I win the next hand, then Mia takes two more. When Marissa runs out of money, I fish some more out of my pocket.
It makes her a bit uneasy, taking money from me. People have all kinds of hang ups about money. Some get turned on by it. Some hate it. Most have a love-hate relationship with it. That’s Marissa. There’s the quickened breath at the sight of a lot of money, but also a furrow of disapproval between her brows. A wariness, like if she takes it, she’s eaten the fruit that will land her in Hades for the next seven months.
The next hand I win. I lay my cards down. “I got my lucky hand, ladies. Dead Man’s Hand. Two pairs—black aces, black eights. You know why it’s called Dead Man’s Hand?”
“Why?” Mia demands.
“It originated in the Wild West. It was the hand Wild Bill Hickok had when he was murdered. An unlucky event for Wild Bill, but for some reason, it’s always been my lucky hand.”
Marissa sucks in a breath. “Well,” she says, her tone slightly shaky. “Maybe that’s why you were luckier than Wild Bill.”
The images of the dream flash through my mind on super-speed. It’s not the actual event I see now. Just the new, twisted one. The one where the gun’s at Marissa’s head.
I lived. I lived. Sometimes it feels like there has to be a reason I lived.
And that it’s somehow tied up with Marissa.
A chill spins through me. I want it to be a happy reason, like to make Marissa my wife. Run a restaurant with her. But instead it seems like something far darker.
A warning.
I lived to prevent something bad from happening to her.
Marissa
As if I weren’t already falling head over heels in love with Gio, he had to go and be adorable with my cousin.
Mia counts her bills, beaming at her new favorite person on Earth. How quickly I was replaced. “I get to keep this, right?” she asks for the eighth time.
Gio winks at her. “You sure do. Buy yourself something nice with it.”
I elbow him and he tosses an arm around me.
“Maybe don’t tell your mom,” I suggest to Mia.
“Why not?” She gives me her full attention now. Kids are so damn smart. She knows something’s afoot.
I try to shrug casually. “She might tell you it’s too much to accept as a gift and make you give it back.” That’s not a lie, although it’s way more about who the gift came from than how big it is.
“It wasn’t a gift, I won it!” Mia retorts.
“Then she’ll say she doesn’t want you gambling. Just go put it in your treasure box or somewhere safe okay? Or I can keep it for you.”
She yanks the bills against her chest. “No way.”
And that’s when the door opens.
My nonna actually gives a half-shriek, “O-oh-oh!” at seeing Gio.
Gio surges to his feet, ever the gentleman. He greets my grandparents in Italian, as was their custom. “Buon pomeriggio, Beatrice, Luigi.”
Nonno’s upper lip curls slightly as he looks from Gio to me. The betrayal is evident. I brought the enemy into our home. Still, he puts on his act. The one he always puts on for the Tacones when they’re in our shop. “Gio, buon pomeriggio. How are your brothers?”
Okay, so we’re doing chit-chat. Meanwhile, my stomach is a tight twisted ball smashed into my solar plexus.
“Good, good.” Gio squeezes my hand and Nonno’s eagle eye tracks the movement. “Well, I was just going to be on my way.” He turns to Mia. “It was very nice to meet you, young lady.” He holds out his hand and she shakes it with an especially vigorous shake to be silly.
I can hardly get my tongue to untangle to speak. I just stay frozen where I am, not even having the manners to walk Gio to the door. Grateful he didn’t try to stay longer.
He gives me a small lift of the hand before he shuts the door, and for some reason it breaks my heart. I don’t know; there was something stoic and sad about it. Like he was bearing his rejection, but it brought him down.
Dammit.
But I have no time to think about it, because Nonno turns on me immediately. “What was he doing here?”
My instinct is to make something up, to try to minimize this, but there’s no story that would fit or work. I just shrug. “He came with me to hang out with Mia.”
Nonna’s mouth drops open. Nonno’s white brows slam down. “What do you mean? Have you been… seeing this guy? Is he the one you’ve been out with?”
My grandparents have to work hard not to interfere in my dating life. They don’t want me disappearing like my mom did, so they don’t question me too much about where I’ve been spending my nights. You’re an adult, Nonna says out loud when I come home. I’m not going to ask. As if she really is dying to ask and has to say that out loud to keep herself from asking.