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“I don’t want to.”
“Don’t be stupid, Cat. I don’t want to hurt you.” But he was hurting me with this wall of rejection. “You know there’s nothing here.”
“The only thing I know is I felt you between my legs last night. You broke the damn cabinet, Hugo! Don’t tell me I’m insane because I’m not.”
He took a deep breath, calming himself.
“Fucking hell, woman, can’t you just leave me alone?”
“No!”
“You are a beautiful girl.” He said it like it was a bad thing. “You always wear these short skirts. Look at you now, I can see your ass, Cat. Whether you go out to work some corner or go to school is anyone’s guess, but you are a child, for Christ’s sake. Last night I…slipped, but I’m into different things. Not you.”
My jaw dropped. I didn’t know what was more offensive, that he told me I dressed like a whore, him calling me a kid or telling me point blank I was not good enough for him. I wanted to say something, hurt him back, but the lack of air stopped me. We just looked at each other. He was mad, and I was crushed under the pile of his spiteful words.
Vito popped up from around the corner, confused to find us so close.
“Hey, man, I’m here.”
“Go,” Hugo mumbled under his breath, and when I didn’t move, he grabbed me by my shoulders and spun me around. “Go, Cat, you’ll be late for school.”
Like I could give a fuck about missing first period right then, but I left anyway. There wasn’t anything else to say. I walked past Vito, telling him to meet me in the car so I could grab my bag. When I slipped into the backseat, he looked at me in the rearview mirror, puzzled by my foul mood.
“Everything alright, Cat?”
“Hmm? Yeah.”
“The big man giving you grief?”
Vito was a sweet boy, very loyal to my family, and he was one of the best security details Gino had, even if he was only twenty-four. He was sleek as a fox and never missed anything. My brother used to tell me that Vito probably had six eyes, so I knew better than to underestimate that subtle suspicion I heard in his voice.
“You didn’t hear about last night?”
“I did.”
“Yeah, well, now he’s not letting me do anything without supervision,” I lied. “We got into a fight about it.”
“He’ll come around, don’t worry. You’ll miss a party or two and then go back to normal.”
Except I didn’t think my relationship with Hugo would ever be normal again.
He made me feel embarrassed, like some dumb girl licking the shoes of a guy, which wasn’t far from the truth. I had tried to allure him, be a femme fatale, and all he saw was a little girl playing dress up.
I was raised to always keep my head up; my father and grandfather always told me about my blessed blood. Shame was never an option for someone who wore the Nucci name, but the Albanian Monster had me hanging my head in shame.
The radio was on, and I could hear Queen Bonnie preaching: It’s a heartache. I could feel her gruff, crisp female voice in my head soothing my bruised heart.
I did feel like a dog that was left out in the eye of the storm by its owner. Definitely a clown. What was I thinking? Why did I allow myself to slip into a childish fantasy about a man who had no interest for me? That kiss that made my organs shift with excitement and desire meant nothing to him, and I shouldn’t even be surprised. Hugo had an endless string of women going through his bed. Locking lips with a turned-on blonde was practically his Wednesday afternoon.
I was a mafia princess. I was Catherinelle Nucci. But it was about time to accept that for Hugo Mustafa, I was nothing but an inconvenience.
The day dragged past me like a lazy snail, and when my AP history class was over, I already felt drained. I don’t know if it was just because I felt like shit, but the world seemed more hostile. Everything was too loud, and more than once, I was surprised to find people looking at me funny.
I got out of class and walked through the sea of people without any particular direction in mind. It was lunch time, but I wasn’t hungry in the slightest, and it was too cold to spend my period outside. Luckily for me, I saw two familiar faces coming my way.
Frank and Marco Nucci, Uncle Pepe’s grandkids and Vincenzo’s oldest nephews. They were only a few weeks older than me, even though, technically, their dad, Frank Sr., was my cousin, and I was their aunt. My family tree was a mess; I knew that. Sometimes it was hard for me to keep up with it. Frank and Marco were not only twins; they were identical, and I thought they looked a lot like Gino when he was their age, except the blue eyes and the darker complexion of their skin. They were lucky sons of bitches, getting the best of both worlds, the handsomeness of the Nucci men and the chocolate skin of their mother.
I was surprised to see them walking alone; there was usually some cheerleader hanging on their backs.
