Not long after, Dante's coming-of-age banquet was held at an estate in Long Island.

It was his first official appearance as heir, and he insisted I come as his date.

I wore the black dress I'd been saving up for three years.

When Dante knocked and saw what I had on, he frowned. “I sent over three gowns. Why aren't you wearing one of them?”

“This is fine.”

“Mia. You know what tonight is. That dress is...” He paused. “It looks cheap.”

“That's exactly why I'm wearing it. I was a girl who carried trays at a dock bar. I'm not going to pretend to be someone I'm not. Your gowns would look out of place on me. Too conspicuous. Too wrong.”

He didn't care what I thought. He made me change into the red dress he'd picked: fitted, low-cut, everything wrong for my face.

I stared at myself in the mirror and said nothing.

When we reached the estate gates, he took my hand and looked at me with that careful sincerity. “Whatever anyone says tonight, just stay by my side. All you need to know is that I love you.”

“You hear me?”

His hand was warm and his grip was steady. I took it as a promise. I said yes.

The moment we walked through the door, he let go and moved half a step ahead of me.

I felt the room take me in, head to toe, slow and deliberate. The dress he'd chosen made me stand out for all the wrong reasons.

Dante's mother sat at the head table. She gave us a single nod from across the room, lips not moving.

Beside her stood Camille.

I already knew who she was.

She wore a champagne-colored gown that pooled at the floor, with a sapphire necklace the size of a pigeon's egg at her throat. Everything about her, the way she held herself, the way she moved through the room, was effortless, born into it. She worked a room the way you could only do if you'd been doing it your whole life.

She walked toward us, her smile flawless.

“Camille.” Dante greeted her first.

She turned to me, let her eyes settle on me for just a moment, then smiled even warmer. “You must be Mia. Dante mentions you.”

A small pause, a tilt of her head toward Dante. “Says you work at a dockside bar. That you're very capable.”

No insult. Not a single ugly word. But everyone in the room now knew exactly what I was, a server from the waterfront.

I looked at Dante. He said nothing. No correction. No defense.

Camille picked up a fresh glass of champagne and held it out to him. “Lots of old European families here tonight, Dante. You should go make the rounds.”

Dante took the glass the way a man takes something that's already his. He turned to Camille, naturally like they were the pair, and said easily, “Stay with Mia for me while I say hello to everyone.”

After he left, Camille stood beside me, champagne in hand, effortlessly making me look like I'd wandered in from the wrong neighborhood.

“You don't have to be nervous. I know the engagement situation is hard for you. But believe me, there's nothing between me and Dante. This is just what the older generation decided.”

She took a sip, watching me over the rim. “My father is one of the five major Sicilian families. Whether the Morettis can hold their line in Europe depends on how my father speaks tonight.”

“And you, Mia?” She tilted her head. “Your father fled, didn't he?”

The knuckles of the hand holding my empty glass went white.

“I'm not looking down on you. I'm just telling you, Dante does love you. He just can't afford to.”

“Your family can't give him anything he needs. It can't give the family anything it needs.”

There was nothing to argue with. She was stating facts, and that was what made it worse.

I understood. This was the wall between me and Dante that had always been there, but understanding it didn't make it hurt less.

Camille didn't wait for me to respond. She turned and started working the room on her own.

For the rest of the banquet, Dante never came back. I moved through the event in a dress that didn't fit me, in a room that didn't want me, invisible to everyone.

When it was time to leave, I looked over to find Dante and Camille standing on either side of his mother, seeing guests out together, a picture-perfect family. I squeezed out with the staff.

As we were about to leave, Camille whispered something. Dante leaned his head toward her, listening closely, a faint smile playing on his lips.

On the way back, I tried to start conversations. He pinched the bridge of his nose and said he was tired, then didn't say another word the whole drive.

I'd watched him talk with Camille for hours at that party, animated, leaning in, not wanting the night to end. Now this silence.

When he dropped me off, I reminded him that my mother's birthday was tomorrow. We'd planned it a month ago.

He said he couldn't make it. “Camille asked me to take her shopping. I said yes earlier.”

“But we already made plans.”

“Birthdays happen every year. Camille's a princess from one of Sicily's five great families, and she needs protection when she's out.”

I went quiet again.

As he was leaving, he seemed to remember something and turned back.

“By the way, you should start getting used to these events. A Donna needs to know how to handle herself at things like this. Watch how Camille does it.”

Then he left, and he didn't look back.

