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“Sorry,” I apologize. “Forgive me.”
“It’s fine.” She waits for the server to place our sparkling water and glasses on the table before speaking again. “About six months ago.”
“Gabriella,” I whisper.
Pursing her lips, she nods. “Yeah, it’s still pretty raw.”
“Did you always know about Vincent and the family?”
She shakes her head. “No. Mom only told me in the days before she died. She told me that Vincent was my safest option if I needed anything. She told me not to go anywhere near Big Joey. She said that her mistakes would kill me,” she whispers.
Our salads are delivered to our table, and we sit quietly, smiling our thanks at the young server before she saunters off.
“I did my research. Clearly not enough, though.” She forks her salad, leaning over her bowl to take it into her mouth.
I wait until she’s finished chewing before speaking again. “What do you mean?”
I eat while she speaks. “I watched Vincent for about a week, trying to work up the courage to approach him. He’s a little intimidating.”
I laugh. “Just a little.”
“I fucked up when I did finally speak to him.”
“How so?”
“He was having lunch with Enzo. I didn’t realize he was the fuckingboss.”
I grimace.
“Yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “Asshole made me confess my life story with him there. He refused to fucking leave.”
I stab a shrimp, holding it over my bowl. “Not many people would be brave enough to call Enzo an asshole.”
She shrugs. “The way I look at it now, I don’t think Vincent would ever have kept my existence from Enzo anyway. They’re really close. Big Joey could kill me if he found me. I’m seventeen. I didn’t want to live on the streets or be forced into foster care. If the family had killed me for my mother’s wrongdoings, at least I fucking tried, you know?”
I drop my fork, reaching out to grab her hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She smiles. “Me too.”
“Isn’t this sweet?”
So consumed with Gabriella’s story, I didn’t even see Vincent approach. “Hi, baby,” I greet.
He kisses me. “No sign of Trixie,” he tells me.
I shrug. “Lucky for her, I’m guessing.”
Vincent picks up my glass, takes a sip, grimaces and spits the water back into my glass. Pulling a chair from the table behind us, he sits down, picking up my fork to stab at my salad. I stare at him in shock, the domestically mundane action such a stark contrast to the bristling and intimidating man I’d married.
“What?” he speaks around the salad.
“Nothing.”
“I’m concerned about Trixie’s motive,” he shares, wiping his mouth with my napkin.
“What do you mean?”
He chews his food. “How did she know you were shopping on Fifth Avenue?”
