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“Mine’s bigger. Contest over.” He tucks his napkin into the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat without dropping my father’s stare.

I make a face. “Ew. What’s going on with you two? Aren’t you worried about how this might look to the Elders?”

“How what might look?”

I shrug, moving my hands in a circular gesture. “This. You, undermining his contract with Bollente Media, marrying the daughter he promised to them, and now the obvious power struggle?”

“There’s no power struggle to be had here, little one. Your father has none.” Finally, Kal looks over at me, his eyes smoldering, causing heat to pool between my thighs. “The only one here with any sort of power, especially over you, is me. Your husband.”

His words make my throat constrict, even though they sound vaguely threatening in nature; his tone, though, oozes sex, and even though my brain is struggling to keep up with every single emotion rolling around in my body, it’s that one it latches onto.

Like a familiar friend, arousal shows up and overpowers everything else, making me forget what I was even just complaining about.

Clenching my thighs together, I shift in my seat, reaching for the glass of water in front of me. I take a sip, keeping my eyes locked with Kal, until Papá clears his throat, drawing my attention.

“Bambina,” Papá says around his scotch. “How’s school?”

My hand freezes in midair and I choke up, almost dropping my glass. I take another sip, buying a few seconds while I scrape together an answer. “I... dropped out.”

Okay, not a good save, but whatever.

His eyes widen, and he sets his tumbler back on the table. “Perché?”

I can feel Kal watching me, but I look right at Papá. “I didn’t want to do it anymore. Teaching literature doesn’t interest me.”

“I see.” Papá’s nostrils flare, and he taps his thumb ring against his glass. “I suppose you didn’t think to inform the person on the hook for your student loans that he’d be having to pay for them sooner than he thought?”

Shame scores my face, fiery as it lashes against my skin. Ariana and Stella glare down at the table, while Nonna downs the rest of her wine.

“Never mind the fact that I said from the beginning that school wasn’t your destiny. But you didn’t want to believe me. Had to learn the hard way, and screw me over in the process.”

Kal stiffens beside me, fingers tightening around his fork until his knuckles bloom white. My foot kicks out, pressing against his in a silent plea not to send the utensil through my father’s throat.

“I’m sorry, Papá,” I say softly, the anger in his gaze revitalizing the nausea from before; it blows up, like a vapor expanding to fill the shape of its container, and I grip the edge of the table, trying to stave off the vomit rising in my esophagus. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

“Of course, you didn’t, because you’re still an immature, selfish little girl.”

Mamá’s voice interrupts the quiet din of the patio atmosphere, and for once, I hear the malice threaded in her words. It’s not disguised at all in her tone, and when she rounds the table in a floor-length, bright red evening gown, I see it written on her face.

The woman who helped me get ready for my wedding and the woman standing here now are not the same person.

Not even a little bit.

Kal shoves back from the table, making the dishes clatter with the force. Murder rims his dark eyes, setting them aflame. “Carmen.”

She grins, lifting a brow, bringing her wineglass to her lips. “Oh, come on, Kal. I know my daughter. She’s quite the chip off the old block, wouldn’t you say?”

Sighing, Papá rubs his temple. “Carmen, what are you doing?”

Sitting in the chair at his side, her grin grows, stretching so wide across her face that it looks painful. She swirls the wine in her glass, gesturing toward my sisters. “Girls, why don’t you take Nonna to her room for a nap? We don’t want her falling asleep at the recital.”

Ariana snorts. “I don’t want to miss whatever this is.”

But Stella elbows her, yanking her up from the table; they flank Nonna on both sides, catching her when she droops forward in her drunken stupor.

“I was going to tell you,” I say, putting my water down. “It just kind of slipped my mind with everything else.”

“Yes,” Mamá says, leaning back in her chair, “hard to remember important things like who your family really is, when you’re too busy spreading your legs for the first man to ever pretend he cared about you.”

My face heats up, bile scratching and clawing at the base of my throat, dragging irritation up along with it. “What’s wrong with that? He’s my husband, after all.”

“Because your father wanted him away from me.”

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