Page 33

Adele

I trace my finger along the cool, damp surface of my iced tea—which is more ice than tea—watching the condensation bead and roll down the crystal tumbler. Chlorine-scented air fills my lungs as I take a deep breath, my eyes wandering over the shimmering surface of the Olympic-sized pool. Sophie’s rhythmic strokes break the water’s stillness, her lithe form cutting through in a rapid yet graceful front crawl.

“Gosh, Addy, I feel like such a fraud,” Kira mutters, stretching beside me on one of the white leather chaise lounges lined by the pool.

I take my eyes off Sophie and turn to face Kira fully. My friend’s profile is set against the backdrop of gleaming tiles and tropical plants. The recessed lighting accentuates the furrow in her brow.

“Why do you say that, Kira?”

She pushes her slipping sunglasses back up her nose. “Because all my friends are refusing to book new gigs and going around like someone kicked their puppy to death while I’m there trying to remember to mourn, unable to tell them it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Really? Your friends are grieving for me?” Apart from Zedd, I don’t really know Kira’s DJ friends that well. I certainly didn’t imagine they’d react that way to news of my demise.

It’s been seven days since the world declared me dead in that car explosion and six days since Dante and Sal left for DC. I still can’t believe how soon it took the Outfit to find out who he was and where to find the bomber.

Apart from scattered mentions of the incident on TV, I’ve had no way of knowing how the news has been received. I’m desperate to see what social media and my blog followers are saying about my death. But for now, my days are spent with Sophie and Aydin, while my nights are filled with longing.

When Kira, my last connection to the world I used to know, showed up this morning, smuggled in by Falzone and Aydin just before dawn, I’d nearly wept with joy.

Kira snorts. “Babe. You were blown to pieces right in front of them. Of course, they’re traumatized and grieving.”

I nod. “It’s true what they say about friends and family, right? They are the ones that suffer.”

Kira’s lips turn down as she swirls her glass of cranberry punch, the ice cubes clinking softly. “I dunno. My best friend has never fake-died before, so I have no frame of reference here. I miss you, though.”

“I know. Are things crazy back home?” I ask.

Kira shrugs and takes another sip of her drink. “Like you wouldn’t believe. There are so many flowers, and the place smells like a rose garden. Condolences from neighbors I didn’t even realize lived in our building. And don’t get me started on Twitter. Zedd took it the hardest. I think he’s doing a whole soundtrack dedicated to your memory.”

I groan, my head falling back against the lounge chair. “Great. I’ll be memorialized in EDM. And I spent a total of what, two hours with the guy?”

“I know,” Kira grins. “I think when Zedd falls, he falls hard. But I could think of worse things. At least he’s not a songwriter, so there won’t be lyrics about how Adele O’Shea was torn to pieces.”

“I suppose.” And then, I think of Pietro again, the man who died in my place. “Kira, did you know Pietro Potenza personally?”

Kira shakes her head. “Contrary to what you may think, I hardly know these Capos. I only hear stories from my mom.”

“What about Sal?”

“I’d never met him until a few weeks ago. He was the one who offered me the Resin job.”

“Really? You two seemed like you’d known each other forever. Like childhood friends or something.”

A blush stains Kira’s cheeks. “Sal is the furthest thing from my friend.”

“Kira? Are you—”

“No.” She sighs as if she already knows what I’m about to ask her. “Am I wishing he’d stop trying to be friends and bang me, though? Fuck yeah.”

I screech. “Kira!”

“What? Have you seen the man? He’s insanely hot.”

I stare at my friend like she’s suddenly sprouted horns. “Yes, I know Sal is attractive, but Kira, I’m shocked you can tell. You have not seen him.”

“Maybe not, but his voice is off the charts. Such a rich and layered texture to it. And he’s so fucking smart. Like you have no idea how much of a turn-on that is.”

She takes another quick sip of her drink. “Also, he also let me touch his face, so I got a good inkling what he looked like early on.” Kira’s voice drops to a whisper. “And, I, uh, I touched his hands too.”

I stare at Kira as heat creeps up her cheeks. “Kira. You’re blushing because you touched Sal’s hands? Not his body. His hands.”

She shifts in her chair and shrugs. “Well, Addy, if you don’t get it . . . ”

“Fucking forget it,” I complete Kira’s age-old mantra, laughing. It’s her classic response when she’s sick of explaining how she perceives something that she’s never seen before, and I’m failing to picture it.

“But gosh, it must be . . . interesting.” A part of me envies her heightened senses and her ability to feel so much more from physical touch and sounds.

“You have no idea, babes.” She giggles as if in on a private joke.

As our laughter mingles with the gentle splashing of the pool, I watch Sophie again, marveling at her strength and endurance. I’ve lost count of the number of her laps—she must be on the fiftieth or sixtieth by now.

“She’s so strong, isn’t she?” I murmur, more to myself than to Kira.

“Sophie, you mean?” Kira nods in agreement. “Yeah. Makes you wonder what you might be like in the next few months?”

I down the rest of my drink. “Well, I already walk like a duck. So it’s not hard to imagine what I’ll be like when I’m as big as a whale.”