After that, he came less and less.

When he did show up, it was for twenty minutes at most. Then an excuse and gone, wearing a perfume I didn't recognize.

He'd said he'd handle the family situation. He'd said Camille was nothing to him.

I believed it for a long time.

Until the day word came from the family: the engagement between Dante and Camille was official.

I didn't hear it from Dante.

What I got was one message:

[Business trip. South Europe. Few days. We'll talk when I'm back.]

One line with no explanation.

I found out later that “business trip” was a private dinner Camille's father had hosted somewhere in Southern Europe. Dante attended as the future son-in-law.

Then my mother had a cardiac episode. The surgery would cost half a million dollars, and without the deposit, they wouldn't operate.

Half a million. Even if I emptied every account I had and worked the rest of my life, I'd never get there.

I stood at the emergency entrance for a long time, phone in my hand.

My mother had always told me: don't ask people for things. Ask once, and you're in debt forever.

But I had no choice.

I scrolled to Dante's name and stayed on it.

Not a loan, I told myself. This was nothing to him. Emergency funds. I would pay back every cent with interest.

I called.

He hung up immediately.

I called again. And again. Twenty times. Nothing.

My mother's condition was getting worse. I stared at the screen, hands starting to shake, and kept dialing.

On the fiftieth call, someone picked up.

I almost exhaled with relief.

Then I heard the voice. It wasn't Dante.

It was Camille, low and languid, like she'd just woken up.

“Hello?”

“Camille.” I kept my voice even. “Is Dante there? My mother—”

“He can't talk right now,” she said lightly, cutting me off. “I'll have him call you when he gets a chance.”

“Just put him on for one minute—”

“Distracted even with me? Baby. Look at me.”

The voice came through before I finished. It was Dante's, ragged, breathing hard.

Then the rustling of sheets. Then Camille's voice cracking open, loud and uninhibited.

Then Dante again, low and unmistakable: “God, Camille. You're so much better than boring little Mia ever was...”

The line went dead.

I stood on the steps of the emergency wing with the phone still against my ear.

The pain hit first. Then the rage. Then everything at once, and the tears were already coming with no way to stop them. I pressed my lips together and tried to swallow the sound. Couldn't.

I thought about him kneeling in the hospital corridor, putting slippers on my feet. I thought about him on his knees in front of me, crying, begging me to wait two more years.

Every one of those moments meant nothing now.

When I finally ran out of tears, all that was left was a kind of cold clarity, like ice water poured over everything I'd ever believed.

The emergency alarm was still going off somewhere inside. I made myself stand up. I could not fall apart. My mother needed me.

I wiped my face on my sleeve, took a breath, and started calling everyone I knew.

Twenty-one people. I borrowed from every single one. I wrote down every amount and calculated the interest myself.

When I handed over the deposit, the woman at the cashier's window counted the bills one by one, a thick, crumpled stack of small denominations, and looked up at me when she was done.

I recognized that look. She'd seen it before: people in these corridors scraping together survival money.

She didn't say anything. She gave me the receipt.

I took the thin slip of paper, and my legs buckled. I sat down on the floor right there in the hallway.

That's when I noticed I was in a thin T-shirt. December, nearly one in the morning, and I'd sweat through it twice.

My mother survived the night, but I came out of it buried in debt.

My creditors were people who had nothing to spare. I had to pay them back fast.

So I worked every hour I had.

Days, I did books for a small family operation at the docks. Evenings, I went back to Madonna Rose to wait tables. After two in the morning, I rode my motorbike to a bar on the edge of the port called Black Spade.

Black Spade was in no man's land, nobody's territory, nobody's rules. A lot of street girls operated out of there. An old Sicilian ran it. He knew who I was, didn't ask questions, paid by the night, thirty percent above standard rate.

Dante found me there a month later.

He walked in wearing a black suit, too clean and too sharp for the place. He spotted me and kicked my crate of bottles over. Glass scattered across the floor, caught my ankle, and drew blood.

The old Dante couldn't stand to see me get a paper cut. This one didn't even blink.

“Are you out of your mind?” I stared at the mess, a whole night's work on the floor, my pay probably gone with it, and something in me snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

“Me?” He almost laughed, but it wasn't funny. “Mia. Do you know what Black Spade is? Is this how you're going to embarrass me?”

“I'm earning money with my own hands. There's nothing embarrassing about that.”

He pulled out his checkbook and wrote a number right there. Tore the check out and held it in front of me. “This covers this month. Next month I'll have it transferred automatically.”

