It’s not easy sneaking out to see Dante.
Especially not after that first night, when I got back so late.
My parents were furious. Wilson had been waiting for me at Millennium Park for over an hour. Luckily, the staff was still cleaning up from the dinner, so I could pretend I’d been sick in the bathrooms after Dante dropped me off again.
Mama sniffed suspiciously, probably smelling the liquor on my breath. And maybe something else, too—the lingering scent of sex on my skin.
I didn’t care. Within a couple of days, I was finding ways to meet up with Dante again. I told Mama I was going out with Emily from Young Ambassadors. I had Wilson drop me at neutral places like the mall or movie theater.
Mama was actually pleased to see me socializing on my own, outside of mandated events. She kept telling me to bring my “friends” over for dinner, or to use the pool.
Instead, Dante comes to pick me up from my phony friend dates. He spirits me away where we can be alone. Sometimes we do see a movie, or go out to eat, though he tries to pick places away from the trendy restaurants where I might be recognized.
Really, I just want to be alone with him.
We go to distant beaches, lookout points, corners of parks, his house, or even hotels. Then he undresses me and puts his massive hands all over my body. He kisses me and touches me for hours, always finishing with his face buried between my legs, making me cum over and over again.
We haven’t had sex yet. But I can feel us edging closer.
Dante knows he’d be my first. He’s trying to be patient. I can tell that every time he touches me, it awakens that part of him that has no patience and very little gentleness. It’s terrifying, because I know he could snap me in half if he truly lost control. But at the same time, I want him as badly as he wants me.
It’s not only physical, either.
We spend hours talking together. About books, movies, music, our best and our worst memories. The things we want to do and the things we’re afraid of trying.
The only thing we don’t talk about is our future together.
We skirt around the issue of my family. I’ve told Dante all about Mama and Tata and Serwa. He knows what they’re like.
So he must know how violently they would oppose the two of us being together. I don’t care about Dante’s past—they won’t be so forgiving.
My father is rigid. He demands everything of himself and the people around him. He’s had a path laid out for me since birth. It doesn’t include a relationship with the son of a mafia boss.
Plus, Dante has no intention of abandoning the “family business.” I don’t think I could ask him to.
Especially after I meet his family.
I meet Aida first, the baby sister. She’s not really a baby—eleven years old, skinny, dressed in torn-up jeans and a baseball shirt. Her fingernails are broken and filthy, and her hair is wildly tangled. I can see scabs on both knees through the holes in her jeans.
She’s pretty, despite that. Or she will be, when she grows into her face. Her eyes aren’t dark like Dante’s—they’re a silvery-gray, bright with curiosity.
“Oh!” she says. “You look different than I expected.”
“What did you think I’d look like?” I ask her.
“I dunno,” she laughs. “I guess I thought you’d be big like Dante.”
“When did you ever see a girl as big as me?” Dante rumbles.
“I’m going to be! I’m going to be bigger and stronger than all of you,” Aida says.
“You have to eat something other than ice cream and popsicles if you want that to happen,” Dante says.
We’re actually eating ice cream during this conversation, down by Lane Beach.
“I said I wanted a cone, not a cup,” Aida reminds Dante.
“You’re dirty enough without ice cream melting all over you,” Dante says.
“I had a bath,” Aida says.
“When?”
“This week.”
“Liar.”
“I went swimming. That counts.”
“If there wasn’t any soap involved, it doesn’t count.”
It’s fascinating seeing this eighty-pound girl interact with Dante without a shred of fear. Actually, it’s clear that she adores him. She tells me how he took her to Six Flags and rode The Looping Demon four times.
“Weren’t you scared?” I ask her.
“I was more scared,” Dante says. “I don’t think those little cars were engineered with me in mind.”
“I did throw up,” Aida says cheerfully. “But not on anything important.”
I meet Dante’s brothers, too—Sebastian and Nero. Sebastian is only a little older than Aida, but already taller than me. He looks like a puppy with his big brown eyes, and his feet too large for his body. He’s shy and mostly leaves it to his brothers to answer any questions I ask him.
Nero’s a different creature entirely. He’s sixteen years old, and frankly the most terrifying of the bunch. He’s beautiful in a way that would be shocking on a grown man, let alone a teenager. But he’s fierce and moody, and deeply suspicious of me.
“Dante talks about you all the time,” I tell him.
“Really?” he says rudely. “Because I haven’t seen him in a month.”
“Take it easy,” Dante tells him gruffly.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I have been monopolizing you.”
“You live in that mansion on Burling Street?” Nero says.
“Yes.”
“Fancy. Does Dante wear a tux to visit you?”
His cool gray eyes are narrowed at me. I’m sure he knows that Dante hasn’t visited me there, ever.
Meanwhile, I’ve been to his house several times. I love it. It’s stuffed full of history and memories. Every scuff on the woodwork is from one of the Gallo siblings or an uncle or aunt that came before. It’s warm and personal, and just as lovely as the Burling Street mansion, in its own way.
