Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)

Time races once we’re back in New York. Gone are the leisurely days soaked in sunlight and strolls down rustic streets. Old anxieties cramp around me, pushing me back into the familiar rut of panic, substances, and a few flashes of inspiration that quickly turn into disillusionment.

My only escape from the cycle is the few hours every evening that I spend with Gabriele at his apartment. Only moments ago, I finished licking my plate clean. The man might be in the mafia but his Pasta primavera rivals the legends.

I spy my phone screen lighting up from the corner of my eye.

I lie to my mother every day that I’m going out with friends. There’s no way I can tell anyone in my family about Gabriele yet.

Mom would have a heart attack, Ethan would pop a vein then kill Gabriele for touching me, Ella would be confused, and Elliot…I have no idea how Elliot will respond to all of this. He’s hard to predict.

“Don’t you have any friends?” Gabriele asks tonight, his head close to mine. The tantalizing brush of a lock of his hair against my skin sends a rush of blood down my spine. An obsessive craving begins its slow climb up my throat, reaching my lips, begging to be satisfied.

I meld my mouth to Gabriele’s. A short kiss. Just enough to keep me from drowning.

“I do have one friend. Her name’s Ella.”

“She must be a terrible friend,” Gabriele says. “You’ve been suffering alone all this time and she has never bothered to pay attention.”

Pain clusters around my mouth, paralyzing my muscles with guilt. “She’s not the terrible friend. That would be me. I’ve ignored her calls and evaded her messages for months now. I think she has just given up on me at this point.”

“Call her, then.”

My gaze skips up to his. “What, now?”

“No better time than the present.”

“We were supposed to have sex now.”

“We can have sex later.”

“I didn’t think you were so interested in my social life.”

“I can’t bear to watch a poor, friendless girl eating at my apartment.” He grabs my phone off the table and holds it in front of me. “Come on.”

The phone’s weight feels cool in my palm. My trembling fingers resist opening contacts and pressing Ella’s name though. She’ll definitely want to meet. And I don’t know if I can yet. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want you to try. You don’t have to avoid people forever. I won’t be around forever and you need other people who can support you.”

The way he drifts off is a sign. A bad omen I can’t ignore. Cold dread churns along with my stomach acid. “Are you going somewhere, Gabriele?”

“I’m going to get married.” The silence that follows his announcement punctures the air like a gunshot. All the saliva in my mouth dries up in shock. “Eventually, I mean. We’ll have to stop meeting. You should have someone else you can lean on.”

He gave me a heart attack there. I’m certain there’s something he isn’t telling me. Has he already found someone to marry? Is that why he’s preparing me to live without him?

I wish I could ask him but I can’t. I have no right when I’m an addict who can’t offer him anything. Marrying someone else would be the better option for him. I know it’s what he wants.

I told myself I wouldn’t stand in the way of his happiness. I really love my evenings with Gabriele and I pray they never end, but if that’s what he wants, I won’t take away his freedom.

“Okay. I’ll call my friend.” With a deflated downward slope of my shoulders, I give in. When he’s around me, I don’t feel as paranoid as I do when I’m alone.

I pick Ella from my contacts list.

She answers the phone in two rings.

“Hey, Francesca. I’m so glad you called me. I heard you went to Italy.”

“Ethan has been talking, I see.”

“How was your trip? You were with a friend, weren’t you?” There’s no disguising the sliver of disappointment in her voice. She’s my best friend, my only friend. But I never even asked her if she wanted to come. The last vacation I promised to take with her to London was a hoax. “Was it someone from your course?”

“Um…sort of,” I lie. Ethan definitely doesn’t know who my ‘friend’ is and I’d like to keep him in the dark for as long as possible. Given that Ella is his girlfriend, anything I confide to her will eventually find its way to him.

Damn it. Why didn’t I consider this complication when I was setting the two of them up?

“Francesca, are you okay? I didn’t want to egg you on because you have your exhibition coming up, but this isn’t normal. You’re avoiding me and I don’t know why. Is it because I’m dating Ethan? Are you uncomfortable—”

“No, it’s not because of that…” I trail off. Shit. I spoke without thinking. The truth may be far worse, but I can’t have Ella feeling bad about being Ethan’s lover. Given her sense of loyalty, it’ll kill her.

Gabriele’s hand engulfs me, his touch relaxing my tense shoulder.

I snap my head up.

Tell her. He mouths. Tell her the truth.

I shake my head, mouthing back, Are you crazy?

