“Thank you.”

“Oh and Trace?”

“Yeah?”

“Do me a favor. Tell your grandpa you invited me so that they don’t shoot me on sight. You don’t want innocent blood on your hands.”

“Are you?” I whispered.

“What?”

“Innocent?”

“No.” His voice was shaky. “Not since the day I was born, not since the first day my dad raised a hand to me, not since the first time I watched my mom huddle in the corner, and definitely not since the first time you let me kiss you. No, Trace. I’m anything but innocent.”

Silence. I didn’t know what to say.

He cleared his throat. “Do you still want me to come?”

“Yes.”

“See you soon, Trace.”

The phone went dead. I put it in my back pocket just as an attractive man in his twenties waltzed into the room. “Miss Alfero? Your grandfather would like me to show you to your room.”

“Great.” I managed a small smile and followed him out of the sitting room and up the grand staircase. Once we reached the room, I turned to Adrian and gave him the biggest smile I could manage. He staggered backward but soon regained his composure.

“Tell my grandfather we’ll have company for lunch.”

“And who will we be expecting?”

I grinned. “Mr. Abandonato. My boyfriend.”

Adrian’s mouth went slightly ajar. To his credit, he only swore three times before giving me a curt nod and stalking off.

This was going to be interesting.

Chapter Twenty-six

It wasn’t ten minutes later that Grandpa barged into my room. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you didn’t invite that boy to—”

I held up my hand. Surprisingly, Grandpa stopped sputtering, and the red glare from his face faded to more of a pink.

“He will be dining with us. You will be civil. There will be no guns.”

“Why?”

“Because.” I swallowed. “I deserve answers from him as well. Don’t you think?”

I knew Grandpa couldn’t argue against that. He gave me a curt nod, then turned toward the door, but not before saying under his breath, “I promise not to shoot him.”

“Good.”

“Today,” he finished and slammed the door behind him.

Well, that was progress. One day where Nixon’s life didn’t hang in the balance. Good things were coming, that was for sure.

I walked over to the bed and sat down. I didn’t remember this house. It looked too big, too regal to be mine. The room they put me in looked like a girl’s room. Everything was pink and white.

Curious, I walked over to the desk and opened a drawer. A small diary was lying on top of a few crumpled up pieces of paper. I dug around and pulled out some of the pink papers and laughed. Pictures of horribly drawn unicorns and cats stared back at me.

I’d already cleaned up, so I had at least a few minutes to waste. Grabbing the diary I went and sat on the bed and opened it.

The front page said, To my little Tracey girl, love Father.

Was it weird that I didn’t remember getting the diary? I didn’t even remember writing in one.

I turned the page and nearly fell out of my chair.

Mrs. Abandonato. Tracy+Nixon=Love.

And, I was going to burn the diary. Like now.

The rest of the pages were basically the same thing. Horrible drawings of what appeared to be a cat and then a cow with no udders. Clearly, being an artist was not in my future. As I flipped the pages, one thing remained true, I was constantly misspelling my own name and Nixon’s as I tried to write our names together. I could only imagine my mom must have helped me. No way did I know how to do any of those things at almost six.

Either that or Nixon helped me.

I shuddered.

Forget burning the diary. I needed to shred it, then burn the pieces of evidence.

I flipped to the last page and a picture fell out.

It was me and Nixon. We were holding hands. He was looking at the camera grinning from ear to ear, and my head was tucked in his arm while I clenched his hand for dear life. The little boy staring back at me was the one I always remembered. When I fell and scraped my knee, he kissed it and made it better. When I cried because my mom wouldn’t let me have a pony, he laughed and told me ponies were stupid and that I should do something cool like learn how to be a spy. When his mom stayed over. I—

Crap. I remembered.

It was about a week before my sixth birthday, the last time I saw Nixon. He came over to my house with a bag. His mom followed us indoors and sobbed at the kitchen table to my mom while I took Nixon into the backroom.

He’d always been so tough, so strong, so it freaked me out that he was crying. And then I noticed he was bleeding.

“Nixon, what happened?” I reached out to touch the cut above his eye.

He shrugged. His shoulder slumped as he sat in the middle of my floor. His tears fell onto the carpet as he played with one of the toy cars he had brought.

“Why are you sad?” I asked, taking a seat across from him.

“I hate him.”

“Who, Nixon? Who do you hate? Isn’t hate bad?”

He shook his head. “You’re too young. You don’t understand.” He slammed the car against the floor, again and again until it broke.

I was scared, but not because I thought he was going to hurt me, because I knew he was hurting. So I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I hugged him.

I reached my skinny little arms around his neck and held him while he continued to cry.

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you, Nixon. I’ll save you.”

“Girls can’t save boys.”

