“He outplayed you,” I say bluntly. “I watched the whole thing.”

I’ve taken a couple steps closer, so I’m right behind Nero. The other players are rooted to their seats, not wanting to make a sound in case the Russian turns his rage on them. Even Maggie the Mouth keeps her yap shut for once.

“He’s too young to play,” one of the other Bratva spits.

“You didn’t care about that when you took his buy-in,” I say.

“What’s done is done,” the dealer says, raising his hands. “Let’s just pay out and shut down the game for the night.”

It’s the wrong thing to say—he’d be better off offering Siberia another buy-in. Still, with my bulk blocking the doorway, the Russians have to let it go.

Not without one last dig, however.

“Shit play wins today,” Siberia sneers.

Nero narrows his eyes. He doesn’t care if they call him a cheater—but unskilled? That’s too much.

In a thick KGB accent, Nero scoffs, “You want a cookie, fat baby?”

The Bratva rush at him.

I flip the whole table over, flinging it aside like it’s cardboard. Chips scatter in every direction, rolling across the floor. I jump between Nero and the Russians, grabbing the first one and throwing him over onto the upended table.

Behind me, I hear the snick of Nero’s switchblade opening up. Whoever frisked him didn’t do a very good job. Or more accurately, they’d have to use a full-body MRI to find something that Nero wants to keep hidden.

Siberia and the other Russian hesitate.

Footsteps thunder down the stairs and Zalewski bawls out, “Knock it off, all of you!”

He heard the ruckus of the table flipping over, and the Russian flying across the room. Now he’s down in the basement, red-faced and furious.

“No fucking fighting at my game!” he howls. “Get out, all of you!”

“Not without my chips,” Nero says stubbornly.

I’d like to strangle my brother myself at this point.

Instead, I jerk my head at the dealer, to tell him to pick up the chips.

When he’s scooped up what looks like $20k, I say, “Cash him out.”

The dealer looks at Zalewski. He nods curtly.

The dealer opens the lockbox and counts out the bills. He hands them to me, and I stuff them in my pocket.

All the while, the Russians are watching with their pale, furious eyes.

“We’ll meet again across the table,” Siberia says to Nero.

“No you fucking won’t,” I tell him.

And with that, I haul Nero back up the stairs.

13

Simone

Even though I’m dreading telling my parents about Dante, I sit them down that same night, as soon as we’re done eating. I would have liked Serwa to be there too, but she was tired and went to bed early.

“Mama, Tata,” I say, “I have something to tell you.”

My mother looks expectant. My father is frowning—he doesn’t like surprises.

I take a deep breath. “I met someone. We’ve been dating a couple of months now.”

Mama smiles. She looks pleased, like she already expected this. “It’s Jules, isn’t it?” she says. “I saw his mother at brunch last week, and she said—”

“It’s not Jules,” I interrupt.

“Oh.” Her smile fades, but not all the way. She thinks it must be some other boy from Young Ambassadors, or a friend of Emily’s.

“His name is Dante Gallo,” I say. “He’s from here. From Chicago.”

“Who is he?” my father asks at once.

“He’s, well, uh . . . his family works in construction. And the restaurant business . . .” I say. I’m trying to list the least-offensive of their professions.

My father isn’t fooled for a minute.

“Is that who you’ve been sneaking out to see?” he barks.

“Yafeu, why are you—” Mama says.

“Don’t think Wilson hasn’t told me,” my father says, not taking his eyes off me. “He drops you off at the library, and you call him six hours later. You disappear from dinners and parties . . .”

“I didn’t realize I was under surveillance,” I say coldly.

“Sneaking out?” Mama says, frowning. “I really don’t see—”

“What are you hiding?” my father demands. “Who is this man you’re seeing?”

I’m sweating and my stomach is rolling over and over. I hate this. But I’m not going to cry or throw up—not this time. I have to stay calm. I have to explain.

“He’s a good man,” I say firmly. “I care about him . . . very much. I didn’t want to tell you about him because I knew what you’d think.”

“What?” my father says with deadly calm. “What would I think?”

“His family has . . . a criminal history.”

My father swears in Twi.

My mother is staring at me, wide-eyed.

“You can’t be serious, Simone . . .”

“I am. I’m very serious.”

“You’ve become infatuated with some . . . some malfaiteur?”

“He’s not like that,” I say.

I didn’t want to lie anymore, but I don’t know how to explain what Dante is, actually. He’s strong, he’s bold, he’s intelligent, he’s passionate . . . I hate to hear him described in the awful terms my parents are using. But at the same time, I can’t exactly claim that he’s innocent, that he’s never broken the law . . .

“I want you to meet him,” I say, in the firmest tone I can muster.

“Out of the question!” my father scoffs.

“Wait, Yafeu,” my mother says. “Maybe we should—”

“Absolutely not!” he says. Turning to me, he orders, “You’re not going to see this man again. You’ll block him on your phone, you’ll give his name and description to the staff, and from this moment on—”

“No!” I cry.

My parents fall silent, staring at me in shock.

I don’t think I’ve ever told them ‘no’ before. I’ve definitely never shouted.

Heart racing, I say, “I’m not going to stop seeing him. Not before you’ve even met him. You can’t say anything about him now when he’s a stranger. You don’t know him like I do . . .”

My father looks like he wants to shout something back at me, but Mama puts her hand on his arm, steadying him. After a moment, he takes a breath and says, “Fine, Simone. You’ll invite him here for dinner.”

Even Mama looks surprised at that.

“Dinner?” I say.

“Yes,” he presses his lips together in a thin line. “We’ll meet this man who’s insinuated himself into my daughter’s heart. And we’ll see exactly what sort of person he is.”

Blood is thundering in my ears. I can’t believe he’s agreeing. It seems like a trick. Like the other shoe is about to drop.

But my father doesn’t say anything else. He waits for my response.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “I’ll invite him tomorrow night.”