“You can’t lie forever.” This time, he whispers into the space between us. “If she’s your friend, she’ll understand.”

Oh my god, I’m not prepared for this. I’m nowhere near ready to open myself up and show my disgusting weaknesses to my best friend who thinks I’m perfect.

I admit it’s unfair. Ella confessed her worst demons to me six months ago. She tearfully revealed her scars and pains: about being sexually abused as a teenager, about her mother’s depression. She admitted to loving Ethan despite him wanting to keep their relationship a secret at the time.

I felt entitled to that confidence. As her friend, I even asked her why she hadn’t told me earlier.

I’m such a hypocrite.

Nerves dance in my belly. I can’t go all the way, but I have to take the first step or it’ll be unfair for Ella. Also, I think I’d feel better if I knew Ella was supporting me in my journey.

It’s just that I’m afraid she won’t once she hears the whole truth.

“Ella, I’m sorry for my behavior. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I hope I haven’t.” I put one word in front of another carefully. Gabriele leans back with a wide smile. “I’ve been struggling with something. I can’t tell you what it is, but it’s something big. Don’t worry, I have someone to help me.”

“What is it, Francesca?” Ella’s breaths are harried. She’s anxious, too. Oh my goodness, this is the reason I avoided telling her. She’ll push herself to exhaustion worrying about me now. “Why can’t you tell me?”

“Because you’d tell Ethan.”

“Ethan loves you. You’re his sister. He would never hurt you”

“Yes, but I want to get through this problem in my own way, at my own pace. Ethan will push me to conform to his standards, to do it how he wants me to do it. If he doesn’t get his way, he’ll tattle to Mom to force me to go with his plan. You know better than anyone that Ethan can be overprotective when it comes to the people he loves.”

“Okay, I won’t tell him.” Ella’s swallow is so audible I hear it through the phone. “I promise.”

I draw in a large gulp of air, steeling myself. The moment I release my greatest secret as sound, my chest lightens like a load has been lifted off me. “I can’t paint.”

“But…I don’t understand,” Ella stutters. “You turned in your commission for Hudson 241 a few days ago. You mean that wasn’t your work?”

“I’m not plagiarizing or using a ghost painter, if that’s what you’re worried about. I wish I had. It’d have saved me so much heartache.”

God, if only I’d talked to Ella before. She could have suggested the idea of having someone else paint for me. Though I hate cheating, it’d have been better than the months of endless despair and self-hate I’ve endured by forcing perfectionism on myself.

“What do you mean?” Ella probes. “What have you been doing Francesca?”

“Drugs.” I come out and say it. Gabriele’s watching me like a hawk. His slow nod of approval fills me with the courage to go on. “I’ve been doing coke, Ella. I need to be high to paint. Even then, I can barely cope. I’m scared. I’m scared I’m going to fail and lose my dreams before I ever have a shot at them. I’m scared I’m turning into someone I don’t know.”

The other end of the line is pure silence. The weight of my fear and my truth charges the atmosphere. Gabriele’s steady gaze is firmly fixed on me. That stability puts me at ease as uncertainty swarms me.

“Ella?” I call her name, my voice echoing.

“I’m here, Francesca. Don’t be afraid. We’ll figure something out. Can I come over to your place? I have to see you. Where are you right now?”

“I’m with my friend.” I debate over telling her about Gabriele, but decide I can’t say that over the phone. “Don’t worry. I’m fine. We can meet later. I have to tell you something else, too.”

“Where? When?” I can hear her knocking over something in her room. “I don’t have classes on Wednesday.”

“Let’s meet on Wednesday. At your place.” Mine would be risky with Mom hanging around. And a public place where anybody could hear us would be even worse.

“Sure. Will you be fine until then?”

“Ella, are you disappointed that I’m not as happy and perfect as you thought?”

“I never thought you were perfect. Nobody is. But I’m not disappointed in you, Francesca. I feel terrible that you’ve carried this burden all alone and I didn’t notice or help you. I don’t understand much about art, but I’ll try my best. I think Mom knows people who were addicts. Should I ask her?”

Ella’s mother, Hannah Faber, is an actress. Obviously, she knows a lot of people.

“No, don’t tell your mom. I want to keep this between us,” I say.

“I will.”

“Thanks, Ella. I’m tired so I’ll call you again later, but I’m grateful to you for listening to me.”

“You can call me anytime. I’m always at home reading books. You know that.”

“Yeah, have you read any good books recently?”

“Lots.”

