Page 33 of Dance of Deception

I grin, arching a brow and folding my arms over my chest.

“Really pushing the limits on the ‘casual’ part of ‘casual formal attire', aren’t you.”

She rolls her eyes and flips me off.

“I was at work, okay? Besides, that rule is just for you guys.”

Sunday dinner has always been a big thing with Vito. I mean, hello: Italian family. But this whole “dress sharp for it” thing is more recent, possibly stemming from his forays into cooking dinner himself as of about a year ago.

At least his cooking has gotten substantially better. Thank God. At first, I gotta say, it felt almost insulting to be asked to dress up for legit vomit-inducing undercooked poultry or blackened lasagna.

I mean, I’m a shitty Catholic who has no fucking idea who any of the saints are. But I’m confident whichever one is in charge of cooking put a fucking hex on our house and probably offedthemselves into the bargain after seeing Pop murder something basic likecacio e pepe.

I frown. “What you mean, 'you guys'?”

“I mean youguys. The boys.” She shrugs, grinning. “Dad doesn’t care if I dress up.”

“What makes you think that?”

Bianca winks. “Because I’m hispriiiincesss,” she teases.

I roll my eyes, and she cracks up.

Bianca is one of the few people in the world who sees me and doesn’t expect any power plays or politics. Just family.

And believe me, anyone who once felt the need to mention her nottechnicallybeing my blood has long since learned to shut the fuck up.

Bianca, like her brother Dante, have been Barones since the day my father took them in.

Their old man, Angelo Sartorre, was our dad’s tailor and close friend, one of the few people Vito trusted implicitly. When Angelo died, leaving his kids with no one, my father didn’t hesitate.

He opened his home and raised them as his own.

Dante was already almost a man back then, but Bianca was just a kid. Now she’s standing here, all grown up,married, carrying her oversized bag like she didn’t just spend the last four hours ruining her body at rehearsal.

I shake my head. “You’re a masochist, you know that?”

She frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Ballet.” I gesture at the kinesiology tape wrapped around her calf. “You literally make a career out of destroying yourself and calling it art.”

She huffs. “You literally make a career out of destroyingothersand calling it business.”

“Fair.” I grin. “Wanna switch jobs? You can run the criminal empire, I’ll wear the tutu and jump around on stage.”

She snorts. “Please. You’d last fiveminutesin my world.”

I’ve seen Bianca dance enough, seen the wounds she carries home. Five minutes is generous. I doubt I’d lastone.

I glance at her bag again, at the tape still wrapped around her leg.

I think of the other dancer.

The one I caught.

The one who ran.

The one who is still in my fucking head, the phantom pressure of her body still lingering against my hands.

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