Dante took me up to the roof where the fox grapes hung down heavy and fragrant from the pergola. He picked a few for me, and I ate them, sun-warmed and bursting with juice.
I even met Enzo Gallo, Dante’s father. I don’t know what I expected—a thug, I guess. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Enzo is cultured, polite. I can see he used to be strong like Dante, before age and sadness wore him down. Dante told me how Gianna Gallo died. I’m sure to a powerful man like Enzo, an unexpected illness must seem like the cruelest twist of fate—something completely outside his control.
Like Nero, Enzo is wary of me. I doubt I’m what he wants for his son any more than Dante fits my father’s expectations. We’re from two different worlds. Enzo seems to avoid the spotlight just as my father craves it.
One night, after I eat dinner with the whole family, Enzo pulls Dante into another room, and they’re gone for almost twenty minutes. I can hear the angry rumble of Dante’s voice, but not what he’s saying to his father. When he emerges a few minutes later, Dante is flushed.
“Let’s go,” he says to me.
As we drive away from the house, I ask him, “What happened?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head.
I lay my hand over his, feeling his pulse thudding through the raised veins on the back of his hand.
“You can tell me,” I say.
Dante looks over at me, eyes burning.
“No one’s ever going to take you away from me,” he says.
Bubbling up in him, I see that anger that he keeps locked down below the surface. Dante is so strong that I’m sure he learned early that he had to control his temper or he’d destroy everything in his path. But he’s still young, even if he doesn’t look it. I don’t know how long that control lasts.
“No one will,” I whisper.
He turns his hand over and squeezes mine, our fingers interlocked.
“Good,” he says.
The next night, Dante texts to ask if I can meet him.
I tell him that Mama’s making me go to a masquerade ball. It’s some fundraiser for Chicago charter schools.
He doesn’t text back, probably annoyed that it’s the third event this week that’s kept us apart.
I was already sick to death of fancy parties when the summer started. Now that I have Dante to distract me, they feel like pure torture. Every minute of the events, I feel like one half of a magnet pulled and pulled toward wherever I think Dante might be. The impulse to go to him is overwhelming.
I’m especially irritated when the doorbell rings. Or at least, I become irritated when Mama calls me down and I see Jules standing there. He’s peering up the staircase, smiling shyly and holding a bouquet of yellow lilies.
“I asked Jules to pick you up,” Mama says. “Since Wilson has the night off.”
I’m sure it’s no coincidence that she gave Wilson tonight off. It’s the perfect opportunity to shove me into a date.
There’s not really any way for me to refuse. Not now.
“Great,” I mutter. “I’ll finish getting ready.”
“I’ll wait down here!” Jules calls up to me.
He’s wearing a pale gray suit with a silver mask pushed up on his head.
At least two or three galas a year are masquerade balls. Rich people love wearing masks. It’s a tradition that goes back to Carnival in the Middle Ages. The reasons are obvious—in a strict society, a mask provides freedom. Your identity, your actions, even your facial expressions are free from the endless scrutiny that we usually endure. You don’t have to worry that you’ll be the subject of gossip the next morning, or an unflattering picture on social media. For once, you can do whatever you like.
I’ve never taken advantage of the mask before.
But even I feel a sense of relief slipping the gatto down over my face. It’s a traditional Italian mask, with a cat’s ears and eyes, painted gold and black.
My full skirt swishes around me as I walk. It’s more costume than gown, black with gold gems scattered across it like stars.
Jules swallows hard when he sees me.
“Wow!” he says.
I can’t help teasing him. “You only ever see me in dresses, Jules. I would think you’d be more surprised by a pair of sweatpants.”
Jules shrugs, laughing nervously. “I guess so,” he says.
“Don’t get into too much trouble, you two,” Mama says lightly.
Fat chance of that happening.
“Definitely not, Mrs. Solomon,” Jules assures her.
I follow him out to his car. It’s a Corvette, so low to the ground that I have a hard time getting into it with my huge puffy skirt. I kind of have to fall down into the passenger seat.
Jules closes the door behind me, careful of my dress.
I can tell he’s nervous, driving us over to the History Museum. We’re never really alone together, always meeting at social events, in public places. I want to tell him he can relax, because this isn’t really a date, but of course there’s no way to do that.
“Where did you go the other night?” he asks me.
“Hmm?” I was looking out the window, thinking about something else.
“You disappeared from the Young Ambassadors’ dinner. I thought you were going to sit at my table.”
“Oh. Sorry. I left early. I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Okay, good. I mean, not good you were sick. But I’m glad it wasn’t because you didn’t want to sit with me.”
There’s a little color in his pale cheeks, under the freckles.
I feel a pang of guilt. Jules is a nice guy and not bad-looking. He’s fit, well-mannered, smart. An excellent skier and violinist, from what I’ve heard. But the little sparks I’ve felt for him in the past are nothing compared to the inferno Dante can light inside of me with a single glance.
We pull up to the museum. I feel a thrill at the sight of the long brick facade. This is where Dante dropped me off the day he stole the car with me in the backseat. I wish he were taking me to the ball, instead of Jules.