“Can too!” I squeezed him harder. “I promise. I’ll take you away from what makes you sad.”

“Tracey…” His sobs grew louder. “I’m so scared.”

“If you’re scared. I’ll be scared too, Nixon. Until you feel safer. I’ll be scared with you.”

“Promise?” He pulled away from me.

“I promise. Because you’re my best friend in the world, Nixon. I want you to be happy.”

He nodded and we played until we fell asleep on the floor.

“Tracey?” It was Grandpa’s voice. “You almost ready?”

“Yup!” I tossed the diary back into the desk and opened the door. “Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“That’s never a good sign,” Gramps muttered.

I looped my arm through his as we made our way down the stairs to the marble entryway.

“He’s here.” A man approached grandpa and nodded.

Grandpa lifted his eyes heavenward, made a cross over his chest, and then said, “Let him in.”

The door opened revealing Nixon. To me he looked like my normal Nixon. He was wearing hip hugging jeans and a tight t-shirt that showed off his chest tattoos and the half sleeve on his left arm.

His eyes fell to mine and he smiled. I almost lunged for him, but Grandpa held me tight so I couldn’t budge.

Grandpa nodded to the two men beside us. They went to Nixon. He lifted his hands in the air and turned as they patted him down. Was this really necessary? They pulled a gun from behind his pants, a knife from his boot, and a set of steel knuckles from his pocket. My eyes widened. He just shrugged as if what was happening was completely and totally normal.

Once unarmed. His hands fell to his sides. I looked to Grandpa. With a curse he released me and I ran into Nixon’s arms.

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Nixon politely accepted my hug but as soon as our chests touched, he let out a hiss of air and gently pushed me away, creating immediate distance between us.

Confused, I reached for his hand but he pulled it away and shook his head.

Hurt. I looked from him to Grandpa. Nixon looked like he wanted to shoot Grandpa, and Grandpa looked like he was about three seconds from castrating Nixon. Great. Lunch should be stellar.

The sound of stiletto heels hitting marble interrupted their tense exchange. A lady cleared her throat. I looked in the direction it came from and was surprised to see a very pretty woman with straight black hair smile at me and announce. “Lunch is ready.”

Grandpa turned on his heel and followed her out of the room. I guess I was supposed to go too because Nixon stepped ahead of me.

What just happened? Why was he acting so weird? It had to be Grandpa. Right? It had nothing to do with me. Dread filled my stomach. What if he was faking it? What if… what if it really was about protecting me, about promises made when we were little? My heart clenched, because a week after those childhood claims I had broken my promise to him, leaving him and his mother with a monster of a father.

I silently wondered how many beatings he suffered at the hand of the man that should have been protecting him instead of striking him.

Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore.

We walked into a large medieval-looking dining room with a long wooden table. The bright flowers in the middle of the table gave the room a cheery look, which was nice considering there were paintings of gargoyles decorating the walls. Everything was in wood paneling and dark wallpaper that made me feel like at one point the dining room was a place they used to take people to kill them.

Cold pastas were set on either side of the table along with a few pieces of salmon and Bruschetta.

The same woman I’d seen before filled each of our glasses with water, and then our wine glasses with a red wine.

So being in a mafia suddenly meant I could drink now? Was that it? This was the second time I’d been offered wine in one day. Funny how, under the circumstances, it seemed so natural that I would need some sort of alcohol to get through the stress.

The silence was going to kill me.

My eyes pleaded with Nixon as I reached for his leg. I needed to know we would talk, that we were okay. I mean, wasn’t I the one who was lied to? Shouldn’t I be the one giving him the cold shoulder?

His nostrils flared the minute my hand made contact with his thigh. He cleared his throat, but didn’t move my hand away.

We ate lunch in silence. Well, if you could count Grandpa swearing in Sicilian while drinking wine silence. I swear I never realized how loud I chewed until that moment.

Finally, everyone was finished.

“Grandpa, may I be excused?” I asked politely.

He nodded his head. I reached for Nixon. “I need to talk with you.”

Nixon looked from me to Grandpa.

Grandpa cleared his throat. “Remember the terms, Nixon.”

“How could I forget?” He sneered and grabbed my hand. Without thinking, I led him up to my bedroom and quickly locked the door behind me.

Chapter Twenty-seven

“Good God, I forgot how pink this room was.” Nixon chuckled, taking one of the stuffed animals off the bed so he could lie across it.

“I must have really liked pink.” I laughed.

“You hated it.” Nixon put his arms behind his head and sighed. “In fact. I distinctly remember your mom putting you in a pink dress and you taking it off in front of the entire dinner party.”

“Please tell me you weren’t—”

“I was nine!” Nixon laughed. “Trust me, I was horrified. I thought girls had cooties. I closed my eyes and pointed though.”