“I’m not,” I sighed. “But Isabella is.”

“Ah, the Don’s daughter. She’s a nice girl.”

“She seems that way,” I agreed.

“‘Seems’ that way?” Paolo said in surprise.

I looked over at him like,You didn’t know?

“Shit, the Don really did an arranged marriage, huh?” Paolo asked.

“Yeah,” I said grimly.

“Fuuuuuuck. I thought that shit went out of style fifty years ago.”

“So did I.”

He laughed. “Bet you thought you were gonna have an easier life marrying her than getting up at the buttcrack of dawn and driving three hours to do gangster shit, huh?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I did.”

While Paolo drove, I read some poetry and was instantly surprised. Not by the poetry itself – but that Isabella was reading it. It had some pretty hardcore feminist stuff in it.

I smiled. She was smuggling stuff into the house that Don Vicari wouldn’t approve of, right under his nose.

He had a rebel in the house and didn’t even know it.

But poetry is likeouzo,a Greek liqueur that tastes like licorice:

Some love it, but I’m not a fan. And I definitely hadn’t developed a taste for it.

I eventually got sleepy, put the book down, and reclined the seat.

“I’m gonna take a nap.”

“Go for it, boss,” Paolo said.

I closed my eyes. With the hum of the engine and gentle vibration from the car, I was out in just a few minutes.

When I woke up, we were driving along the coast. The sun was sparkling over the Mediterranean as we sped down a highway with a lot more traffic on it.

“How long was I out?” I asked as I squinted against the light.

“Maybe an hour.”

“So we’re not even close yet, are we.”

“A little more than halfway. We just passed Catania.”

I had no idea where Catania was, but now I knew it was about halfway to Pozzallo.

As I rubbed my eyes, I thought about all the times I’d woken up in Cat’s bed.

My heart ached, and I would have given just about anything to be beside her right now.

Insideher would’ve been even better.

Maybe I could at least call her, though. I’d memorized her number a long time ago in case of emergency.