“Done,” I whispered.

We lay side by side and watched a girl fall in love.

One of us already had, and the other knew she never would.

I sat at the kitchen table, legs crisscrossed on the chair, watching a raindrop make its way down the windowpane.

“No, no, no!” Mamma tossed the wooden spoon on the island, having just tasted the red sauce Adriana had prepared. Mamma’s sweatsuit was purple today, and her hair was half-up like it always was. “Now you’ve gone and killed him.”

Adriana sighed, her expression tightening with frustration. “How have I killed him again already?”

“That sauce is so bitter he would keel over.”

Amusement filled me. The last pot of sauce, Adriana had taken too long and poor Nicolas died of starvation.

Mamma shook her head. “Incredibile. I don’t know how you went on this long not knowing how to cook una semplice salsa di spagetti. I should pull you from those classes you take and make you spend the time in the kitchen.”

Adriana leaned against the counter. A white apron covered her Hamlet t-shirt that was longer than her shorts, and a yellow bandana kept her hair back from her face. “Elena isn’t a good cook either.”

I frowned.

“Elena is not getting married in two weeks!”

The soft patter of rain hitting the windows filled the room, a quiet discomfort replacing any words. The need to ease the tension rushed over me. It was what I was good for, after all.

“I doubt she will kill the man, Mamma. If he can survive being shot a number of times like I’m sure he has, then he should outlive Adriana’s cooking.”

“Three times,” Adriana piped up.

My brows knitted. “What?”

“He’s been shot three times.”

“Mamma mia,” Mamma scolded. “Do not talk of such things.”

A certain interest ran over me, and, ignoring Mamma, I asked, “How do you know that?”

My sister’s sparkling gaze came my way. “I asked him last night.”

“You what? Adriana!”

I sat forward in my chair. “And he told you?”

“Well . . . not exactly. I asked him, and he only looked down on me like I was annoying him. But then Gianna, who was overhearing the conversation, told me three times.”

“Do you have a brain in your head? Why would you ask him something like that?”

Neither of us looked in Mamma’s direction. A smile pulled on our lips. We were now playing a popular game to see who could shock Mamma enough she’d storm from the room, berating us in Italian. It usually began with ignoring her a few times.

“Is Gianna his sister?” I asked, though I was 99 percent sure he was an only child. She could have been a cousin, but somehow, I knew she wasn’t.

Adriana laughed. “No. Stepmother.”

My jaw dropped. “She’s younger than him!”

“A year,” Adriana confirmed.

“My God. Can you imagine sleeping with a man more than twice your age?”

“Elena!”

Adriana’s gaze widened. “You think she had sex with his papà?”

“Stop with this talk.”

I pursed my lips. “Well, they were married. They at least had missionary—”

“Basta!” Mamma headed for the door, tossed her apron on the counter, and spewed Italian about her heathen daughters the whole way.

Our laughter filled the kitchen.

“I can’t believe she’s his stepmother,” I said, before adding, “Or, was.”

“I know.” Adriana stuck her finger in the sauce and tasted it, grimacing. “But I don’t think they have a mother-son relationship.”

“No,” I said, “more like the other way around.”

Adriana shook her head. “No, not like that either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I would bet my entire costume collection they’ve slept together.”

My eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yep,” she said, wiping the island down.

My sister was usually quiet, blending into the background at parties and events, but that only made her skilled at reading people—when she took the time or cared about doing it, anyway. She was probably right. How very . . . blasphemous. Though, I wouldn’t have expected much else from the boss.

I hopped off my chair, headed to the pot on the stove, and tasted a little from the wooden spoon. Bitterness exploded in my mouth. “Wow, that’s, um . . .”

Adriana laughed while struggling to reach a cup on the top shelf. She hopped and growled when she still couldn’t get it. She turned around, giving up, her gaze narrowed.

“Benito and Dominic are downstairs,” I told her. “They’re probably hungry.”

“Why would I care—?” She paused. Understanding filled her eyes and then she pushed off the counter. “I’ll go tell them lunch is ready.”

Red and orange streetlights blurred beyond the drips of rain running down the glass. The sky was dark, pretending to be night when it was only six o’clock on a summer’s day.

Benito’s phone flashed and buzzed in the console, again. Ironically enough, Benito reminded me of Manny Ribera from Scarface, in looks and personality. I could count on him flirting with at least one woman everywhere we went, like clockwork.

“Read it, Elena.”

“No,” I protested. “The last time I did that I saw something I didn’t want to see.”

“Then don’t bitch at me for checking it.”

Ugh. I reached forward and read it. “From ‘Blonde Angela.’” I didn’t blink twice to see that he had to mark his female contacts by more than their names, probably because there were simply too many. He wouldn’t want to mix them up. “I don’t want to see you anymore,” I read blandly and set the phone back in the console before a “goodbye” picture could be received.

His brows furrowed with one hand on the wheel. He wore black pants and a white dress shirt, no tie. It was a casual day for him. There was a high possibility he took longer than me to get ready in the mornings.

Mamma and Papà had a dinner planned with one of my father’s connections, and I’d told Nonna not to worry about coming because of the rain falling like it never had before. So, it was just Benito and me, and he would only drop me off like he usually did, before driving to whatever girl’s house in the meantime. Not Angela’s now, though.

My cousin sighed and ran a hand through his dark, gelled-back hair. “As a woman, Elena, how would you interpret that text?”

I paused. “Well, I think it means she doesn’t want to see you anymore.”

“And that includes sex?”

“Yep.”

He frowned. “Dammit.”

“Double-Ds?”

“Yeah,” he said sadly.

I copied his tone. “Shame.”

He pulled up to the curb outside the theater, reached across me, and pushed the door open. “Go kill it, cuz. Be back at nine.”

“Thanks.” I hopped out of the car and grabbed my duffel bag from the backseat.

“Elena.” Benito’s expression was serious as he leaned over and stretched his arm across the passenger seat headrest. “You think her text applies to oral, too?”

I rolled my eyes. “God, you’re disgusting.”

He grinned. “Break a leg!”

With my bag over my shoulder, I headed inside and said hello to a few other dancers on the way. It wasn’t a large theater, but it was upscale—like my papà would ever allow me to dance in a hole in the wall. Sparkling lights, cream walls, and gold and red accents. It was a beautiful auditorium. I loved the flash of it all: the makeup, the dress, the friendships I’d gained—as shallow as they were—but for me, dance was merely a great form of exercise. The small amount of passion I’d once held for it was fading away, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d continue with it.

A brush of air rushed over me, followed by a deep voice. “Say you’ll go out with me.”