Emilia (Part 1)(31)

“See you next week.”

I jogged down the steps of her building, a blast of cold afternoon air hitting my cheeks like a slap to the face. I immediately spotted Sal’s car idling next to the raised curb. I ducked under a barren tree limb, opened the car door, and practically flung myself into his lap. I buried my nose in the starched collar of his shirt, sucking his scent into my lungs. Nothing smelled better than him.

“I missed you,” I mumbled against his neck.

He angled my face upward and captured my lips in a kiss that made me wish we were anywhere but sitting in his car on a busy street in the middle of Brooklyn. With every brush of his lips and swirl of his tongue, the steady hum of traffic and horns faded into nothing. I wanted to crawl inside of him. Needy sounds tumbled from my mouth, and I would have been embarrassed if I didn’t believe he felt the same way.

“It’s only been seventy-five minutes since I dropped you off.”

“I know, but Mrs. Vitali was riding me about wasting my potential and not trying anymore.”

He steered the car into traffic. Instead of going straight home after a twenty-minute detour spent kissing Sal per our routine, I was supposed to meet Lettie for dinner. I wished I could cancel on her last minute and spend the next two hours at Sal’s house, but he concluded it was too risky. He was right. Lettie was a shameless gossip. She used it as currency to build her relationship with the other wives in the Family. Unfortunately for her, it never worked. They ate up her dirty secrets and ignored her five minutes later. When I tried to explain it to her from my perspective, she didn’t care. She was desperate for the acceptance since she’d never get it from her husband or her family.

“I kind of agree with her, ya know? You can’t give up on your dream. You don’t know what’s gonna happen. A lot could change in the next few months.”

His voice trailed off, and I could tell he was thinking about Marcello’s impending visit.

“I’m not going to marry him regardless what my father does or says.”

“I know you don’t want to, but what you want might not matter,” he said with his casual pragmatism.

Fear pumped through my body as I debated if I should tell him the truth. I took a deep breath and rubbed my hands over the buttery leather upholstery beneath me. I’d been on the fence about confiding in him for weeks, and now I wanted to blurt it out so I could stop speculating about his reaction and whether he’d support me. I held back though. I always held back. Call it survival instinct or fear. Either way, I didn’t fully understand it.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I replied, chickening out. “My dad agreed to let me do something social, so I’m going to be happy instead of worrying about tomorrow.”

He pulled over in front of a fire hydrant. “Is this the restaurant?”

I scrolled through my phone to double check the text from Lettie earlier this morning. “Yep. This is it.” I paused. “Oh wait, I guess she couldn’t get reservations. I’m supposed to meet her at the park across the street, and then we’ll check out a few places from there.”

“You’re not wandering around alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with Lettie.” I dropped my phone in the cup holder and retied the laces of my boots. I needed a new pair. The toes were scuffed, and the laces were frayed. My dad had filled my closet full of heels and flats, thinking I’d bend to his demand to dress like a lady. I couldn’t do it because somehow the boots had come to represent my metaphorical resistance to him.

“Lettie has her head up her ass half of the time. You’d probably be better off walking the city alone than with her. She invites trouble into her life.”

I unclipped my seat belt and cracked open the passenger door. “I don’t get it. Why does everyone hate Lettie so much? I feel sorry for her. She was forced to marry Pietro. Her family barely talks to her, and everyone acts like she doesn’t exist at parties. I swear I’m the only one who made any effort to get to know her.”

“There’s a good reason for that.”

“So you don’t like her either?” I drummed my fingers on my leg. “You lived in her house for nearly a year. She said you were somewhat friendly with each other.”

He glanced out the window, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “She’s a bad influence, and I’d bet my life she doesn’t have good intentions when it comes to you.”

“Oh, please. You sound like my dad. He warned me away from being anything more than friends with you, and I didn’t listen. You know why? Because I’m loyal.”