“I had a bath,” Aida says.

“When?”

“This week.”

“Liar.”

“I went swimming. That counts.”

“If there wasn’t any soap involved, it doesn’t count.”

It’s fascinating seeing this eighty-pound girl interact with Dante without a shred of fear. Actually, it’s clear that she adores him. She tells me how he took her to Six Flags and rode The Looping Demon four times.

“Weren’t you scared?” I ask her.

“I was more scared,” Dante says. “I don’t think those little cars were engineered with me in mind.”

“I did throw up,” Aida says cheerfully. “But not on anything important.”

I meet Dante’s brothers, too—Sebastian and Nero. Sebastian is only a little older than Aida, but already taller than me. He looks like a puppy with his big brown eyes, and his feet too large for his body. He’s shy and mostly leaves it to his brothers to answer any questions I ask him.

Nero’s a different creature entirely. He’s sixteen years old, and frankly the most terrifying of the bunch. He’s beautiful in a way that would be shocking on a grown man, let alone a teenager. But he’s fierce and moody, and deeply suspicious of me.

“Dante talks about you all the time,” I tell him.

“Really?” he says rudely. “Because I haven’t seen him in a month.”

“Take it easy,” Dante tells him gruffly.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I have been monopolizing you.”

“You live in that mansion on Burling Street?” Nero says.

“Yes.”

“Fancy. Does Dante wear a tux to visit you?”

His cool gray eyes are narrowed at me. I’m sure he knows that Dante hasn’t visited me there, ever.

Meanwhile, I’ve been to his house several times. I love it. It’s stuffed full of history and memories. Every scuff on the woodwork is from one of the Gallo siblings or an uncle or aunt that came before. It’s warm and personal, and just as lovely as the Burling Street mansion, in its own way.

Dante took me up to the roof where the fox grapes hung down heavy and fragrant from the pergola. He picked a few for me, and I ate them, sun-warmed and bursting with juice.

I even met Enzo Gallo, Dante’s father. I don’t know what I expected—a thug, I guess. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Enzo is cultured, polite. I can see he used to be strong like Dante, before age and sadness wore him down. Dante told me how Gianna Gallo died. I’m sure to a powerful man like Enzo, an unexpected illness must seem like the cruelest twist of fate—something completely outside his control.

Like Nero, Enzo is wary of me. I doubt I’m what he wants for his son any more than Dante fits my father’s expectations. We’re from two different worlds. Enzo seems to avoid the spotlight just as my father craves it.

One night, after I eat dinner with the whole family, Enzo pulls Dante into another room, and they’re gone for almost twenty minutes. I can hear the angry rumble of Dante’s voice, but not what he’s saying to his father. When he emerges a few minutes later, Dante is flushed.

“Let’s go,” he says to me.

As we drive away from the house, I ask him, “What happened?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head.

I lay my hand over his, feeling his pulse thudding through the raised veins on the back of his hand.

“You can tell me,” I say.

Dante looks over at me, eyes burning.

“No one’s ever going to take you away from me,” he says.

Bubbling up in him, I see that anger that he keeps locked down below the surface. Dante is so strong that I’m sure he learned early that he had to control his temper or he’d destroy everything in his path. But he’s still young, even if he doesn’t look it. I don’t know how long that control lasts.

“No one will,” I whisper.

He turns his hand over and squeezes mine, our fingers interlocked.

“Good,” he says.

The next night, Dante texts to ask if I can meet him.

I tell him that Mama’s making me go to a masquerade ball. It’s some fundraiser for Chicago charter schools.

He doesn’t text back, probably annoyed that it’s the third event this week that’s kept us apart.

I was already sick to death of fancy parties when the summer started. Now that I have Dante to distract me, they feel like pure torture. Every minute of the events, I feel like one half of a magnet pulled and pulled toward wherever I think Dante might be. The impulse to go to him is overwhelming.

I’m especially irritated when the doorbell rings. Or at least, I become irritated when Mama calls me down and I see Jules standing there. He’s peering up the staircase, smiling shyly and holding a bouquet of yellow lilies.

“I asked Jules to pick you up,” Mama says. “Since Wilson has the night off.”

I’m sure it’s no coincidence that she gave Wilson tonight off. It’s the perfect opportunity to shove me into a date.

There’s not really any way for me to refuse. Not now.

“Great,” I mutter. “I’ll finish getting ready.”

“I’ll wait down here!” Jules calls up to me.

He’s wearing a pale gray suit with a silver mask pushed up on his head.

At least two or three galas a year are masquerade balls. Rich people love wearing masks. It’s a tradition that goes back to Carnival in the Middle Ages. The reasons are obvious—in a strict society, a mask provides freedom. Your identity, your actions, even your facial expressions are free from the endless scrutiny that we usually endure. You don’t have to worry that you’ll be the subject of gossip the next morning, or an unflattering picture on social media. For once, you can do whatever you like.

I’ve never taken advantage of the mask before.

But even I feel a sense of relief slipping the gatto down over my face. It’s a traditional Italian mask, with a cat’s ears and eyes, painted gold and black.

My full skirt swishes around me as I walk. It’s more costume than gown, black with gold gems scattered across it like stars.

Jules swallows hard when he sees me.

“Wow!” he says.

I can’t help teasing him. “You only ever see me in dresses, Jules. I would think you’d be more surprised by a pair of sweatpants.”

Jules shrugs, laughing nervously. “I guess so,” he says.

“Don’t get into too much trouble, you two,” Mama says lightly.

Fat chance of that happening.

“Definitely not, Mrs. Solomon,” Jules assures her.

I follow him out to his car. It’s a Corvette, so low to the ground that I have a hard time getting into it with my huge puffy skirt. I kind of have to fall down into the passenger seat.

Jules closes the door behind me, careful of my dress.

I can tell he’s nervous, driving us over to the History Museum. We’re never really alone together, always meeting at social events, in public places. I want to tell him he can relax, because this isn’t really a date, but of course there’s no way to do that.

“Where did you go the other night?” he asks me.

“Hmm?” I was looking out the window, thinking about something else.