Vendetta

“Really?” I reclined and stretched my body out in one long, angular yawn, blinking up at the ceiling. “That sounds great.” And expensive.

My mother carried the dress across the room with her, hopping over old sweatshirts and unfolded jeans as she went. She hung it inside the closet and, with one final disgruntled — hypocritical — look at the floor, she edged back out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts, which turned to the strange dream I’d just had. Like a jolt of electricity, the feeling of Nic’s kiss took hold of me again and I felt my stomach clench uncomfortably at the memory of how he had left me so suddenly. I hoped I wasn’t doomed to relive his desertion in my nightmares, too. There were still so many questions floating around in my head, and no way for me to get the answers I desperately wanted. I clutched at the red velvet uneasiness in my stomach and groaned. Maybe a party was exactly what I needed to take my mind off everything.

* * *

The black ponytail stuck out of Gino Priestly’s head like a noir mini palm tree. Beside him, the lights were dancing off Dom’s overly gelled helmet of hair. What the hell were they doing here?

“What is it, sweetheart? Don’t you like the quiche?”

I refocused my attention on my mother, who was sitting across from me. “It’s good. I’m just a bit overheated.”

“You’ve been so quiet since we got here. I thought you’d like this place. Is it too fancy?”

As concern etched across her features, a fresh heap of guilt consumed me. I shook my head more vehemently this time. “Are you kidding? This place is great.” I gestured around at the Eatery’s monochrome décor: The black granite floors were inlaid with intricate floral designs; the tables were covered with expensive white cloths; and all around the restaurant, Romanesque pillars wound toward the ceiling. The walls were decorated with black-and-white photographs of twentieth-century Chicago and dotted incrementally with glass lighting fixtures. “Makes a welcome change from the diner.”

My mother smiled and took a sip of her Chardonnay. “Speaking of the diner, I wanted to talk to you about that …”

I let my attention fall on Gino and Dom again — or rather, on the backs of their heads — and wondered about the odds of us being at the same restaurant. It was miles away from Cedar Hill, right in the center of Chicago, and since it was one of the best restaurants in the city, it was more of an eye-wateringly expensive, special occasion kind of place. The karma gods must have been enjoying the show.

At least Nic and Luca weren’t with their brothers. I tried to remind myself of how horrible Nic had been the other night, but it was difficult to forget all the other things about him: the softer, funnier, kinder things. The way he smiled, the way he had pressed his lips against mine … the way he drove away from me in the middle of the night without a second glance. I flinched.

“Sophie?”

“What?” I took another bite of my quiche Lorraine, wondering why I had ordered it. Then again, I didn’t understand the majority of the fancy menu and I wasn’t convinced I would enjoy “truffle-infused fries” as much as normal ones.

“I want to talk to you about the diner.”

“OK, shoot.”

Behind my mother, Gino was recoiling from something the bald man sitting across from him had said. Dom sat on his brother’s right and there was a narrow, taller man on his left, his back half-turned to me. It was Felice — I would have wagered my meal. Even though they were at the other side of the restaurant, curled around one another in a secluded corner booth, the faint smell of honey was hanging in the air. I was sure of it. Or I was going crazy.

I averted my eyes.

My mother was still talking, her hands flailing animatedly in front of her. “… placed unfair expectations on you. You need to get out more and spread your wings, don’t you think?”

A buzzing sound tugged at my attention. A bee had found its way inside the restaurant and was circling the table next to us.

“Get out of where?” I asked, dragging my gaze back to my table and scolding myself for being so distractible. I could still see it, though — a small blur of yellow and black in my peripheral vision.

“The diner.”

I jabbed my fork into my quiche. “What about the diner?”

The man I didn’t recognize got up from the Priestly table. He was tall and bald, with a high forehead and a thick black mustache that dominated his angular face. He grunted as he passed a waitress, and then disappeared through the restroom doors.

“I think you should quit. It’s too taxing on your energy and you barely have any free time.”

Now that I had heard it in its entirety, I was surprised by her suggestion. I set my fork down and swallowed the mouthful of quiche in one overzealous gulp. “But it’s Dad’s. I thought the whole plan was for me to run it until he gets back.” I didn’t know why I was fighting against her idea — the thought of running the diner when I turned eighteen had never excited me; I had always known it wasn’t my calling.

The bee whizzed past my face, missing my nose by an inch. My mother dropped her fork and released a small yelp.

“Sorry,” she explained sheepishly, regaining her composure. “They always give me such a fright.”

“I think bees are kind of cute,” I said, trying to put her at ease.

Across the restaurant, the bee was zigzagging toward the Priestly table. Probably returning to its “master,” I thought, registering the back of Felice’s silver head again.