A girl’s sitting by the pool. I don’t recognize her at first, and I’m about to turn and run back inside when she catches my eye and waves. I frown, hesitating, looking around hoping maybe someone else is nearby, but no, she’s waving at me. She looks vaguely familiar. I take a few steps toward her and wonder if I can just ignore her and disappear—I don’t know why I care about being polite—but there’s something about her. Maybe it helps that I don’t instantly know who she is.
“Come sit with me,” she calls out. “You’re Olivia, right? Don’t be shy, girl. I’m so bored I could cry.” She raises a glass of what looks like white wine and I’m, like, it’s barely past nine in the morning and she’s already drinking? But it’s the first face I’ve seen that’s remotely friendly, or at least the first face that doesn’t immediately make me want to punch it, so I drift down and tentatively sit in the chair next to her.
The girl’s in a white bikini with a light gauzy coverup wrapped around her chest. She’s tan in the Italian-white-girl sort of way, with dark hair, fake lashes, fake boobs, and fake lips. An umbrella casts a long, wide shadow on the ground next to her, but she’s in direct sunlight. Beneath the makeup and plastic, she’s extremely pretty, and when she smiles at me, I feel a weird sense of comfort like it’s okay to let my guard down.
Which is a great skill to have in a family like this and instantly makes me wary.
“I’m Elise,” she says, grinning. “You look like you’re about to run off into the desert and never look back.”
I shift closer to the shade. I don’t know how she stands it in the sun, even this early in the morning.
“Can you blame me? I’m Olivia. But I guess you know that already.” I feel stiff and awkward. I haven’t spoken this much English in a while and even though it’s rushing back like a tidal wave, I’m still a little rusty. “Can I ask you a rude question?”
“Go ahead, everyone else does.” She sighs dramatically. “I’m the house punching bag. Not that I mind, really. They’re a bunch of self-important twerps who can’t see my majesty. But sometimes it’d be nice if they’d accept that I am the most important person in every room.” She grins and bats her eyes at me.
“Uh, who exactly are you?”
“Great question. Not rude at all. Could’ve been much ruder.” She stretches her legs like a cat. I’d guess she’s ten years older than me, but I can’t really be sure. The plastic surgery makes it difficult to tell. She’s got that ageless look so many women from California have. “I am the former Don’s former wife and former mistress.”
I stiffen at that and her name clicks into place: Elise Bruno. She was always a distant presence ten years ago, never quite part of the wars but still worth mentioning due to her relationship with Don Bruno. I didn’t know much about her then and still don’t know anything, but what Casso said swirls in my brain: a dead mother, a dead father. That makes her a widow.
“I’m, uh, sorry for your loss.” The words sound hollow, even to me. We both know I’m not actually sorry, but it’s the polite thing to say. And I feel strangely like I want to be polite to this person.
She cackles, delighted, and sips her wine. “I’m not. Can you imagine what it was like being married to that man? No, I guess you can’t. Or maybe you’re about to find out?” Her sly smirk sends a shiver down my thighs.
I plop back on the lounge chair and cross my arms. “Why is it I get the sense everyone thinks this is some big joke?”
“Because it’s so absurd. Where else do marriages happen like this but in our world? It’s like we’re medieval lords and ladies making proper political matches. Ugh, god, it’s so crazy.”
“And yet here I am doing exactly that. I should smile and go along but I find it very hard to smile right now.”
She shrugs and motions at her glass. “Drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Teetotaler?”
I frown a bit. “Tee-what?”
“It means you don’t drink alcohol.”
“Oh. No, I drink, just not this early.”
“Your loss.” She takes another sip. “Word is you and Casso have history. And not just the usual mafia history.”
I grimace and rub my face. “Is everyone talking about it?”
“Not in detail if that’s what you’re afraid of. Casso’s not mentioning it at all but there’s lots of interest. There’s something of a bet going down. I have ten-to-one odds that you’re secretly his half-sister and this is all some complicated ruse to bring you back into the family.”
I give her a short snort-laugh. “Not even close.”