Addictive.
Violet tugged the collar of her dress outward from her neck, exposing the discolored mark to her reflection. She had the means to hide it if she needed to—clothes and makeup, but she couldn’t help but keep going back to it every single time she had the chance to do so without being caught or questioned.
Before she could think better of it, Violet grabbed her phone from her purse resting on the bathroom counter. She unlocked the device, opened the messages, and found the contact she wanted. Holding the phone at an angle that would keep her face hidden, she snapped a shot, making sure the mark was visible, and then sent it off.
A message quickly followed, but not from who she expected when she glanced back down at the phone.
Her father’s number lit up the screen. For a moment, Violet panicked, thinking she had sent that picture to the wrong person, but she opened up the message to find it was just coincidence.
Gee will be at the main entrance of the University in ten minutes, the text read. Another followed right after. Do not keep him waiting.
Violet cussed under her breath, gaze cutting back to the mirror. How in the hell was she supposed to fix her grades—yet another thing her father still wasn’t aware of—and manage to keep from flunking out the semester, if she couldn’t even get a full day of classes in?
It didn’t even matter.
She glanced back down at her phone again, waiting for a message from Kaz, responding to that picture.
It didn’t come.
She didn’t have the time to wonder why.
Her father was waiting.
Violet found the Gallucci mansion lit up and full of people when she arrived. The tone of her father’s text message had not suggested there was a last minute party or dinner going on that he wanted her to attend, so she was confused at the sight of so many vehicles and people milling about.
That idea quickly faded away when she realized it was all men.
Her father’s men.
Gee, who would usually open her door to let her out, exited the vehicle without so much as a goodbye. Violet, more confused than ever, grabbed her messenger bag and purse off the floor before leaving the backseat of the car. Inside the house, she found several familiar faces going in between rooms and chatting quietly.
Too quietly for her to really discern what was being said.
After she had put her things away—but made sure to keep her phone hidden in her dress pocket—Violet went in search of her parents. As she passed her father’s men, she heard snippets of conversations she probably wasn’t supposed to, but took note of anyway.
“Russian, yeah,” one man said.
“Carmine was down awful deep in Brooklyn,” said another.
“It could have been worse,” came someone else’s opinion.
Violet’s brow furrowed as she took the random statements in. What exactly had happened that would cause enough of a fuss for her father to call his men to his home, not to mention her?
Passing by the entertainment room, Violet saw her friends—old friends—chatting to one another in a corner. Amelia and Nicole barely noticed her as she stopped to at least acknowledge their presences. In two weeks, they had said less than a few words to her in passing, and that was only if they had no other choice.
No calls. No messages.
No dinners or time at the clubs on the weekends.
Kaz had been right, in a way. Her friends weren’t very real at all when it came right down to it. They blamed her entirely for a situation that had been caused by all three of their choices, not just hers.
But she didn’t really care.
Better to move on, and let it go.
Dwelling on it wouldn’t do her any damn good. Amelia and Nicole probably figured she would eventually make her way back into the folds with an apology and a willing acceptance to take all the blame.
Violet was done with those games.
Entirely.
They were not in high school anymore, and she refused to indulge their desire to act like they were.
Finally, Violet found at least one person she was looking for. Her father was in his favorite spot—his office. Leaning over his desk with palms pressed to the top and his knuckles white from the pressure, Alberto looked fit to have a spell. Her father was not a small man by any means. His larger size dominated the room in presence alone, and he often came off as intimidating to others who didn’t know him well.
But she knew him.
And right then, while Alberto looked angry, she could see his worry—his panic.
Alberto nodded to a man at his side—Vito, Amelia’s father, and his underboss—when Vito said something too low for the rest to hear. Across from his desk, Carmine stood with his arms crossed and a deep scowl etched on his face.
“You can’t just let it go unanswered,” Carmine said.