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My cheeks heat and I hate I’m giving her a sign that she’s wounded me. Tears burn my throat, but I won’t cry in front of her. Dad says to never let your enemies see weakness, but he’s also scary and important, so no one messes with him.
“Why do you hate me?” I whisper.
“Go home, Bianca.” She turns and walks back inside, slamming the door behind her.
For a moment, I stare at the heavy wood door, wanting to bang on it and shout how wrong she is about everything.
But maybe she’s right. Maybe I do like Costi more than I should or is proper for friends. It’s not like it matters. He’d never be interested in me like that.
I race down the porch steps and fly across the lawn to our garage. Tears trickle like rain down my cheeks as I grab my bike and head down the long drive of our secluded property. Killian, one of my father’s bodyguards, gets to be the lucky one to tail me today. Within minutes of me turning onto the road, he’s shadowing me. Sweat from the sweltering sun mixes with more tears as I pedal the short distance to the iron gates of the cemetery. I leave my bike on the grass and sprint to the marble headstone surrounded by flowers.
I drop to my knees.
“Why did you leave?” I shout. “It’s your fault I can’t be around my best friend. It’s your fault she makes me feel uglier than I am. If you were here, she wouldn’t say those things.”
My chest heaves and guilt swallows me whole.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I didn’t mean it. I just kind of need you right now.”
I stretch out across my mother's grave, feeling comfort in the thick grass that hugs me. I’m not sure how long I lie here before a pair of Chucks walk into my line of sight.
“You ok, B?” Costi asks.
“Yeah,” I say, sitting up.
He drops down beside me. “I went looking for you as soon as Mom left, and your father’s guy said you were here.”
“You said she wouldn’t be there.”
“She stopped by to pick up some papers. I’m sorry.”
“It’s ok,” I lie, because I don’t want to hurt him by telling him what she said. She’s his mom, and that trumps me.
Even though I wish it wouldn’t.
Costi is the most important person in my world.
“I wish I could talk to my mom,” I whisper, staring at the marble headstone.
“You can talk to me,” Costi says, nudging my shoulder.
There’s absolutely no way I can tell him Esmerelda took a shot at my weight. I pluck a blade of grass from the ground, twirling it between my fingers. “It’s fine.”
He bumps into me once more. “What would you tell your mom if she were here right now?”
I close my eyes, picturing my mother’s kind eyes, trying my best to conjure up the image of her, but it’s fading, and I forget a few details. “I’d tell her I wish she was here.”
“What else?” Costi urges.
“I don’t know. I guess I’d ask her why everyone hates me so much.”
Costi’s eyes soften. “No one hates you.”
“Your mom does. I’m not her favorite person.”
Costi places his hand on my shoulder so he can get my full attention, his dark eyes boring into mine. “Listen to me. She doesn’t know you like I do. And who cares? You’re my favorite person.”
He’s so sincere, my troubles melt away. “You’re my favorite person too.”
And I mean it with all my heart. There’s no one in this world I’d rather have at my side than Constantine Gold. My partner in crime.
Two
Bianca
Fifteen Years Old
* * *
“Say hello to Gino, Bianca,” my father says, nudging me closer to the lanky boy standing before me.
“Hello.”
Gino glares at his father, his hazel eyes showing his animosity. “I don’t want to marry her.”
His father smacks him upside his head, and my father frowns.
Gino’s father apologizes fiercely, knocking his elbow into his son’s arm. “This is the daughter of Don Amato, and it is an honor for you to marry her. Do not disrespect Bianca at her birthday party.”
“Sorry.” Gino’s eyes roam over me, and I hate the way they hold contempt. Actually, more like disgust. I know I’m not paper thin like all the girls in Miami who belong on the cover of a magazine, but the way Gino stares at my body makes me feel ten times heavier. He’s not exactly my fairy-tale prince, but you don’t see me being rude.
I fidget my hands down the silly black dress my father made me wear, wondering if I could use my Spanx to strangle my future fiancé. “I don’t want to marry you either, but we don’t always get what we want.”
He gives me a resting bitch face that rivals Esmeralda’s. I can tell Gino is a jerk. A pompous jerk, and I turn my nose up at him. You’d think this tradition of arranged marriages ended centuries ago, but no such luck.
