Chapter 2

Like he's afraid she'll say the word divorce again, my father snatches the papers out of her hand and throws them in the fireplace.

The paper curls. Blackens. Gone in three seconds.

He sighs—soft, the way he used to sigh when I was little and skinned my knee—and reaches out to smooth my mother's hair.

She turns her face away.

His hand hangs in the air for a long, ugly second. Then he yanks it back and his jaw locks.

"Tonight," he says, voice flat, "I'm taking Bianca to the Commission's annual gala. Give her your Bulgari set."

"No."

I'm already in front of the bed before my mother can speak.

"That's my grandma's. She left it to my mom. Nobody touches it."

Bianca's eyes well up on cue. The tears actually slide down her cheeks; I have to give her credit, she's good.

"Dante, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I'm not worthy of the Moretti family heirlooms." She presses a hand to her mouth. "It's okay. Just let them laugh at me. I'm used to it..."

My father's face goes to stone.

"Isabella. This is how you raised our daughter? Mouthing off, no manners, no respect for Bianca?" His voice drops. "Maybe Cleo should move in with Bianca. Learn some respect."

My mother's face goes white.

She pushes herself upright on the bed and puts herself between me and him.

"Take the jewelry. Take all of it. Don't touch my daughter."

Bianca's mouth twitches. For half a second, I see the smile she's trying to hide.

Then she wipes her tears and says, very softly, "Dante, I'm scared I'll embarrass you tonight. I'm just a club girl. I don't know how to act around those people."

She squeezes his arm. "What if Isabella came with us? As my maid? Just so I don't make a fool of myself."

The Don's wife. A maid. To his mistress.

In front of every family on the East Coast.

My father doesn't even hesitate.

"Done."

...

At sunset, they throw a grey servant's dress through the door.

I watch my mother peel off her silk slip and pull the cheap dress on. There's not a clean inch of skin on her back.

I'm crying before I know I've started.

She wipes my face with her thumb. Then she pulls something out from under her pillow and presses it into my palm.

A small gold cross on a thin chain.

"Cleo, baby. Listen to me."

Her eyes are clear for the first time in months.

"I'm not going to be here much longer. I need you to listen."

"Mama, don't—"

"Listen. When I'm gone, you take this cross. You get on a plane. You fly to Los Angeles. You go to Luca Moretti."

I know the name. The Don of the West Coast. The man who spoiled me rotten when I was little, who treated me like his own kid—until he and my father started hating each other for reasons nobody would explain, and he stopped coming around.

"Show him this cross. He'll know what it means." Her voice catches. "He'll keep you safe. He'll do it for me."

"I'm sorry I won't see you grow up, baby."

I close my fist around the cross so hard the edges cut my palm.

I know exactly how worn down she is.

She fought. God, she fought.

When Bianca first arrived, my mother put her in an apartment across town—a nice one, paid for, just not in our house. The next morning, my father called it jealousy. He made her walk barefoot down Fifth Avenue in a silk robe to bring Bianca home herself.

Six months ago, after the miscarriage, my mother came at Bianca with a kitchen knife. My father dragged her to the cemetery, stood her in front of my grandmother's grave, and told her if she touched Bianca again, he'd dig the body up and dump it in the East River himself.

Three days ago, somebody leaked Bianca's old videos from her stripper days to half the families on the coast.

My father decided my mother did it.

That same night, he had her drugged and locked in the basement with a dozen men who'd broken family code, and he let them have her until morning.

After that night, she stopped fighting.

I lean my forehead against her bony shoulder. I can feel every rib through her cheap dress, and I choke on a sob.

"Mama."