I can feel Aida watching me, observing my reaction to her brother. I wish I could keep my face as still and stony as Dante’s.

“Come on!” Aida says abruptly, grabbing my arm. “Let’s go say hi!”

I don’t have a choice. She drags me over to Dante, with a surprisingly strong grip for someone who is smaller than me and already carrying another human along everywhere she goes.

She practically shoves me right into him, saying, “Hey, brother! It’s me—your one and only sister. Just wanted to show you I’m alive, since you forgot to check on me.”

“I saw Cal pull you off the stage,” Dante says gruffly.

He’s not looking at me. But I can feel the tension between us—thick and electric. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I’m terrified for him to turn and face me. And yet I can’t stand being ignored by him.

“You remember our friend Simone, don’t you?” Aida says.

“Aida,” Dante says in a growl so low that it’s more like a vibration. “Quit fucking around.”

Aida ignores him.

“Simone was just saying how much she loved this song, and how she wanted to dance. Why don’t you take her out for a spin, big brother?”

I don’t know how she has the balls to say it, blocking him from getting away while Dante looks angry enough to swat her out of his path with one swipe of his arm.

He turns his glare on me, like I might have actually said I wanted a dance partner.

I try to stammer out a denial, while Aida talks right over me. “Go on! I know you remember how to dance, Dante.”

To my surprise, and without my agreement, Dante puts one huge hand around my waist and pulls me onto the dance floor. It’s the first time he’s touched me in nine years. I can feel the heat of his hand through the thin material of my dress. I can feel the calluses on his palm.

I remember how strong he is. How easy it is for him to pull me into position.

But he never used to be this stiff. I might as well be dancing with a statue. No part of us is touching, besides my hand in his, and his other hand on my waist. He’s looking straight ahead, over my shoulder. His mouth looks grim and angry.

It’s torture being this close to him, yet with so much space between us.

I can’t stand this. I can’t stand being hated by him.

I try to think of something to say—something, anything. Everything I think of seems ridiculous.

How have you been?

What are you up to these days?

How’s your family?

Dante seems equally stumped. Or he prefers silence. The song plays on, melancholy and slow.

I don’t think he’s going to speak to me—we’ll finish out this dance in silence, then part ways.

Then, as if the words pain him to get out, Dante says, “Do you actually love this song?”

“I don’t know it,” I whisper.

I’d been too tense to even pay attention. I look up at the stage now.

The girl is singing softly into the microphone. The song is simple, with a slight country flavor. Her voice is low and clear above the acoustic guitar. She whistles the bridge, pursing her lips and making a sound like a Woodlark.

July – Noah Cyrus (Spotify)

July – Noah Cyrus (Apple Music)

“It’s called ‘July,’ ” Dante says.

We met in July. I don’t know if he means to remind me of that, or if he’s just making small-talk because he doesn’t want to say anything else to me.

My chest is burning like I’ve been running miles instead of slowly dancing.

I can smell Dante’s scent, powerfully masculine. He’s not wearing the same cologne he used to, but the smell of his skin is the same—heady and raw. I can see his slabs of muscle shifting beneath his heavy suit jacket. He’s a better dancer now. But there’s no enjoyment in his body, or on his face.

God, that face . . .

The dark shadow all along his jaw, visible even when he’s cleanly shaved. The deep cleft in his chin. His black eyes, the darkest and most fierce I’ve ever seen. His thick, dark hair that looks wet even when it isn’t, combed straight back from his brow.

I want him. Just as badly as ever. Even more . . .

It’s like that desire was growing and spreading inside of me all this time, without me even knowing. All the time that I thought I was getting over him . . . I never let go at all.

I can feel hot tears pricking my eyes. I blink rapidly to get rid of them. I can’t let him see me like this.

Dante clears his throat. Still not looking at me, he says, “I read about your sister. I’m sorry.”

I make a strangled sound that’s supposed to be something like, “Thank you.”

“They said you adopted her son.”

Everything slows down around us. The strings lights are a blur of gold. The wood-paneled walls slide by in slow motion. I can tell the song is about to end, but the last bars seem to be drawing out forever.

I could tell Dante the truth right now.

I could tell him that Henry is his son.

But two things are stopping me:

First, I have no idea if Dante is still embedded in the Italian mafia. I’m guessing he probably is. No matter how his business might have grown in the last nine years, I doubt he’s cut out every trace of his former employment or rid himself of his ties to the criminals of Chicago. He’s as dangerous a man as ever—probably even more so.

And the second, more cowardly reason . . .

Dante will be furious when he finds out.

When I first left, I thought of the baby as mine alone. Mine to protect, mine to care for. I thought it was my right to take my child to another country, to a safer life.

But when Henry was ripped out of my arms at the hospital, I began to think differently. Every time I missed a moment of his life because I was working—a first step or an early word—I realized how much Dante was missing, too.

Hiding my pregnancy was awful.

Hiding my son was unforgivable.

So I can’t tell the truth about Henry, because I’m scared. Scared of Dante.

I find myself nodding stupidly. Behaving as if Henry really is my nephew. Continuing my lie because I don’t know what else to do.

The song comes to an end, and Dante releases my hand.

He gives me a little nod, almost a bow.

Then he walks away from me without another word.

And I’m standing there, miserable and alone, every cell of my body yearning for the man disappearing into the crowd.

28

Dante

Why did I dance with her?

Goddamn Aida for sticking her nose in where it doesn’t belong.

I’m used to my sister’s complete disregard for other people’s boundaries, but this time she went too far. She knows that Simone is off-limits, in every conceivable way. I don’t talk about her. I don’t even think about her.

But that’s not really true, is it?

I think about her every fucking day, one way or another.

Why hasn’t that ever gone away?

After she left, I think I went mad for a while. I saw Simone everywhere—on street corners, in restaurants, in cars that passed. Every time I’d turn my head, thinking it was really her, only to realize it was a stranger. Someone who didn’t actually look like her at all.