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“We don’t break our captains. We kill them.”
—Vincent Gigante
“MERCY.” MAMMA GRIMACED, AS I’D just explained the plot of her book club novel. “I don’t even fe
el bad for not reading that one.”
She hadn’t read a single one of them—I had.
“Okay, I have to go,” she said, putting a heel on with one hand and an earring in with the other. “Your papà and Benito are out, but Dominic is in the basement. Oh, and help your sister pick out her cake flavor. Tua zia Liza needs to know today. Please, Elena!”
I sighed and climbed off my parents’ bed.
“Leaving!” Mamma’s voice drifted out of the room.
I heard a faint “Finally” from my nonna as she passed the doorway with her servant Gabriella in tow. She’d gone on her afternoon walk, or, more likely, sat on the patio for five minutes of fresh air while gossiping.
A couple of moments later, I pushed the kitchen door open. Adriana sat cross-legged on the counter with two plates of cake before her. Her elbows rested on her knees and her fists were under her chin, while only wearing her yellow polka-dot bikini.
“What are the flavors?” I asked, coming to stand before the island. The sun was the only light in the room, casting the windowpane reflection across the counter.
“Pink Champagne and Luscious Lemon.” She said it like the options were really Tasty Garbage and Rotten Apricot. She was going to drag this out for as long as she could. Asking my sister to make a decision was like requesting her to write out the equation for time travel.
I tried both by scooping some up with my fingers. “Definitely the lemon,” I said, opening the cupboard for a glass.
I didn’t normally have dance practice on Tuesdays, but with the recital coming up we’d had it every day. My thighs burned as I stood on my tiptoes to get a cup from the top shelf. Benito and my other male cousins were all taller, yet they always took the glasses from the bottom shelf just to annoy the girls in the family.
“I was leaning toward Pink Champagne,” Adriana groaned.
“Then Pink Champagne it is,” I said as I filled my glass from the fridge water dispenser.
She shook her head. “No, now it doesn’t seem right.”
“The lemon, then.”
“That one doesn’t seem right either.”
I sighed. My sister could drive a saint to curse. I leaned against the fridge and eyed her over my glass. “Why are you in your swimsuit?”
“Was on my way to the pool, but Mamma stopped me and said I can’t leave the kitchen until I decide.”
After a moment of thought, a smile pulled on my lips. “Mamma left.”
Adriana’s gaze, warm and hopeful, popped up from the plates.
An hour later, with the cake flavor still undecided, Don’t Stop Believin’ played on the pool radio. The sun was hot, sparkling off the blue water as my head emerged from beneath. The cool liquid ran down my shoulders as I waded to my sister, who wore sunglasses and lay still on a floaty. She was a diva in the pool. In other words: boring. I tipped her.
She came up sputtering, pulling her sunglasses off and pushing the dark hair from her face. “I don’t know why you can’t just let me . . .” she trailed off.
The pool sat at the side of the house, allowing a view to the front gates. My gaze followed hers to see a lawn care truck coming down the drive. Oh no. Before I could say a word, she pulled herself out of the pool.
“Adriana, don’t,” I warned. My stomach twisted. I wasn’t sure how she’d seen Ryan this long without Papà finding out. She’d falsified her class schedule, putting an extra time slot down that she could spend with him, but seeing him at the house was too risky.
She turned to me, her gaze soft and pleading. “I just want to talk to him.”
“And say what? That you’re still getting married in three weeks?”
“And whose fault is that?” she snapped.
