Page 101 of Rosetti Family New York
“He’s homeless.”
“When did you get so observant?” she teases.
She’s amused, but I’m not.
“Why are you kind to him? He’s nobody.”
She shrugs. “Everybody is someone.”
“He could be dangerous.”
“No, not Dale. He’s been there forever. Since I was in college. It makes me sad to think he’ll never leave that one spot in his whole life.”
He will. In about an hour, he’ll be in a hotel room, not a cardboard box. Him and his mutt both. I have it done with one quick phone call and one deep breath.
Besiana doesn’t say anything until I hang up. “Why did you do that?”
“Why do you think?”
She’s quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is almost soft. Almost tender. “For me.”
She gives me that smile again, like I’ve managed to surprise her. It doesn’t feel bad. It feels goddamn incredible.
We drive home through the rain, and she watches me. Trying to figure out where I found this sudden heart I seem to be displaying. Who the hell I am becoming.
Well, I wish I could help her. I wish I knew.
14
Besiana
Ispend the morning in the Rosetti library, losing myself in poetry. Each word pulls me away from the mansion’s bare walls and empty hallways. Emily Dickinson is my guide. She has more to say to me than anyone in this house. Her voice is urgent and true, not cold like the gray November light that pours through the long windows. I'm deep in one of her poems when Carmela bursts in, bringing with her an explosion of sound and color.
“Dom wants me to take you shopping,” she says. Her eyes flash with mischief. “I hear you have a talent for spending exactly the right amount. This time? No math.”
I close the book. It's one thing to ignore a poet. Another to ignore a Rosetti.
The Rosetti mansion looms in the rearview mirror as we get into the car and drive down the busy New York streets. The massive building fades against the skyline while Carmela chatters away in the driver’s seat, and I do my best to keep up. She accelerates like a getaway driver, weaving through traffic with terrifying speed.
“Remember, Besa,” she grins, “no math this time! We buy everything!”
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself laughing. As we near 5th Avenue, chic pedestrians spur Carmela to drive faster, and she narrowly avoids a delivery truck as it jolts out of the way. The car barely halts before she grabs my hand.
"We're having fun today, and that's final!" Carmela's voice is determined, and I smile at the younger woman's energy.
Dom has put Carmela on a mission. She doesn’t stop moving, pointing at every window display.
“Where to first?” she says, glancing at me like I might run away.
I smile, almost. “You choose.”
“Oh, I will!”
She leads us into a store with a door so heavy it feels like entering a vault. The smell of leather and luxury is intoxicating, almost too much for my senses. I glance at a price tag, and Carmela smacks my hand like I'm a naughty child.
“No checking the price,” she says, grinning like she caught me stealing.
“I thought your brother's instructions might include something about budgeting,” I say.
