Page 52 of Ruin

My mom cuts her eyes at me, a secret look that says she understands what I’m saying but she’s trying to appease my father.

Fuck that.

She places her hand on my dad’s forearm. “Honey, I think your dad is trying to say that you should keep your options open. You’re almost 19. You have college, years of life ahead. Don’t tie yourself down to a boy from high school.”

Lorenzo growls, “That’s not what I’m fucking saying. You should not be with a Demonio—any Demonio. Antonio Abbiati is the right match. We discussed this, Giovanna, and you agreed.”

He throws a fist into the plastered hallway wall so hard the echo rings down the hall. A bruise of plaster flakes off and skitters across the floor as he storms down the stairs.

My mother gives me a small smile and a little head shake like my dad is just being a little cranky. I’ve never seen him lose his shit like that or punch a wall. That’s not a little cranky. It’s insane behavior.

“Men.” Her laugh is that fake tinkly laugh she uses at parties to dissolve tension.

I just stare at her. Delulu. Please do not let me turn into some simpering robot who makes excuses for her man’s fucked up behavior.

She smiles. “You know what I think? I think Tommy is cute. Why not have a little fling, have some fun? Then you go back to school and focus on what matters.”

I look at her like the idea is as crazy as she is. “A fling? He’s definitely not trying to just have a fling with me.”

I flash on how he looked at me in the car the other night, held me, kissed me. So much more than a fling. I glance down at my silent phone. At least I thought it was.

She regards me for a moment, then moves to a pile of clothes on the bed and starts folding them. “And how do youfeel about him?”

I shrug. The other night with Tommy was life-changing for me. But if he’s not texting me because of whatever my dad said to him, maybe it wasn’t as life-changing for him as I thought.

She nods, continuing to fold my clothes, lost in thought. “I had a Tommy once.” She sneaks a glance at me over her shoulder and winks. “It’s okay to have a little fun, baby. What your father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Catarina, get out.” My father rages back into my room, and my mother looks at him like he slapped her. Maybe that’s happened in the past, because when he edges toward her, fists clenched, fury on his face, she averts her eyes and slips out.

“Do not listen to your mother,” my father snarls. “Antonio Abbiati will be here to pick you up in an hour. Get dressed for dinner.”

Horror washes over me. What the fuck?

“Fuck that! That’s not happening, not a fucking chance—”

When my father backhands me this time, I come back at him hard, snarling. “You cannot force me to be in a relationship with someone I don’t even like!”

He grabs my wrist and twists it behind my back, shoving me face first into the pile of clothes my mother was folding. His hot breath is on my ear as he bends over me.

“You will fucking do what you are told or you will be cut off and kicked out. I will not have a Demonio whore for a daughter. You will go out with Antonio, you will build a relationship with Antonio, and when it is appropriate, you will marry him. If you so much as speak to Tommy ever again, your life with us is over. You will be shipped out ofNew York somewhere far away from Tommy and everyone we know so that you won’t embarrass us anymore.”

He stands up, releasing me with a shove. “Now get cleaned up. You look like shit.”

I’m shaking with rage as he smooths his shirt and tie and walks calmly out of my room without looking at me.

Fuck him. Fuck his money. And fuck Tommy for doing anything my shitheel of a father says.

20

Giovanna

I’m in the kitchen, stirring iced coffee, when the doorbell rings. I didn’t get cleaned up—still in leggings, tank top, messy bun—because I have no intention of going anywhere. Part of me considers ignoring him, hiding in my room until he takes the hint. But I know Antonio isn’t the type to leave easily, and it doesn’t solve the problem of my father.

I head for the door, only to collide with what feels like a brick wall. An Armani-covered brick wall. Coffee splashes, and I gasp. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry!”

Antonio glances at his damp shirt, then at me, his grin crooked. “You never miss an opportunity to fuck with me, do you?”

“I didn’t—fuck.” I snatch a towel and blot at the dark stain spreading across his suit. “Armani. Jesus. I’m so sorry.”