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Olivia, who seems bored tonight, checks her perfectly manicured nails. “We live lots of places. But Sicily is home, yes.”

“What do you know about Sicily?” Anthony asks, chuckling. He gestures at his son and his wife. “These two. American born.”

“Whose fault is that, Pa?” Anthony Jr. asks.

“Newport City?” I offer, already aware of the answer.

Jayla turns to Maurizio and Adagio. “What about you?”

“I’m afraid even I’m not a real Sicilian either according toil vecchio.”

Anthony Jr. laughs between puffs on his cigar while his father glares at Adagio.

“You laugh now,cazzo. But everybody grows old. I’m still smart. What’s your excuse?”

I learn quickly that roasting each other is how everyone interacts in this group. It’s nothing for both Anthonys to make jokes about each other or give one of the others a hard time. Jayla and I remain neutral, laughing at the war of words taking place.

Anthony Sr. starts telling me about how he grew up in Catania. Places like Ballare didn’t exist then. The coastal city wasn’t held in as high of an esteem as it is today. I’m listening along, acutely aware of the fact that Jayla’s flirting on my other side.

She and Adagio can’t stop grinning at each other as she asks him about his life in Newport City.

“Crazy I’ve never seen you around,” she says, leaning closer.

His grin broadens. “Well… now I know you. So you can give me your number.”

“Only if you promise to call.”

I almost roll my eyes.

The only thing worse than listening to Jayla shoot her shot is thinking about all the nonstop gushing she’ll do later at the loft.

It’s been like that since we were kids. Jayla’s the boy crazy one while I’m usually more reserved and cautious. Yet,somehow, I ended up married to Lincoln only a couple years out of college.

That was the last time I took a chance with love.

Never again.

“Excuse me a second,” I say with a gracious smile. “I need some fresh air.”

It’s the truth—all the cigar smoke is giving me a headache. I slide out of the leather sectional I’m seated in and approach the front door.

The cool air kisses my skin like it had last night.

This time I don’t go far. I step right outside the entrance where there’s lighting and the security can see me.

Breathing in and then out, I take a second to admire the narrow street we’re on.

It truly still feels like I’m dreaming. I’m in the heart of Catania in Sicily on an all-expenses-paid luxury vacation. I’m wearing a dress that cost three thousand euros and drinking some of the finest wine with a group of Italians who are clearly very well-off in life.

What did I do to deserve any of this?

I smile to myself, a little tipsy from said fine wine.

No wonder I felt like I needed some fresh air. I’ve had a glass and a half when I’m not much of a drinker to begin with.

I turn to head back inside and then stumble back. Someone’s in my way.

Someone who is none other than Rafael Calderone.