Page 30 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
“I could lose my license.”
He pursed his lips then waved a hand dismissively. “Only if someone reported you.”
“A transgression is still that even if there is no one there to witness it,” I snapped, my mind immediately fixating on Giselle and Daniel.
No one knew about their affair at first, but that didn’t mean what they had done was anything short of abominable.
Dante’s voice softened, his eyes too observant. “It is those in power who decide the rules, Elena. I don’t feel I have to remind you of this, but I will. In this case, I am the one with the power…” He pushed off the counter and strode toward me on a strong, rippling gait that made my throat dry.
I backed up slightly only to bump into the desk, suddenly trapped by his large body as he bore down on me. My heart raced, leaping and bounding over the hurdles of fear, anxiety, and something like desire that cropped up in my chest.
When he raised his hand to collar my throat again, I flinched, baring my teeth at him, and flung off his grip.
His eyes went dark, all black, no definition between his pupil and iris, just twin black holes trying to suck me up. With deliberate slowness, he raised that meaty palm and gripped my neck again, squeezing tight for just long enough to feel my pulse flare against his thumb.
He leaned close, his voice a whispered hiss. “I am the one with the power here, Elena, not you. And I say, you will come to the party tonight.”
“Perché?” I croaked to my horror, my voice tight and rough. In my panic at his proximity, my thoughts turned Italian, reverting to the identity I’d tried so long to stifle. One I associated with fear and weakness.
“Because,” he said, his tone rife with dark humor as he bent down to say the words an inch from my open, panting mouth. For a moment, I thought I could taste them, olive bright on my tongue. “I said so, and what thecaposays goes.”
“This isn’t some psychopathic game ofSimone dice,” I seethed, leaning into his grip so I could sneer into his face. “I’m not one of your pliant Italian women who will do whatever a man wishes.”
“No,” he agreed, abruptly releasing his grip on my neck so that I stumbled forward on my high heels and fell into the hard expanse of his chest. Once there, he pinned me briefly with a hand on the small of my back, fingers spanning nearly from hip to hip. “But you will obey me, nonetheless. Not because you respect my authority, but because you won’t do anything to risk your position. One call to Yara and she’d order you to do anything I asked.”
No. He was right.
But why was he treating me like this?
I felt like taffy in his strong hands, constantly pulled and stretched as he tried to reform me into something I was not, something I would never be because it was something I abhorred.
“If it makes you feel any better, Yara will be here,” Dante mentioned, turning away to walk back to the kitchen where he continued to prepare his gnocchi. “You might even recognize a few politicians and celebrities in attendance. You could use it as an excuse to rub elbows with some of the more powerful figures in the city.”
When I only glared at him, wishing I had the power to kill someone with a single gaze, he sighed gustily as though I was some unruly child who wouldn’t eat her dinner. “Despite what you may think, Elena, I truly want you to come to the party to have some fun. I know life has not been so easy for you. In my experience, we must make the most of opportunities we have to enjoy ourselves between the drama and the chaos.”
It vexed me that he sounded exactly like my therapist, so I only pursed my lips and stalked forward to grab my purse. It occurred to me as I turned my back on Dante to leave that Dante’s sunken living room had five people in it. The men all stared at me with varying degrees of amusement on their faces at having witnessed my altercation with their Don.
I kicked my chin into the air and glided past them with my eyes trained on the entry hall, refusing to be cowed by their humor or ashamed of Dante’s bossy disregard.
It was only when I was pushing the button to call the elevator that Dante called out, “Oh, Elena? I ordered some of your mama’s famous tiramisu. Bring it with you when you come back tonight. Eight o’clock sharp.”
Giving in to a childish impulse I hadn’t indulged in since I was a girl, I leaned around the wall hiding the entryway from sight of the kitchen and flashed Dante my middle finger.
Laughter erupted in the main room, and I stepped into the elevator with a smug, grim smile.
Little Italy transformed for eleven days every September from an urban mecca with faintly Italian leanings, some of Chinatown’s ever-expanding influence popping up here and there, to something straight out of the Old World. Red, white, and green everywhere, from streamers to awnings and elaborate arches of balloons. Saint Gennaro himself stared at the tourists and locals gathered to celebrate him from posters, banners, and arches set up over the teeming streets. Over the course of eleven blocks for eleven days, there would be parades, floats, concerts, and so much food there was no possibility it would all be consumed.
Typically, I avoided Little Italy at that time of year even more staunchly than I usually did. It was impossible to skirt entirely because Mama’s restaurant,Osteria Lombardi, was situated on the edge of Little Italy and SoHo, and for years, the family had congregated there for Sunday lunches. In the past year, Giselle and Daniel had given me those lunches, not daring to show their faces around me. Instead, they hosted the family at their mega-mansion apartment in Brooklyn every Sunday evening for drinks or dinner.
They’d invited me a few times, but I’d rather skin my own flesh than attend, and that was before they’d had baby Genevieve. Now, I never wanted to witness my sister living the exact dream I’d once wished for myself.
It wasn’t surprising that Mama, like many other Italian cooks and delicatessens, had a stall on Mulberry Street where she served cannoli stuffed full with fresh ricotta and cones brimming with her famous tiramisu.
I watched from a distance, jostled by the festival-goers as my mama interacted with her customers. She was a gorgeous older woman, though still fairly young because she had basically still been a girl when she’d given birth to me. A few older neighborhood men flirted with her shamelessly as they bartered for food and maybe a kiss, but Caprice only ever offered them a soft, secret smile that said more than words could that she would never be interested, but she wasn’t offended by their attention.
It was the babies, though, that she loved the most.
I watched as a young Italian-American mama with baby fat still in her cheeks and a toddler on her hip approached Mama. The baby was fussing, and Mama didn’t hesitate to pluck the girl off her mother’s hip and plunk her down on her own side. Though I couldn’t hear the words she spoke, I knew she was cooing in Italian as she bounced her and swayed back and forth.