Kira sputters into her drink then quickly wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Trust me, Addy, you don’t walk like a duck. I’ve heard your footfalls, and . . . it’s sexy.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right. I call bullshit on that, Kira.”

Kira’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Okay, fine. I’m blowing smoke. But I happen to know that Dante likes it.”

The sound of his name triggers a familiar rush of longing and heat blooming in my chest. “Dante told you he likes how I walk?”

Kira leans back in her chair, crossing her legs. “No. Dante doesn’t tell anyone anything. Sal does, though. He thinks Dante is obsessed with you. Like dark and twisted, I’ll burn the whole world to keep you safe, obsessed.” She pauses, her head tilting to the side. “Speaking of, how do you like it? Being here, I mean?”

I take in a deep breath, the scent of chlorine mingling with the fragrance of nearby orchids. I tilt my head back to watch the rays of the afternoon sun streaming through the skylights, casting a warm glow on the polished marble floors. My gaze then drifts to the glass walls that look out to the manicured gardens and to the gallery above the entrance that provides a breathtaking view of the poolside from the mansion’s second floor.

“It’s unbelievable,” I marvel. “The Vitellis sure know how to treat a girl to luxury.”

Kira nods, her dark hair catching the light. “Good. Because I don’t think your baby daddy will ever let you go, Addy. Just saying.” She adds with a note of finality.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Dante has made that fact crystal clear. I’m never going back. The thought of that triggers a panic inside me every time I think about it. “Speaking of daddies, has . . . has my dad been in touch?” I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral.

Kira’s brow furrows, her fingers drumming against her glass. “Surprisingly, not yet.”

“You don’t think he knows we came to Chicago together, do you?”

Kira frowns in thought. “I don’t think so. Otherwise, he would have contacted me to find out what happened . . . for closure, you know?”

Or that he already knows I didn’t die. My heart lurches with hope that my father has realized that I’m alive, so the Mob won’t wage war against us . . . I catch myself immediately.

Us? Really? Since when did you become a member of the Outfit?

“There’s something else, Addy.” Kira traces the edge of the nearby stool and then puts her cocktail down. “Tommy Martelli is dead.”

“What?” I sit up straight. The lounge chair creaks under my sudden movement.

Kira’s hazel eyes are fixed somewhere over my left shoulder. “Why’re you surprised? I told you he was a dead man.”

A chill runs through me despite the warm sun on my skin. “Did . . . Dante kill him?”

He didn’t say anything to me. Not that I expect him to come home bearing a list of everyone he’s un-alived.

Thing is, I wouldn’t mind if he did.

“No, Dante didn’t have to lift a finger because Tommy died of natural causes. A heart attack. During sex, no less.” Kira’s voice is steady and matter-of-fact, but her face has an assessing look.

“Oh, come on Kira,” I scoff. “You expect me to believe he just keeled over and died?”

“No, I expect you to believe that he had an autopsy.” Kira’s face remains impassive, but there’s a slight quirk on her lips.

As the pieces click into place, I feel a strange mix of horror and dark fascination.

I tilt my head slightly, arching an eyebrow. “Autopsy huh? I’m sure they found he had clogged arteries and leaky valves. And he also smoked like a chimney. He also had traces of cocaine in his blood. I bet he’d just gotten high on coke and then fucked a twenty-year-old hooker. A classic case of a heart attack waiting to happen.”

“Yep. We can’t argue with a coroner’s report.” Kira’s face breaks into a beaming smile.

“Just like you can’t argue with my obituary,” I murmur.

The same way you can’t argue with gravestones and family photos.

“Exactly.” Kira nods solemnly. “My tribute to you was particularly moving, if I do say so myself.”

There’s a beat of silence before we start to laugh.

Maybe Dante is right. Maybe this is my world, and I just haven’t been living in it.

We’re still chuckling when the rhythmic splashing ceases as Sophie pulls herself out of the pool, water streaming off her athletic form.

Her black one-piece clings to her curves, emphasizing the swell of her baby bump. She pads across the cool tiles, leaving wet footprints in her wake, then reaches for a plush towel from a nearby rack and settles onto the edge of the lounge chair next to mine.

I shift on my lounge chair, the leather creaking softly as I prop myself up on my elbows. “Sixty laps, and you’re not even breathing hard,” I say, watching as she dries off.

She leans back, supporting her weight on her arms, and turns her face toward me with a smile. “Says the woman who goes on a five-mile walk every morning.”

I laugh, dropping back onto my chair and draping an arm over my eyes. “That’s just to keep my muscles from stiffening up. Doctor’s orders.”

After a few minutes, the barman approaches. “ Signora Vitelli,” he says warmly, “your usual?”

Sophie sits up slightly, smiling at the bartender. “You know me too well, Diego. Yes, please.”

Diego nods and retreats to the bar. Sophie, Kira, and I chat idly, the conversation flowing easily between us until Diego returns, carrying a silver tray balanced expertly in one hand. He places it on the small table between our lounges with a flourish. It’s laden with an array of exotic fruits and a gleaming curved knife.

