Page 4 of Joey

I arch an eyebrow at her. “But you can’t cook.”

“I’m learning.” She swats my chest. “I’m following a recipe. It’s called chicken parm for dummies. It will be amazing. I swear.”

“Hmm,” I murmur, unconvinced. “Didn’t you follow a recipe the night before last and almost burn down the kitchen?”

Her cheeks turn bright red, and she looks down at the floor. “I didn’t realize you had to take the plastic thing off the chicken. I’ve learned my lesson. This time it’s all fresh stuff. No plastic packaging involved.”

“Well, in that case, I’m looking forward to it. Let me grab a shower and then I can help out.”

“That would be great.” The huge smile on her face makes her look so desperate for my affection and makes me feel guilty for leaving her alone all day. I’m about to apologize for that a second time when she grabs my hand. “The baby’s kicking!” she squeals, placing my hand on the side of her stomach and pressing gently. “You feel it?”

There’s a soft tap against my palm. Then another.Wow!“Yeah, I feel it.”

“How cool is that? He’s gonna be so strong, you know? Just like you are.” She blinks up at me, fluttering her long dark eyelashes.

“Naw, just like his mom,” I tell her with a wink. She throws her arms around my waist and buries her face against my chest again. I drop a soft kiss on the top of her head.

“Thank you, Max,” she whispers.

* * *

I chewon another mouthful of the worst chicken parm I’ve ever eaten in my life, then wash it down with a gulp of soda.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Kristin eyes me from across the table.

The truth would hurt her feelings, so I lie. “It’s fine.” I rarely eat at my place as a rule, preferring to spend my time at the Moretti mansion. But since Kristin walked into my life, that’s not always an option. “Besides, you don’t have to cook. We can get takeout.”

“I’m trying to be healthy though. For this little guy.” She rubs a hand over her stomach and smiles.

“You still haven’t heard from your father?”

Her smile fades in an instant. “Nothing.” She looks down at her half-eaten plate of food.

I drop my silverware and scrub a hand over my beard. “And there’s nothing else you can think of? Something he might have said? A clue as to where he might have gone?”

She shakes her head. “I wish there was, but I’ve gone over our last conversation so many times in my head. All he told me was that he had to take care of something because if he didn’t, we would never be safe. He said if he wasn’t back in two days—” She swipes her cheek, whisking away her tears, and takes a deep breath. “He told me the only person I could trust in the whole world was you, and he told me to give you that message. That was it.”

I’ve never had any cause not to trust Dante or Lorenzo Moretti, and while their father was a cruel man who never once let me forget how much he did for me by taking me in when I was fourteen, his sons are nothing like him. They are like brothers to me. Still, my brow furrows.My dad says you can’t trust the Morettis. They turned you against your real family.That’s the message she’s referring to. The one her father asked her to pass along if she ever had cause to come to me and ask for help. Six nights ago, she turned up on my doorstep and did exactly that.

ChapterThree

JOEY

“This house is so cool,” my best friend Monique says as she wanders down the hallway. “Like everything is so tasteful and”—she runs a hand over the gold handrail of the huge marble staircase—“expensive.” She acts as though this is her first time seeing my house, but she’s been here at least a hundred times.

“Hmm.” I shrug. I barely notice any more. The house is massive, and it has everything a person might need, I guess. Huge gardens, a pool, state-of-the-art gym with a boxing ring, a home theater, game room, library. You name it. But what my best friend sees as luxury, I see as my overprotective brothers’ way of making sure I have as few reasons as possible to leave the house.

“Your house is amazing,” I remind her. I’m actually jealous of it. She lives in a beautiful four-bedroom house with a pool. But best of all, she lives with her mom, who’s hardly ever there, whereas I’m constantly surrounded by my family. Living with my two brothers and their wives makes it hard to get any privacy.

We make our way upstairs to my room, and Monique brushes her fingertips over the furniture and expensive artwork along the way, an expression of awe on her face. “Is this one new?” She stops in front of a painting of a ballerina, a Degas, in the hallway. It cost my brother a small fortune.

“Yeah. Lorenzo bought it for Anya.” I swallow the ball of sadness that lodges in my throat.

“I bet it cost a fortune. She’s so lucky.”

I don’t tell her that my wonderful, funny, kind sister-in-law isn’t lucky at all. She has terminal cancer, and we all have to watch her grow sicker and weaker by the day.

“You’re all so lucky, Jo,” she says with a wistful sigh. “I can only imagine what it’s like to be a Mafia princess.”