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“Where are they?” I ask. If the party is happening here in a few hours, I can’t imagine they’re far away.
“Probably in the basement. It’s their den.” Bitterness fills her voice as she takes off up the rest of the stairs.
“Their den?” I mutter. “Don’t tell me, no girls allowed?”
“Something like that. They’re idiots. Just because they’ve got a little power, they think they’re God’s freaking gift to the ma—”
She once again slams her lips shut.
What the hell is going on here?
Without another word, she walks toward a closed door and swings it open.
Letting myself in behind her, I drop my bags by the door and watch as she stands at a set of french doors that lead out to what looks like a massive balcony.
“Calli, what’s going on?” I ask, closing her door behind me and stepping farther into the room.
“How much do you know about this part of London?” she asks without looking back at me.
“Uh… that everyone seems to have more money than sense,” I mutter sarcastically, because honestly, I have no idea.
She laughs. “Well, there is that.”
“But I’m assuming that’s not what you meant.”
She turns to me, her face serious as she looks at me.
“Have you heard of the Cirillo Family?”
“Uh… the Family?” I ask, amusement filling my voice. “Like a mafia family? No, I don’t think I’ve seen that one. Is it on Netflix?” I ask, although from the look on her face, my comment has fallen a little far off the mark.
“It’s not a TV programme, Stella. It’s my life.”
“Y-your life?”
She throws her hands out to her sides. “Callista Cirillo, long-suffering, smothered-in-cotton-wool, protected-from-the-reality-of-this-life mafia princess looking right at you.”
“Fuck off. You’re joking, right?” But as unbelievable as it all is, looking at the misery on her face, I know she’s being serious.
“I wish.” She falls down on her bed and stares up at the ceiling.
Sitting down beside her, I run her words through my head.
As crazy as they sound, they make some kind of sense.
After a few seconds, she turns to me.
“Stella?”
“Yeah?”
“Your surname. It’s Greek, right?”
My brows pull together as I recall Toby asking me the exact same thing earlier.
“Uh… I think so, yeah.” My heritage has never really been much of a concern to me when I’ve been too busy trying to figure out the present. “But what’s that got to do with anything? Mafia are Italian, right?”
“The famous ones you’ve read about, yeah. The Cirillo Family? We’re Greek.”