We slip into the small talk before I hang up. Staring back at Gabriele, it’s like I just climbed a mountain.

“Your friend doesn’t seem bad,” he says. “But I didn’t know she was dating your brother.”

“I set them up,” I reply. “Without meaning to.”

He beckons me closer with a motion of his hand. I curl myself up on his lap like a cat, arms easily curving around his shoulders. “So how does it feel now that we’re not the only two people who know about your problems?”

“My head is clearer,” I admit. “I forgot how smart Ella was. How easy it is to feel comfortable around her.”

There are tremors in my heart that have no name. Treacherous sensations invade my stomach. It isn’t fear frothing over, threatening to spill. It’s like something has been released and my body is gradually adjusting to the new equilibrium.

The ever-present tightness in my chest has loosened.

“Gabriele, thank you for pushing me out of my comfort zone. I couldn’t have done it without…you.” The word love gets stuck in my throat like a pebble I accidentally swallowed.

You’re my sanctuary in the storm, my oasis in this unending darkness. 

I lied in Italy when I said the reason I couldn’t love was that art had drained every emotion from me. It doesn’t matter what my dream takes from me because he gives me back everything I’ve lost. Even when I’m empty, my emotions overflow at the warmth in his eyes, the smokiness of his voice, and the beauty of the invisible bond between us.

The reason I can’t beg him to be more than my muse is because I don’t deserve him.

It’d be selfish to make him pour any more of his time and energy into me when I might never get over this toxic cycle of ups and downs, highs and lows, hope and despair.

I may be a disaster, but I’m not heartless enough to drag Gabriele down this hellhole with me.

Our evening rendezvous continue the following weeks. It’s something I look forward to every day: relaxing at his apartment, eating the delicious food he makes, talking to him about my day, and hearing about his. Most of the time, we end up having passionate sex, but there are days when we simply enjoy the warm intimacy of each other’s bodies without needing to make it sexual. I enjoy those moments the most because they satisfy me more than the physical intimacy. I underestimated the soothing emotional effect spending time with someone I trust can have on my psyche.

And Gabriele is certainly living up to the hype as my muse, because the more time I spend with him, the more my productivity skyrockets. My spring thesis progresses better than expected in the run-up to the final exhibition. For the first time, I’m actually kind of excited about people seeing my art, even though my familiar friend anxiety is always quietly seething under the surface of my newfound confidence.

The fact that my projects are progressing splendidly adds a spring to my step. I hop along the crowded street.

Ever since we came back from Italy three weeks ago, Gabriele and I have settled into a routine. We meet at his apartment on weekday evenings to dine together unless he has something going on.

On Saturdays, we go out for lunch. I’m afraid to call these dates, but that’s exactly what they feel like. And it was Gabriele’s idea, too.

All my exes were rich so they wined and dined me at fancy places where I couldn’t let my hair down and had to always act perfect in case I ran into someone from my parents’ social circle.

Gabriele and I always come to this quaint Italian place in Little Italy near Chinatown.

The food at this family-run restaurant is fantastic and the table for two is small enough that our knees are smooshed against each other’s throughout. I luxuriate in the cozy realness of our relationship nowadays. In this place surrounded by regular people, in these moments plucked from ordinary days, Gabriele and I are simply another couple enjoying each other’s company.

Not criminal and civilian, nor an artist and crime boss, but two people.

“Your hair smells gorgeous.” He exhales at the top of my head as I arrive at the table he’s already waiting at, fingers rolling down the smooth wave of my hair.

These days, I get a pang of guilt when he touches me sweetly. Because my traitorous heart easily misinterprets his kindness as something more. A sharp longing edges between my ribs. Gabriele has my emotions confused with these dinners and dates and whatnot. I don’t believe he loves me or wants anything more than easy companionship with me but it’s easy to feel like he sees me as special when he lavishes so much of his time and attention on me.

The more of these sweet moments he gives me, the greedier I become. I want a whole lifetime of them.

But how long do I have left to bask in his warmth, to savor his rough touches and heady orgasms? Four weeks? Four months? He’ll at least come to see my painting at the spring exhibition, won’t he? It feels wrong for him to be missing. He was the sole reason I stayed on track and fought through my artist’s block.

“What’ll you be having today?” the waiter asks, trading a friendly grin with my partner. He knows Gabriele. I suspect he knows Gabriele’s profession, too but he simply doesn’t let that affect his view of Gabriele as a man. Or a customer.

