He stands there a long moment, his eyes narrowed, snow falling and sticking to his hair and lashes. He blinks the flakes away.

“Look,” I say, and I make my voice sound clinical now to keep myself from losing it. “I never expected you to believe me. I just had to say something. For me.” And suddenly I know it’s over, and I’ve done my job, and that’s all I have. I nod once very quickly and add, “That’s it,” as if to signal an end to the insanity, and then turn away and walk to my car.

He doesn’t stop me.

I get in and start it up, letting the windshield wipers take care of the snow and the defroster clear up the steamy glass caused by cooling pizza. All the while I pray for my door to magically open, for him to come after me. But I’m so afraid to look. Finally, when I start to appear either desperate or suspicious from sitting there so long, I pull out of the parking spot and dare to look back. He’s still standing outside, watching me go. Gathered at the storefront window now, and peering out at me, are Sawyer’s mother and two men. Next to her is a man I recognize as Sawyer’s father, and next to him is an elderly mustachioed man. And as all the thoughts of what I’ve just done numb my brain, I realize that the old gentleman standing there must be the infamous Mr. Fortuno Angotti—the man whose caricatured face adorns the Angotti’s sauce label. The man who stole our family’s recipe and drove my grandfather to his grave.

Sixteen

Rowan meets me at the door. “Dad’s freaking out,” she says.

“Tough.”

“What’s that?” Rowan points at my bag.

“I messed up.”

“Is that your last order?”

“Yep, sure is.”

Rowan grabs it and pulls the box out. “It’s . . . moist.”

“Yup.” I shrug. I feel like crying. I’ve totally messed up two orders in one night. Not cool. Not to mention that other thing.

“The kitchen is already shut down, Jules. What do you plan to do? Where have you been all this time?”

“Lost in the blizzard. Couldn’t find it.” I can’t look at her. I move past her and go to the sink to wash my hands and splash some water on my face.

“Dad’s gonna shit a brick.”

I push my fingers into my eyes, trying to stop the guilty tears from coming. But everything is so stupid. Why did I say anything? By tomorrow, everybody at school will know I’m a mental case. Sawyer must think I’m a freak.

“Are you okay?” Rowan asks, looking at me hard. Her voice softens. “Oh my gosh, are you crying? Seriously, you don’t have to cry about it.”

I grab blindly for a paper towel, determined not to make a single cry noise. I blow the sob out through my lips, nice and slow, and breathe in.

“Although,” Rowan says, musing to herself, “I would probably cry if it were me. I hate not finishing the job, you know? Makes me feel like a total failure.”

I take another deep breath and pull the towel away from my face. “You’re not helping.”

Trey bursts in the door with his empty bag, whistling. “Major tips, girlie,” he says to Rowan, flapping his wad of money in her face.

“You have to share, you know.”

“Not on Super Bowl Sunday,” he says, teasing her. He notices the pizza box sitting there and looks at me. “What happened?”

“She got lost,” Rowan says. “Jules, did you call the people? You had their number.”

I don’t want to lie anymore. “No. I just messed up, okay? Can you call them?”

Trey gives me a weird look but says nothing.

Rowan sighs deeply and grabs the phone, then looks at the ticket on the box and starts punching buttons. “Fine,” she mutters. “It’s, like, eleven p.m., my gosh, and—Oh, hi! This is Rowan from Demarco’s Pizzeria. We are sooo sorry—”

I flee through the kitchen to the dining room. May as well face the wrath and get it over with.

Mom is rolling napkins.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

“Upstairs. Very upset.” She looks at me like she’s waiting for something.

“Sorry about dropping that pizza earlier and messing everything up. I, ah . . .”

“You’re fine,” she says, waving it off. “But why don’t you tell me what else you did?”

I stare at her. “What do you mean?”

“You know.”

I hate when she does this. It’s like she’s trying to trick me into confessing things, which really pisses me off because I’m a good kid. I sigh. She couldn’t possibly know about this most recent pizza fiasco yet, could she? She’s freaking jiggy with her ESP. “Mother, please. I’m tired.”

She presses her lips together, and then says, “Your father got a call about ten minutes ago from Mario Angotti.”

The implications are so heavy, so unexpected, I can’t even speak. I sit down hard in a chair and put my face in my hands. “Who?”

She glares. “Mario Angotti. Son of Fortuno Angotti. Father of Sawyer Angotti, whose acquaintance I believe you’ve made.”

“Oh, no,” I whisper. “Oh, mother-fuh-lovin’ crap.” I can’t believe they called. I didn’t do anything. “No-o,” I moan as it all sinks in. I can’t look at my mother. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Anthony, keep your riffraff out of my restaurant or I’ll slap a restraining order on your whole family.’ Or something like that.”