“Dante. I'm not your kept woman.”

He pressed the check into my palm. “Everyone in this city knows you're my woman. I'm giving you money. What's the problem?”

“I won't.”

“Won't? Yet you're here, in a place even cops avoid, drinking with men?”

“I'm not drinking. I'm just moving inventory.”

“Moving inventory.” He laughed, cold. “This whole street is working girls, and you're telling me you're just here to move boxes? Who's going to believe that? Moving them right into men's arms?”

I looked at him. I wasn't angry. I was just tired in a way that went all the way down.

I remembered when we'd first met. Some guy at a family dinner had made a crack about me still waiting tables, and Dante had shoved him against the table, told him there was nothing shameful about earning your own money.

Back then, his eyes were lit up. I thought he understood me.

I was wrong.

I dug the check out of my palm and tucked it back into his breast pocket.

“Dante. We're not the same kind of people.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“You think a woman who needs money should find a man to give it to her. I think money you earn yourself is the only money you can actually hold onto.” I looked at him. “The people working in this place, they're out here fighting for their own lives. That's not something to be ashamed of.”

I turned around and went back to work.

I didn't watch him leave.

After my shift that night, I got a call from the hospital.

My mother had a second cardiac event. They needed payment before they could continue treatment. Thirty minutes. That was all the time they'd give me.

I was on my motorbike and moving before they finished the sentence.

Then a black SUV came tearing out of a side street and hit me straight on.

I went over the handlebars, landed on my back with my skull catching the curb. Everything went white. Blood on the asphalt.

My phone landed a couple feet away, teetering at the edge of a drainage ditch.

I got my arm under me and tried to push toward it. I knew my mother was waiting.

Then a pair of heels stopped in front of my face. Red-soled.

I tilted my head back.

Camille.

She crouched down and met my eyes.

Then she stretched out one foot and nudged my phone into the ditch with the toe of her shoe.

Then she raised that same shoe and stepped down on the hand I'd just reached out, slow and deliberate.

Bones shifted. The sound was small.

I pulled the noise back into my throat.

She smelled like Dante's cologne, his custom blend, the only bottle of its kind in the world. And now it was on her.

“This road is dangerous at night, Mia. You really shouldn't be riding alone.”

“Dante's leaving with me for Europe in a few days to sign our engagement papers. Women like you were never supposed to be part of his life.”

“Whatever he felt for you, that was a rich boy playing at something real. A little thrill from the other side of the tracks. When it was over, he was always going to come back and sit at the table next to mine.”

She stood up and walked back to the driver's seat.

“Don't worry. I already called Dante. He's on his way.”

She settled behind the wheel and leaned her forehead against it, just enough to smear her makeup.

The darkness at the edges of my vision kept pulsing in.

The blood from the back of my head was seeping down my neck, warm, then cooler.

My mother was all I could think about. Her repaired heart couldn't survive this. If she found out her daughter had been left here—

“...Camille.”

She looked up from the steering wheel. “What?”

“Please. My mother is in critical condition. I can't go down here.”

She blinked at me, then smiled, slowly. “Mia Rossi, are you actually begging me?”

I closed my eyes.

“...Please.”

Her laughter was the only answer.

Dante arrived before the ambulance. By then I could barely speak.

His car stopped. He went straight for Camille.

He didn't look at me.

“Camille!”

“Dante — I didn't see her, I swear I didn't see her—”

“Don't talk, don't talk.” He opened the door and helped her out. “Where does it hurt? Your head? Neck?”

“I feel dizzy—”

“I'm taking you home. The doctor's already there.”

He passed by me and paused for just a moment, keeping his voice down.

“Camille's one of us. She can't be seen here. I need to get her out. The ambulance is coming. Call me if anything changes.”

Then he was gone. I could just barely hear him, voice going soft, talking her through it.

“It's okay. I've got this. Don't worry.”

That last “baby” was for Camille.

They left.

My mind was strangely clear. I watched his taillights shrink, turn, and disappear.

He hadn't looked at me once, not from the moment he stepped out of that car to the moment it drove away.

If I still cared about him, I probably would have cried.

But watching those red lights vanish, I felt the cold concrete beneath me go somehow less cold.

I told myself: hold on. Don't you dare pass out. Mom is waiting.

But my thoughts were going foggy.

The wail of the ambulance was already fading by the time it reached me.

My last coherent thought was: [Dante. I'm done. There's nothing left.]