“Pick for me,” I say.

“The same as me,” he informs the waiter.

When the waiter’s gone, I free my feet from my shoes. My toes climb up Gabriele’s muscled legs, kneading his thigh. “You know what I like about this place? The tablecloths are long enough to cover what’s going on under the table.”

Gabriele’s hand grabs my foot. “Not here.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I have something to tell you.”

“Nobody’s stopping you.” Taking a sip of wine that Gabriele ordered earlier, I rotate my head to the window.

“I’m getting married.” The bomb he has dropped makes no sound, but my chest convulses in pain as he goes on, “To a woman my boss picked. There’s no date for the wedding yet but it could be as soon as next month.”

The unspoken ending to that statement vibrates between us.

We’re breaking up in a few weeks. 

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear with sweaty fingers. The thumping of my heart is deafening. “Does…your fiancée know about me? Is meeting you here like this wrong?”

“Maria doesn’t mind me seeing you until the wedding but after that, we stop. Okay?”

Her name is Maria. She might be Italian, too. I wonder what she looks like if she’s prettier than me. Even if she isn’t, she must be a lovely person for Gabriele to have picked her.

He didn’t pick you. 

Nobody wants you. 

Worthless. 

The alcohol is too close at hand for me to resist. I drain the glass in minutes.

“Francesca, baby, don’t start drinking now.” He slams his hand down on my glass, making it impossible for me to lift it off the table. “I didn’t want to lie to you or keep you in the dark, but don’t make me regret telling you.”

“It’s too sudden,” I say. “When you asked me to eat with you and then asked me out to lunch, I thought we were more than friends. Don’t you feel that way?”

The old Gabriele, the one who was gruff and surly, would have denied his feelings with a snarky remark. But he’s no longer that man.

His shoulders sag in defeat. “I have no choice. I like you, Francesca. More than you can imagine. I would be more than your lover in a heartbeat if you tell me that’s what you want. But tell me honestly, do you think you can survive my world, a world where women stay at home and don’t pursue careers that could lead to them being seen, let alone famous? Is that the life you want? Because that’s the only future I can give you.”

Icy coldness seizes my chest, freezing all my hopes to nothing. Reality is a horrible, inescapable prison. I can’t refute a single point Gabriele has made. He’s right about everything. As long as he’s in the mafia, we cannot be together. This conversation is a dead end.

 “But,” I start, only to be cut off by him.

“You grew up safe and sheltered. No matter how naïve you are, baby, you must know that I have more enemies than teeth. Those men won’t hesitate to hurt you, kill you, or rape you. I protect you now, but there may come a time when I cannot. Can you promise me you won’t regret giving up your safe, comfortable life for one filled with violence and uncertainty?” He folds the napkin on the table, waiting for my answer. I have nothing for him, though. My heart desires nothing more than to be with Gabriele, but the life he’s describing doesn’t sound like me at all. He knows it, too. “You cannot give up on art nor do I want you to. You’ve fought for it, baby, and you must persevere even if I’m the one standing in your way.”

Even though he could easily threaten me to give up everything for him if he wanted to, he doesn’t. He values my art, my future, my goals. Most of all, the way his eyes widen suggests that he’s hoping—no, he’s predicting—that someday I’ll get all the success and validation I ever wanted. Does he think I won’t need him anymore when that happens?

Because he’s more than a muse to me. He’s a friend, a lover, a shoulder to cry on, and a man I respect and admire more and more every day. Yet all that will mean nothing if I can’t sacrifice my whole way of being for him.

The girl in me is weeping as I admit, “You’re right. How silly of me. There’s no way I will fit into your lifestyle.”

Gabriele executes a slow nod, but stuck in his eyes is a bead of hopelessness. “My place is in the mafia and yours is in high society among the rich and famous. The shadows won’t suit you. You’re too bright to hide.”

It’s depressing to think about our relationship ending. The food in my mouth, which was so delicious moments ago, now tastes like cardboard. But what other choice is there? I cannot sacrifice all the things that make me happy for him and he cannot leave the prison of organized crime.

I wipe my lips with the napkin, my other hand quivering on my thighs. “What kind of person is Maria, your fiancée?”

Why not torture me brutally while I’m at it? What have I got to lose at this point? I might as well satisfy my curiosity.

“Mature,” Gabriele replies. “Sensible.”

“That’s all?”

 He angles his head toward the windows. We seated right next to them, separated only by a thin wall from the street outside where loads of people walk up and down without any clue.

