The smell of gasoline fumes consumed the gas station. I tossed the now-empty can on the floor and grabbed a Zippo lighter off a shelf. Ironically enough, one with the ace of spades on the sides. I thought for a moment about the location and class of the joint. “Hartford?”

“Y-yeah.”

I placed a cigarette between my lips, a dark smile pulling on the corners. “The correct answer is you had insurance.”

“Wait,” he pleaded. “Fuck, I’m sorry. Let me apologize—”

His words became white noise in my head, a gurgling, annoying sound. Standing in front of the glass doors, I lit the cigarette between my lips. A cherry glowed at the end, and nicotine flowed through my blood.

With the lazy, autocratic stare I was known for, I told the wild-eyed, frozen clerk, “If you got a back door, you better find it.”

A breath of smoke from my lips and the clerk was gone, slipping on gasoline all the way to the back room. Before he reached it, I flicked my cigarette to the laminate, silently hoping David wasn’t quicker than he looked.

The bell dinged above my head as the old glass doors shut behind me. I slipped my hands into my pockets. Cool mist hit my face while the heat of a fire brushed my back.

The old Pronto lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.

“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.”

—John Keats

“PAPÀ, I’D APPRECIATE IT IF next time you would send anyone—anyone at all—but Nicolas to pick me up.”

I stood in my papà’s office doorway, my duffel bag hanging from my shoulder. As soon as Nicolas had pulled into the driveway and I’d seen my father was home, I’d hopped out of the car and came straight here.

I had already been humiliated enough by the incident. I wasn’t a girl who wanted to be saved or avenged. I just wanted to forget about it and put it behind me. But I couldn’t do that because Nicolas had burned the entire gas station down. There would always be charred remains—and possibly a body—reminding me. I’d never seen the cashier come out. Sure, he was a disgusting creep, but did he deserve to burn to death? My throat tightened.

Papà set his pen down and gave me his “I’m listening” expression for the first time in a long time. “And why is that?”

I crossed my arms, saying simply, “He’s psychotic, Papà.”

At that moment, my back tingled in awareness, and my father’s gaze coasted above my head. Apparently, Nicolas now came in and out of my house like he owned it.

I hadn’t said a word to him the rest of the drive home, though he’d hardly tried to instigate a conversation. Between him threatening me about Tyler, kind of kissing him, and watching the gas station light up in my side-view mirror as we drove away, I was more frustrated than I’d ever been.

That kiss had made me hotter for more than I’d ever felt before, and he hadn’t even touched me. I hated how it made me feel. How it made me realize that the man whose life I’d ruined was based on a meaningless, even passionless, motivation.

Papà’s brows rose when he took in my words, and then, surprisingly, he laughed. “Well, Ace, I’ve never heard such an accusation from my daughter. What do you have to say about it?”

Nicolas stood so close my ponytail brushed his chest. He had no boundaries, I noticed with annoyance, while at the same time I tried to ignore the heady pull to step backward until my back touched his front.

“The cashier groped her,” he said indifferently. “So I burned down his place of business . . . and maybe him.”

Papà’s gaze hardened. “Who’s stupid enough to touch my daughter?”

Oscar Perez, and every time you invite him over . . .

“A nobody now, if he even made it out.”

“Good,” Papà snapped. “Let’s hope he didn’t.”

I didn’t know why I had even tried.

“Nico, we need to talk if you have some time. Elena, go check on Benito in the kitchen and make sure he’s still alive.”

My eyes widened. “What?”

“He was shot tonight. Though, maybe you aren’t so concerned about that as you are about who drives you home.”

I frowned.

Turning around, I was frustrated enough with his barb that I forgot Nicolas stood so close. I bumped into him, and then braced my hand on his stomach to steady myself. Heat burned through his white dress shirt and into my palm. God, he was a furnace. My fingers unwillingly curled into the muscle before I stepped back.

“I’m convinced they should call you the Clumsy Abelli instead,” he said, annoyance coating his tone.

My gaze sparked. “Cute.”

A hint of a humoring smile pulled on his lips, but he only grabbed my wrist, pulled me impolitely out of his way, and then shut my papà’s office door behind him.

I shook off the tingling warmth left behind from his grip and walked down the hall toward the kitchen. It didn’t take long to realize that Benito was going to live. Pushing the swinging door open, I stopped in my tracks, a blank gaze taking in the horror show.

Benito leaned against the counter with a hand towel pressed to his shoulder, while Gabriella—who wasn’t even supposed to be here this late—kissed a corner of his lips, cooing something too low to hear. I imagined something like, “Poor baby.”

It was a little cringe-worthy, but that wasn’t the reason I turned around and headed back to my room. That’s because her hand was in his pants. My cousin was getting a handjob in the kitchen, and while it was seriously unsanitary, I didn’t have the energy to tell them to get a room.

Later, I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, at the lone glowing star left from years before. Because every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was fire reflected in an amber gaze.

Every time I closed my eyes, all I felt was the wrong man’s lips against mine.

“I told you we didn’t have to go, Benito.”

“I know, and I said it isn’t a big deal, Elena.”

I sighed and fell back in my seat. I’d been excited about the pool party, but after the night before, I wasn’t confident it was a good idea to spend any more time around Tyler. Especially now that I’d seen how easy it was for Nicolas Russo to destroy a man’s life in five minutes flat.

Urban development and eleven o’clock morning sun blurred through the car window as we sped uptown. Benito drove with his uninjured arm, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel to the beat, while singing along to How Deep Is Your Love by the Bee Gees. Typical behavior for him, but he’d been awfully quiet the whole drive . . . I watched him for a moment, a frown tugging at my lips.

“Are you on painkillers?”

His brows pulled together. “I only took three this morning.”

“You mean, like right before we got in the car. That this morning?”

“Yeah, with some orange juice.” He said it like that tidbit was important. I closed my eyes. Benito was high. He should’ve known those painkillers Vito supplied were in doses large enough for a horse, and he’d taken three.

I rubbed my temple. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

“And what?” he scoffed. “Let you drive? You don’t know how.”