"Gelato mi impressiona," I say, telling them that gelato impresses me. Leo raises his eyebrows, and my father smiles softly. He walks over to me and kisses my forehead gently. "In case you've forgotten, Daddy, you're the one who taught me to speak Italian."
"Forget? No," my father says. "Sometimes, though. I do like to forget that you're no longer a little girl." My father walks toward the game room before turning around and staring at Leo. "Leave the mess, son. You've got a girl to impress. Just have her home by eleven." He leaves the room without turning around.
"That was a little awkward, wasn't it?" Leo asks. I blink at him before regaining my composure.
"What? Oh, no. My dad sold me to a Turk down the street for two sheep last week," I deadpan. I’m loosening up around Leo, and I can't decide if I like that or not. On one hand, I want to hate him and refuse to get to know him based on principle. On the other hand, he’s offering gelato and the chance to ditch cleaning duties. Once the smile brakes out on Leo's face, I decide that this doesn't have to be so bad after all. I just have to give him a chance.
"Seriously? I just paid three sheep. I think I've been ripped off," Leo says, laughing. I can't stop the smile that comes to my face.
"Whatever." I wave him off, setting the trash bag on the dining room table. "I'm going to let you take me out for gelato. That is so totally worth four sheep."
Leo leads me down the center hallway and out through the front door. We walk up to a black Mercedes sedan. He comes around the passenger's side and opens the door for me. I climb in; when he’s settled in the driver's seat, I look to him.
"Mafia Black, how original." I smile teasingly.
"Hey, it's standard issue. You know, your father didn't tell me how big of a smart ass you are."
I roll my eyes. "I'm sure there are a lot of things he didn't tell you," I respond. This conversation is making me uncomfortable. I don't like discussing my father with people I don't know very well.
"Is that so?" his eyes seem to darken as he looks at me, like he'd discovered something new and hidden. I wiggle in my seat, growing uncomfortable with the intensity in his eyes.
"Well, I am nineteen," I defend myself.
"Nineteen, right," he says and starts the car. The rest of the drive to the gelato shop is silent. I choose not to overanalyze it and instead just enjoy the quiet. Just as we are pulling up to A Taste of Sicily, I speak.
"You're twenty-three, right?" I ask. Leo confirms what I already know. "So why are you interested in a nineteen-year-old?" I stumble over my words, trying to make the question sound better, less insinuating, but no matter how I phrase it, it sounds insulting.
His frustration is palpable as he clenches and unclenches his grip on the steering wheel. Parking the car, he unbuckles himself and turns his large torso toward me. "I'm not interested in a nineteen-year-old, Alexandra. I'm interested in you. And you'll be twenty in a few months anyway. I’m not that much older than you." Leo's voice has taken on a darker note. He doesn't sound nearly as pleasant as he did earlier. He quickly composes himself, his face relaxing, and he’s back to being Mr. Charming.
"I didn't mean for it to come out like that," I say apologetically. He shrugs and gets out of the car, comes around to the passenger side and opens the door for me. He has manners, I'll give him that. I get out of the car and turn to the street. I've been to this place a hundred times or more. It’s not far from the house, but is even closer to Tony's place. This is the closest I'll be getting to Tony's party tonight. I don't think I want to be there, knowing what goes on and all, but I hate knowing I can't make that decision for myself. Mr. Muscles with the gold gun will see to it that I don't step foot in that direction.
Slick black sedans race down the street toward Tony's house—all of them Mercedes—completely indistinguishable from one another. They’re going well above the posted speed limit, which is unusual. My father's men know better than to break traffic laws for no apparent reason. It draws attention to them—puts a spotlight on the organization.
An ear-piercing, feminine scream rings out in the night air, and sounds of shouting follow. Leo stiffens immediately and wraps his hand around my upper arm, putting his body between me and the madness down the street. It isn't often that this kind of trouble happens around here these days. It’s pretty rare in fact. Since my father scooped up two other families, the competition’s been down, and his family has become too strong to really mess with.
More screams, more shouting—and then the screaming stops and there’s only a deep male voice yelling over the others. "I'll kill you, Fortino!" Michael.
I don’t think there will be a time when I’ll ever not know his deep baritone screams. My stomach sinks. We don’t say those words unless we mean them.