My blood freezes to ice when I spot the two masculine faces on the other side of the thin glass barrier. The first one exudes intimidation, a tapestry of sharp angles and brutal shadows framed by brown eyes and dark hair. The other is the exact opposite—a golden-haired, blue-eyed Adonis.

I would recognize those features in my dreams.

Ethan and Elliot—my brothers.

Ethan’s scowl is beyond angry, every muscle in his jaw tight. Malevolence lurks in his stormy gaze that’s pinned on Gabriele.

Elliot isn’t the type to love his younger sister in an overbearing way, so he’s grinning in amusement.

Panic stabs me.

“Um…how fast can you run?” I ask Gabriele, shaking my head at Ethan, silently pleading with him to not make a scene. That is a remote possibility given that Ethan gives zero fucks for other people’s opinions of him. He’s a control freak and massively overprotective. Family is everything to him, even though I’m only his half-sister.

“We’re not going anywhere.” I catch the bulge under Gabriele’s jacket when his palm covers it protectively. He’s packing a firearm. Probably a knife, too. “Nobody threatens you in my presence, Francesca.”

“Listen, my brothers, have spotted us.” I point a finger weakly at the two figures that just barreled into the restaurant. “That’s them.”

Gabriele scoffs. “Yeah, I see them alright. They won’t hold up in a fight.”

“No violence,” I warn Gabriele through gritted teeth. “I’m going to lie that we’re friends and you’re modeling for my painting.”

The infuriating man simply clicks his tongue. “Mr. CEO won’t buy that. He saw us disappear into the ladies’ room at the gala. Grilled me about it afterward.”

“Ethan saw what?”

“He knows what I do.”

“Your real job?”

“I have only one job, Francesca.”

Sweat pours down my forehead. I’m dead. I’m so dead. Can I pretend to faint? Dramatic as that sounds, it might be the only way out of this mess.

When Ethan aggressively marches into the café like he’s a crusader of justice, it’s not his ungodly height or strong musculature that grabs my attention, it’s the fact that he’s dressed in jeans and a sweater. I’ve never seen him in anything but a suit. He wears formal clothing every time he visits home because he always comes straight from work.

Every clap of his sneakers is like a gong of death as it approaches me. What will I tell him?

To prevent the situation from escalating, I rise out of my chair, jump to my feet, and wave my hands, feigning happiness I don’t feel.

Gabriele doesn’t miss my acrobatics. “When did this turn into a circus?”

Desperate, I consider texting Ella and asking her to distract her boyfriend with a text or pic or something. She’s Ethan’s only weakness. But we have barely started mending our relationship. It’s too early to demand favors. She’ll be confused if my first text is Your bf saw me with a guy and lost it. Calm him down before he turns us into tomorrow’s headlines.

“Francesca.” Ethan’s bellow is scary even from three meters away.

“Ethan, Elliot, strange seeing the two of you together,” I coo. “What brings you to this place?”

Elliot overtakes Ethan to fit me into a snug, brotherly hug. “We’re going to therapy to fix our relationship.” His teasing tone makes it hard to tell whether he’s serious or not.

Behind me, Gabriele snorts out a laugh.

Elliot sighs, peeling himself away. “Wish I was joking, man, but I’m serious.”

“You agreed to it?” I gasp at my older brother, who hovers over me like a statue carved from marble. His expression is stony like a gargoyle’s. Ethan likes talking about feelings as much as he likes cutting off his fingers one by one. I thought Ella would be the only one he opened up to, but maybe she has changed him for the better. What else have I missed about him in the weeks that I’ve avoided them?

How much have these two grown while I’ve decayed?

Ethan folds his arms over his chest, clearing his throat. “Elliot, don’t discuss family matters in front of strangers.”

“Isn’t he your boyfriend? Come on, Francesca, introduce us.”

“Hey guys, this is Gabriele…”

I lose my breath and my courage when Ethan gets right up in Gabriele’s space, his narrowed gaze blazing down like he wants to roast him alive. Tension explodes when he places a firm hand on Gabriele’s shoulder and the two engage in a silent war of hostility. If I was the nail-biting type, I’d have bitten all my nails off by this point.

“Gabriele Russo,” my brother drawls in the polished upper-crust Brooklyn drawl that all of us share. “I see you have taken my warning at the gala as a suggestion.”

The creases at the edges of Gabriele’s eyes indicate that he’s pissed. “Your threats couldn’t scare a rabbit.”

