Page 21 of Dante

I choose my words carefully. “You’re a beautiful woman. But a good caricature must emphasize a person’s unique, distinguishing facial features while —”

“Good! So what’s the problem?” Gina asks, hands on hips.

“I didn’t finish. The bottom line is that if you want me to draw you, a ‘good’ caricature will make you look like a cartoon.”

She shrugs. “Okay. Now you got my curiosity. Do it.”

I concentrate as I sketch Angie’s long, luxuriant hair, her voluptuous lips, and large, dark eyes. A giant head over a tiny body.

“Voila!” I say, showing her the portrait.

I watch her expression. Surprise at first, and then she nods in approval. “Wow. That’s good.”

“Can we walk a bit more? I’m enjoying the energy.”

We get back to our feet, and it feels fun to walk down this fashionable street in Manhattan. Just me and my new New York best friend. And she’s a genuine second cousin to boot.

When Angie looks behind her for the third time, she puts her hand on my forearm.

“Don’t turn around, but I think we’re being followed.”

“Followed by who?”

“I don’t know,” she says, pulling me into a side street.

We stand there a minute, and then she peeks around the corner.

“Sorry. That must have been my overactive imagination. Come on, we’d better head home.”

CHAPTER 9

GINA

Late that afternoon, I stand in front of one of the many mirrors in my fancy apartment. My focus is on the stranger staring back at me.

The black hair is still a shock.

Does it actually look good?

The lady at the salon insisted it was the most expensive piece in the shop, crafted from genuine human hair.

That fact alone makes my skin crawl. Every time a strand brushes my neck, I wonder whose head it grew on and why they had to sell it.

Then there’s the dress.

What will Dante think?

I catch myself wondering what Mary would have worn for a night out with her husband.

Angie promised me the new dress was “club appropriate.” I suppose she’s right.

But it feels like I’m showing more skin than fabric. If my mother saw me in this, she’d freak and reach for her rosary.

The doorbell jolts me out of my thoughts.

I roll my eyes, knowing it’s Ciro. He has a key, of course, but he rings anyway.

Probably his way of showing respect.