Page 6 of Souls and Sorrows

“Shouldn’t you be sucking your boyfriend off in the alley outside?” I ask, redirecting the conversation.

“Whoa, I’m not into that exhibitionist bullshit. I like to keep my private partsprivate.”

I don’t respond because it never occurred to me just how dissimilar my brother and I are until tonight.

Palmer’s face falls, and he continues, “Plus, Troy and I broke up.”

There’s a shift in his tone, and when I look back at him, he’s turning a fork over in his hands, somewhat subdued. Exhaling, I run a hand through my hair, pulling on the ends. I really don’t want to stay here and get fucked up all night, especially given the important deposition I have in the morning.

But I can’t stand the dejection on my brother’s face.

I’m not sure if it’s our similar bone structure or something else, but it feels too familiar.

So, instead of getting up and leaving the way I want to, I grab another shot, clinking it against the one in front of him. Palmer grins, perking slightly, and loops his arm through mine, pulling me close as we drink.

It burns less on the way down, the sensation now warm and filling, and I’m almost happy I decided to come out.

My bones grow icy when I glance over Palmer’s shoulder, meeting the hazel eyes of the only woman I’ve ever looked at twice. Pulling myself away is a feat, and I order another round, if only to distract myself from the weight of her attention.

Something tells me nothing good has ever come to those who have it.

2

The wooden tablevibrates as my older sister, Elena, makes her sixth attempt at contact tonight. With my free hand, I press the side buttons on my phone simultaneously, powering it off, while the other brings a tiny glass to my lips.

As I flip the device facedown, I tilt my head back and take the shot, letting tequila sear the inside of my mouth and kill off any emotions it finds lodged in my throat. They don’t deserve to be there, and Elena doesn’t deserve to hear from me right now.

Not when she ditched me to spend her evening doing God knows what with her husband and kids.

A tiny, almost-imperceptible ounce of guilt flares inside my chest, but I chase it down with the next shot that’s shoved into my hand. Logically, I know being jealous of my sister’s happiness does nothing but strengthen the divide between us, but at this point in my life, I’m powerless against the sentiment.

It’s hereditary. A disease not unlike cancer in how it appears sometimes out of nowhere, metastasizing into an incurable illness that ravages your body when left unchecked.

Even as an adult, living comfortably in spite of a strict and shitty childhood, I find myself driven primarily by envy. This sick sensation that sometimes keeps me up at night because there’s something deep within me that has never been fulfilled. Something passed on by the woman who brought me into this world and then spent my upbringing wishing she could take me out of it.

“That guy’s looking at you again.” Vincenza Moretti’s stuffy voice slashes its way through my pity party, yanking me from my thoughts as her icy hand grips my bicep.

She tosses her auburn hair over a shoulder, a miserable expression decorating her face that makes me wonder why she showed up tonight. We were childhood friends, mostly due to proximity and a lack of choice—our families, prominent in Boston’s gritty criminal underworld, attended Mass together every Sunday, and she even taught me how to French kiss in ninth grade. But like everyone else in my life, she moved away after graduation while I stayed frozen in time and place, like a real-life Peter Pan.

Her acceptance of an invitation I hadn’t sent was the first time I’d heard from her in six years. I hadn’t even known she was back in the city.

Turning my head, I drop my gaze to where her fingers rest against my skin. After a moment, she retreats, a deep blush staining her golden skin.

“Men do that,” I tell her, not bothering to see who she means. “Women too.”

Everyonealwaysstares. If I had things my way, I’d never go out because of the constant gawking, but it does the Ricci family no good for me to stay holed up inside all the time, according to my nonna.

Vincenza leers over my shoulder, pensive as she takes in whatever sits behind me.Whoever. The smoky liner creasing her eyelids makes her look nervous, and I resist the urge to laugh in her face.

As if she has a reason to be nervous. It’s not like they’re looking at her. Not like they’ll write a scathing piece about how she’s out for a night on the town, enjoying herself instead of staying silent and unnoticed, like the other women in this world are expected to.

Oh well. If Vitus Tallerico, the man I’m supposed to marry, cared what the tabloids said about me, he’d never have let me out of his sight tonight anyway. As the unofficial boss of what’s left of Ricci Inc., he’s more concerned than most with the politics of the business realm, and my going out hardly makes him look good.

But I’m fairly certain Vitus is balls deep in one of his groupies right about now, so he has other things on his mind.

Besides, there are at least three men stalking from the shadows of this club, tasked with keeping an eye on me. Like I’m an elusive flame, prone to disappearing.

Like I have anywhere to go.

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