“I didn’t want to get the police involved,” Ethan says. “But if you want to play it like that, I’ll oblige you.”

“Go ahead.”

Ethan’s lips twist in an intimidating smile that acts more like an insult. “It’s true what they say about men in the mafia being too dumb to recognize that they can’t solve everything with violence.”

“Last time I checked Wikipedia, you hadn’t been to college, either.” Gabriele’s eyes glint with triumph as Ethan’s frown deepens. “From one high school graduate to another: check your attitude.”

As they volley insults back and forth, Elliot taps my shoulder, leaning into my ear to murmur, “Okay, what did I miss? Is your boyfriend Ethan’s business rival?”

“Worse.”

His jaw drops. “Ella’s ex?”

“He’s in the mafia.”

Elliot pales. “A hitman.”

I curve my head down in a slow nod.

“Francesca, you didn’t.”

“I can date whoever I want, Elliot. You two don’t get a say in my life choices. Not that I’m dating Gabriele.”

“Tell that to Ethan. Before they kill each other.”

Gabriele’s eyeing his gun. While I’m too anxious to move, Elliot steps between them.

“Okay, boys, let’s sit down and talk like civilized men. And don’t forget to listen to Francesca. She’s the one who decides what happens in the end.”

I clasp my hands. I’m half-afraid they’ll both ignore him and continue their pissing match, but he nudges Ethan down onto what was my seat. Gabriele crosses his legs on the seat opposite Ethan’s.

“Sister, take it from here.” Elliot encourages me with a hand on my shoulder.

I’m grateful he’s here to smooth things over. Elliot is a charmer, someone who can get along with anyone. Until he decides to fuck you over like he did with Ethan a few months ago. Then he’s the most manipulative snake in the world.

His duality is scary.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but Gabriele and I…we’re…we’re just…” Oh my god, what was I supposed to say here? What’s the correct answer?

We’re just sleeping together?

We’re just addicted to each other’s demons?

He’s my fuck buddy?

We’re friends?

I love him but he’s getting married to someone else?

Why do they all sound wrong? That’s not what we are. But what are we?

The ground underneath spins violently. I feel like an orator who stood up on stage for a speech and forgot the lines.

“He’s a criminal, Francesca.” Ethan forces a heavy sigh into the room. “What’re you doing with him? Don’t tell me he’s selling your drugs. Or taking advantage of you? If he’s blackmailing you, you don’t have to be scared. I’ll protect you.”

I hold up a hand. “It’s not like that. Our relationship is normal.” 

“Normal, as in normal friends?” Elliot crooks an eyebrow upward, gaze hopping between Gabriele and me. “Or normal dating?”

“We’re not dating,” Gabriele interrupts. For one glorious instant, I’m proud of his noncommittal answer. The perfect neutral response that gives nothing away. He should run for president. His opponents would never be able to use his words against him. “She’s mine.”

I spoke too soon.

“No, she’s not.” Ethan hisses. Betrayal washes over his expression as his face twists to me. “Right?”

Shame twists in my throat. My relationship with Ethan is already hanging by a thread due to how long I’ve ignored him.

“I don’t know what we are,” I admit honestly. “So don’t ask me. I’m figuring it out as I go. All I can say is that Gabriele cares about me and my dreams as much as you do, so I want to give him a chance. I hope you can keep an open mind, too.”

Ethan’s shoulders soften. I might be imagining it, but his chin drops in a subtle nod.

lie so beautifully, it sounds inspiring. Because the truth is that I know exactly what we are.

We’re a disaster waiting to unfold. An almost-married man and a girl teetering on the brink of collapse. We’re nothing to each other but at the same time, we’re everything to each other. It’s a relationship that defies labels.

“Is that true?” Elliot surprises me by confronting Gabriele head-on. He must be worried, too. I’m stressing out everyone. I always do. They don’t know the true depth of my issues yet.

“I do like her art,” Gabriele admits. “She has talent.”

“He’s my muse,” I add because the eccentric artist is the role I’ve played all my life. I’ve done worse things for art than sleep with a mobster. My brothers will write it off as one of my bizarre creative rituals. They’re not going to scratch under the surface, probe for the truth that’s uglier.

“Wow, who would have guessed.” Elliot grins. “As long as it’s what you want.”

“Of course it is. You know how much art means to me. I’m completely devoted to it.” I force a tremulous smile, furthering the pretense that everything is rosy.

All the while Gabriele’s fingers are digging into the back of my thigh under the table.

Liar.