“ Grazie, Diego,” Sophie says, reaching for the knife. It’s our daily routine now; her laps, followed by the platter of fruits while I pepper her with questions and get a little more spellbound by this life.

Sophie and Kira continue to chat, but I don’t hear them anymore. I’m too engrossed with what Sophie is doing with the knife. She spins the knife this way and that, then peels and slices a dragonfruit with an expertise that doesn’t strike me as natural. Normal people shouldn’t be able to handle knives like that. You should need to study under a guru for that kind of skill.

“Coming, Mama!” My friend rises from her chair, her smart cane unfolding with a soft click. She navigates around the chaise lounges, the cane tapping rhythmically against the floor. Kira always uses her cane as an extra precaution when she’s outside the house. She pauses by my side to squeeze my hand briefly, then does the same to Sophie’s shoulder before continuing toward the house.

As Kira’s footsteps fade, Sophie turns to face me fully, weighing a large mango in her palm. “Do you miss your old life, Addy?”

I answer without thinking, “Yes,” but then I have to ask myself what exactly my old life was. A job I tolerated, a family built on lies, and a constant feeling of not quite fitting in. I realize with a start that none of it was real.

“I miss my blog,” I admit more truthfully. “And I wish I could confront my dad. But the rest? Not really. It feels surreal, like waking up from a dream I didn’t know I was having.”

“You’ll be alright, Addy.” Her voice rings with the same conviction Dante exudes.

“Sophie, Dante told me about Orlando De Luca,” I blurt out. “He’s supposed to be my real father.”

Sophie’s hands pause, the knife hovering mid-slice, then she resumes her work. “And how does that make you feel?”

When the only father I’ve ever known turns out to be something completely different, I’m bound to think fathers are overrated. Still, there’s a desire in me to know who I really am and where I come from. Unsure of how to answer, I just shake my head and watch the wicked-looking blade dance across the fruit, mesmerized by Sophie’s dexterity.

“Are you good with . . . other weapons too?” I deflect, because asking if she knows how to use a knife just sounds silly.

A small smile plays on Sophie’s lips. “I am,” she simply says, a wealth of unspoken words in that admission.

“Like guns?”

Sophie sets the fruit down and faces me. “Those too.”

My heart races as I voice the question that’s been burning inside me. “How do you do it, Sophie? How do you cope with loving . . . being married to someone like Nico?”

Sophie’s smile is almost relieved, as if she’s been waiting for this question. “At first, it felt like I was being dragged back into the hell I was running from. But once I stopped running, I realized something crucial.” She leans forward, her voice firm. “Nico is my home, Addy.”

Wow. I’ve never quite heard it put that way before. “And what about your family? Do they approve of your husband?”

Sophie’s eyes twinkle. “Oh, they love Nico.” She pauses for a beat, her smile getting wider. “Or should I say, they would love to hate him.”

“But they don’t?”

She shakes her head. “No, they don’t. Well, except for maybe my brother, Cade. I think he truly hates Nico’s guts.” She takes a slice of her mango and chews thoughtfully while I gape, intrigued by her family dynamics.

“Your brother hates Nico?”

“He hates Dante too. But the feeling is quite mutual, so they’re all on the same page, which, when you think about it, isn’t such a bad thing.”

“Is it because of who—what Nico and Dante are?”

Sophie inclines her head as if to gauge my reaction to her next words. “That’s only half of it. It’s mainly because of who Cade is. He’s an FBI agent. Specializes in dismantling organized criminal syndicates.”

My eyebrows fly to my hairline, and my mouth opens in an ‘O.’

“And how the hell does that work for family gatherings?”

“It doesn’t work,” Sophie chuckles. “Put them in a room together, and within seconds, it lights up like the Fourth of July. They think they want to kill each other when what they really want to do is hug each other so bad.”

I huff out a nervous laugh. “That’s interesting. But are Nico and Dante . . . safe? From government scrutiny, I mean.”

Sophie just winks and says cryptically. “As someone who has loved and lived with each of those men, respectively, I can promise you that behind the guns and badges, they’re exactly the same people.” She pauses, reconsidering her words. “Actually, Cade might be worse than them.”

My brows arch in surprise. “What do you mean worse?”

Sophie sighs. “Why spoil the surprise when you’ll get to meet him yourself soon enough?”

Sophie has just opened up a whole can of questions about who her brother is, but before I can launch into it, the pool’s ambient music shifts, transitioning from soft jazz to a familiar heavy metal rock.

Sophie’s eyes light up, her head bobbing slightly to the beat. “Ah,” she murmurs, smiling. “Sounds like Dante’s back.”

“How do you know that?”

As if summoned by her words, I feel a shift in the air, a prickle along my skin. I turn toward the door, my breath catching in my throat.

Dante appears in the doorway, tall, broad, and imposing. His damp hair falls loosely, framing his gorgeous face, while his torso remains bare save for a towel slung around his neck. His body—God, his body—a mesmerizing tapestry of corded muscles and ink, looks like a sin I’d gladly commit.

“Adele,” he growls softly, his voice carrying across the poolside. My name rolling off his tongue feels like a long, slow lick between my thighs.

The world narrows, and everything fades except for him.