Since the party’s already in full swing, we have to wait in a line of a dozen limos and sports cars. Jules hands the valet the keys, then takes my arm to help me up the long, carpeted steps to the entrance.
In the grand hall, there’s so much chatter and clinking of glasses that I can hardly hear the music playing. I can’t deny that the array of brilliant masks and gowns are absolutely lovely. I see peacocks and butterflies, harlequins and fairies. Some people have gone with Italian-style gowns with bustles and lace sleeves, others with strapless princess-styles.
The men are mostly dressed in suits or tuxes. Some wear the classic columbina half-mask. Others wear the slightly disturbing volto full-face, the angular bauta, or the sinister scaramouche with the long nose.
“Would you like a drink?” Jules asks me.
“Thank you,” I say.
As he heads off toward the bar, someone sidles up next to me in a Plague Doctor costume.
“Simone . . .” a low voice whispers.
“Yes?” I say hesitantly.
“It’s me!” Emily giggles. She pulls her mask down just a little so I can see her bright blue eyes.
I laugh. “What are you doing in that?”
“Spying,” she says. “Sneaking around. Listening in on conversations.”
“What have you learned so far?”
“Oh, only that Jean VanCliffe brought his mistress to the party, not his wife—you can see her over there in the burgundy gown. And that Angela Price is high as a kite, which is why she’s been dancing all by herself for the last half hour.”
“Riveting stuff,” I tell her. “You should write a book.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she says. “I’d love to write a tell-all novel about the rich and famous of Chicago.”
“I don’t know if they’re actually that interesting,” I say. “Except to themselves.”
Jules comes back to join us, handing me a flute of champagne.
“Oh, sorry.” Emily grins. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your date.”
“It’s not—” I start.
“That’s okay,” Jules says, his lips smiling under his mask. “We came to socialize, after all.”
“Oh!” Emily says sarcastically. “I thought we came to support poor little kiddos that need new computers.”
“Right. Of course,” Jules says uncomfortably.
“She’s just teasing you,” I tell him.
“Right,” Jules says again.
That’s always been his weak point—no sense of humor.
“Should we dance?” he asks me.
He pulls me out onto the dance floor amongst the endless rotation of couples swirling around us. The band is playing “The Vampire Masquerade,” fittingly enough. Jules is a much more practiced dancer than Dante. But he’s almost flamboyant—he whirls me around, spinning me, even dipping me a little. It’s clear he wants as many people as possible to see us.
I do like dancing. I love all the rich colors, beading, and brocade all around me. The way the dresses swish and rustle, the way the fabrics shine, bending the light that glitters down from several chandeliers overhead. I like the sweet scent of champagne and a dozen perfumes, over the more mellow scent of the men’s pomade and aftershave, and the lower notes of shoe polish and leather.
The band switches to “Midnight Waltz.”
“Do you want to keep dancing?” Jules asks me.
“Yes!” I say. I’d rather dance than talk.
We whirl around the floor, fast enough that I’m breathing hard. Jules asks me a few questions about how my parents are doing, and if I’ve chosen my college yet.
“I’ll be going to Harvard,” he says proudly.
“That’s great,” I smile.
Just then my back fetches up against something hard and immovable.
“Oh, sorry!” I say, turning around.
I have to look up to meet the eyes of the man towering over me.
He’s dressed all in black. His hair is combed straight back. He’s wearing a black silk mask that covers the whole of his face. His dark eyes glitter down at me.
Before I can say a word, he’s grabbed my waist, and my hand is enclosed in his.
“Excuse me—” Jules protests.
“You don’t mind if I take her,” the man growls.
It’s not a question. He sweeps me away without another glance at Jules.
I knew it was Dante from the moment I saw his bulk. There isn’t a man in the room with shoulders that wide. If I hadn’t already guessed, that rough voice and the intoxicating scent of his cologne would have given it away.
I’m only surprised that he managed to get in the room at all—I doubt he’s on the donor list for KIPP. And I didn’t expect him to own a perfectly-fitted suit.
“What are you doing here?” I say, looking up at him.
Behind the mask, his eyes are more ferocious than ever.
“Watching you dance with another man,” he growls.
The edge in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. His hand swallows mine. I feel the heat coming off his body.
I can’t read his expression, but I can feel his muscles tense with fury.
“Are you jealous?” I whisper.
“Extremely.”
I don’t know why that sends a thrill of pleasure through me.
“Why?” I say.
In answer, Dante only pulls me tighter.
I can feel eyes turning to look at us. It’s impossible not to notice the tallest man in the room. The other dancers create space for us, no one wanting to be flattened by Dante as he spins me around to “Waltz for Dreamers.”
Usually I dislike when people stare at me, but right now I couldn’t care less. They can whisper all they like. All I care about is Dante’s fingers locked around my waist, the impossible strength he uses to whip me around, and the way he doesn’t take his eyes off my face for an instant.
“Why am I jealous?” he says, responding to my question.
“Yes.”
He presses me tight against him.
“Because I don’t care if the richest, fanciest fuckers in the world are in this room. You belong to me.”
