“Thanks,” I said, shivering in satisfaction as I sipped at it.
She put down a bowl with iced pineapple pieces on the side table.
“The pineapple isn’t as good as last time.”
I popped a piece into my mouth. It was a bit too tart. I sighed. “It’s so difficult to get good produce.”
Amo jogged over to us, sweat flying everywhere from his glistening upper body.
“Don’t get sweat on my food,” I warned.
He made a show out of shaking himself like a wet dog and I jumped up from the hammock, taking a few steps back to save my fresca. Sibling love only went so far…
He ate a few of my pineapple pieces, not even apologetic about it.
“Why don’t you get your own?”
I motioned at Lora who was currently serving Mom her fresca and fruit.
He nodded at the book of Marketing Analytics on the side table. “It’s summer. Do you really have to take homework with you? You’re best in class anyway.”
“I’m best in class because I take my homework with me,” I muttered. “Everyone’s waiting for me to slip. I won’t give them the satisfaction.”
Amo shrugged. “I don’t get why you care. You can’t always be perfect, Marci. They’ll always find something they don’t like about you. Even if you organize the birthday party of the century, someone’s still going to complain that the scallops weren’t glassy.”
I tensed. “I told the chef several times to take extra care with the scallops because…” I trailed off when I saw Amo’s grin. He was pulling my leg. “Idiot.”
“Just chill for God’s sake.”
“I am chill,” I said.
Amo gave me a look that said I was most definitely not a chilled person.
“So were the scallops glassy or not?”
Amo groaned. “They were perfect, don’t get your panties in a bunch. And you know what? Most people will still not like you even if the scallops were out of this world.”
“I don’t want them to like me,” I said firmly. “I want them to respect me.”
Amo shrugged. “They do. You’re a Vitiello.” He jogged after Lora to get his hands on more pineapple and fresca. For him, the discussion was over. Amo was going to be Capo, and yet he didn’t feel the pressure as I did. As the oldest Vitiello and a girl, expectations were sky high. I could only fail. I had to be beautiful and morally impeccable, pure as the snow but at the same time progressive enough to represent the new generation of the Famiglia. Amo got bad grades, slept around, and went out in sweats, and everyone just said he was a boy and would grow out of it. If I ever did either of those things, I’d be socially dead.
My phone beeped with a message from Giovanni.
I miss you. If I didn’t have so much work, I’d come over.
My fingers hovered over my screen but then I pulled back. I was glad that his internship in the law firm of our Famiglia lawyer, Francesco, kept him busy. I needed a few days away from him after our almost argument on my birthday. If I didn’t manage to get rid of my annoyance before our official engagement party, I’d have trouble keeping up a puppy-love expression.
I turned the sound off and put my phone screen down on the table and grabbed my book. I was immersed in a particularly dragging part when a shadow fell over me.
I looked up to find Dad towering over me. He had stayed in New York for urgent business—with the Bratva.
“Hard-working as always, my princess,” he said and bent down to kiss the crown of my head.
“How was business?” I asked curiously, putting the book down.
Dad smiled tightly. “Nothing for you to worry about. We have everything under control.”
I gritted my teeth against the desire to question him. His gaze sought Amo who immediately stopped his workout and came over to us. Dad had wanted him to be present for whatever went down with the Bratva but Mom had talked him out of it. She couldn’t stop protecting him.
“Hey Dad,” Amo said. “Did you have fun smashing Bratva heads in?”
“Amo,” Dad’s voice swung with warning.
“Marci isn’t blind. She knows what’s going on.” I sometimes thought that I understood the brutality of Dad’s job better than Amo did. He still considered it great fun and didn’t really see the danger. Mom was probably right to keep him away from the big fights. He’d only get himself killed.
“I need to talk to you. Come down on the boat with me,” Dad told Amo.
Amo nodded. “Let me grab a sandwich. I’m starving.” He jogged back to the house, probably to pester Lora to make him a grilled cheese sandwich.
Dad’s face was tight with anger. He obviously wanted to talk right away.
“He thinks the conflicts with Tartarus and the Bratva are great fun, like another level in one of his computer games. He needs to grow up,” Dad said. His eyes snapped to me, as if he’d forgotten I was there.