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"Mom," I say again, more sternly. "This is what I wanted."

"Ugh." I can hear the disgust in her voice. "I just don't understand."

"I know, Mom. Listen, I'll talk to you later. Okay? Love you."

I don't wait for a reply before I press the button to end the call. Gripping my hands on the edge of the bar, I close my eyes and heave a sigh. It's exhausting talking to my mother. And no matter what I say, she'll never understand my point of view.

"So she hated your father, huh?" Roman interrupts my mental pity party.

"Something like that." I shake my head in exasperation, opening my eyes and going back to my task. "She used to live here when I was a kid, but now this place just holds so many bad memories for her. I don't think she can handle the idea that I might be happy here." When I was younger, I would spend the summers with my father, and as soon as I'd return, she'd grill me for everything my father did wrong. She wanted to build a case for full custody, but truly, I think she just wanted to know he was miserable without her.

"What is she so afraid of?"

I consider his question for a moment. "I think that I'll fall in love with someone like my father."

I can feel Roman's eyes on me, but I avoid his gaze. I don't want to know what he's thinking about, but I imagineit's the same person I'm thinking about.Sam.In some aspects, he's worse than my father, isn't he? My father was a wannabe gangster. Sam is the boss of the New Orleansfamiglia.He's far past wannabe and strictly in the territory ofcriminal. He was just released from prison. I can't imagine what my mother would say if she knew I was living with him. It's her worst fear come to life.

A few weeks ago, I would’ve agreed with her. Ididagree with her. From the moment I met him, I thought Sam Costello was bad news.

So why don't I feel that way anymore?

Lana's story pops into my memory. She told me she wouldn't be alive and wouldn't be married to the love of her life if it wasn't for Sam. And as much as I hate to admit it, it seems like the man he killed deserved it.

Ever since talking to her, my brain has been a muddy mess. I avoided Sam last night after he brought me back to his mansion. I was afraid if I stayed too close to him, he might break through the final bits of my resistance.

"Ya know…" Roman leans his elbows onto the shiny bar top and watches me cut open a lime. "Sometimes we hold our parents on a pedestal. Thinking that because they're the adults, they should be all knowing. But the truth is, we're all a little fucked up by our pasts. And we pass on our fucked up-ness and our fears to the next generation, and then they pass it on to the next. So, your mom and dad had a bad relationship? That doesn't mean you have to."

My hands freeze. Is he trying to say that if I date Sam, it won't be like what happened between my mother and father? I blow out a harsh breath and look up to meet Roman's gaze. "That was really wise for a babysitter."

Roman chuckles. "Hey, I'm not a babysitter."

"Then what do you call this?" I wave between the two of us.

"I'm keeping you safe."

I glance down at the cutting board and back to him. "From what? The limes?"

Roman opens his mouth to respond, but whatever he was about to say freezes when the ceiling thuds above us.

"What the hell was that?" Roman straightens, hand moving toward his waistband.

"Grandpa," I mutter, heart instantly pounding as I move toward the stairs.

Before I reach them, my grandfather appears at the top, red-faced and wearing nothing but his boxers and an undershirt. His thin white hair stands up wildly on one side.

"Where is he?" he bellows, gripping the railing. "I know he's here! That son of a bitch!" He rushes down the steps faster than I thought his legs could move.

"Grandpa!" I try to stop him. "What are you doing? You need to get dressed—" But my pleas fall on deaf ears. He's already in the main bar, gaining the attention of the patrons.

"Gino—" Joey catches sight of my grandfather and looks between the two of us, sympathy in his eyes. "Come on, old man, let's get you upstairs."

With newfound strength, my grandfather pushes his old friend away.

"Don't tell me what to do in my own bar!" he shouts, his cheeks reddened. "Where's my son? He took all my money, and I want it back. Now!"

Roman stares wide-eyed as my grandfather storms toward him, finger pointed accusingly. "You bring him back here," he growls. "I told the lot of you to stop letting him play."

My stomach drops. He's having an episode, living decades in the past.