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And I also forced one of my men, one of my very tech-savvy men, to hack into their low-budget system and find the schedule so I’d know when she’d be arriving and leaving, too.
I decide to keep that bit of information just for myself.
“I thought we agreed to see what happened? If I could make it back, I would, and—”
“Yeah, well, that’s not working for me anymore, Giana.”
Another true statement.
She stares at me with those ice-blue eyes of hers for a moment. Unsaid words linger between us as I wait for her to tell me I’m a fucking psychopath so I can agree with her.
She glances down at her hands before meeting my eyes again.
“I’ve never had anyone care enough to seek me out,” she says, and I want to tell her that she’s dead wrong.
I’m willing to bet many of her father’s enemies are planning something right now that involves her, but the thought makes me fucking ill.
Instead, I just say, “Well, now that we got that out of the way.”
“What makes this spot one of your favorite places?” she quickly asks, and it’s apparent she wants to move on from this conversation as much as I do.
Memories. My sister. Even my wife. My dead wife.
The list goes on and on.
“Well, I was pretty much raised here. My family and I ate dinners here every Wednesday after mass and most Saturdays for lunch. My father is good friends with Nonna’s son, Vinny.”
“That’s really sweet.” She smiles, and I have to force myself to peel my eyes away from her, from the way she wears me down, extinguishing my resolve.
She is the enemy. And she doesn’t even know it. Doesn’t even feel like it.
“You must really miss them,” she says, her voice taking on a somber tone that I hate hearing from her.
The sadness. It’s deep within her. I feel it, and it tells me the comment was meant for me, but that maybe she’s got her own ghosts, too.
“Well, Julissa wasn’t here often. She would sometimes come on Saturdays, but by the time she came into my life, we didn’t come quite as much. Most of us were grown or almost grown and had other things to do. But my sister…”
I can’t enter these doors without thinking of Sofia, and sometimes I think I’m a fucking masochist.
Sometimes I think I just need to feel close to her again.
Most times…I don’t have a fucking clue.
“What was your sister like?” Giana asks, and I immediately don’t want to tell her a fucking thing.
I hate that I’ve already talked about my wife to her, uttered her fucking name to an Amato. The sole reason she’s no longer here.
I steel my spine and force the flash of anger to dissipate. I need to keep up my façade for as long as I can.
“You remind me of her,” I say, and I shouldn’t. “Not in a weird, fucked-up way,” I add before she can get the wrong idea.
But it’s the truth. And every once in a while, I think she could use it.
“Why?” Giana takes a sip of her water and glances down at the menu before flitting her eyes back to mine.
I admire those blue eyes of hers. I swear they’re fucking hypnotizing, pulling me in and dragging me under. Making me confess things like a fucking sinner at church.
“She felt similar to you about our father. He doesn’t sound like yours, but he was strict. He was always afraid of something happening to her. And I guess…parent’s intuition, right? It’s like he knew. And he did everything in his power to keep her safe—we all did—but it wasn’t enough.”
