my hand tightened painfully around hers. “I speak whenever I want to.”
“That is uncustomary.”
Dad stuttered on his words before he managed to say, “Mr. Lucca, I?—”
Milan leaned forward on his knees, his eyes tracing the outline of me. “You hate me, your body language explains as much. That is…unfounded.You have just met me. So, let me ask you, Sicily Bianchi, why?”
He explainedmelike I didn’t know myself, and in some fucked-up way, he made me feel like Ididn’t.Iwas the one who noticed the beautiful details of the world, the color, the emotion, but he stated facts and cared nothing for how they landed.
I didn’t want it to be a fact that I was angry, that he made me feel like I was a stranger to myself, but he was right; I hated him because I hated this world, and I knewthatSicily, but who was she when she wasn’t angry? Who was she when she was alone, or with people who agreed with her?
Who was she when she wasn’t fighting?
I swallowed, looking at my lap, smoothing my thumb over Fiorella’s hand that had paled white under my grip. “I’ve heard who you are,” I said honestly, taking an ounce of his factual nonsense. “And I don’t want my little sisteranywherenear you.”
The man beside him sat up straight. “Heard what?”
“It is irrelevant what baseless gossip she chooses to believe,” Milan said without an ounce of emotion, yet the twisting of his hands seemed like a self-soothing action that said a lot. “You have rumors against your name, too, Sicily. By conclusion, does that mean that I should judge your morals in line with how I might a prostitute?”
Anger twisted in my belly until I thought I might puke on his shoes. Those rumors had followed me everywhere since the day I’d turned fifteen, and they had caused an irreparable divide between me and my parents.
Perhaps it was where my need to heal women came from. Perhaps it was where the burning desire to reduce men to the damage they caused originated. Perhaps it was where I lost myself a little.
“Forgive me,” I gritted through my teeth. “Some of us want toprotectour sisters.”
The second man, whose name I still hadn’t learned, shot to his feet like my words had burned him. His face twisted, his eyes widening, not in shock but rage as pure as it came. “Howdareyou!”
He was obviously protective, and I could respect that about him, but I didn’t respect him enough to stay quiet. I pushedto my feet, but Milan’s monotone voice tore through my determination to verbally scold his right-hand.
“Sit down, Adriano. She views her sister being married to me as detrimental to her well-being. This has therefore invoked a reaction of protection that has caused a secondary state of anger.” For the first time since I’d entered this conversation, Milan looked at me like he understood me. “She is an older sibling; this level of protection is only rivaled by that of a parent, which appears to be nonexistent in this scenario. This is a characteristic I can find relatability in.”
Dad’s face paled while Mom let out a small, strangled sound.
