Chapter 3
Annamaria
Fifteen years old
Rafe: What are you up to today?
I smile at the text and flop onto the bed, kicking my feet up as I stare at the screen. Most of my mornings tend to begin this way. With a message from Raffaele.
It’s been almost two years since we started texting, and apart from a few phone calls here and there, this is how we prefer to be present in each other’s lives. It’s easy. Familiar. Safe. It’s everything and more. Some days, it’s all I have to hold onto.
Every time that thought crosses my mind, guilt follows close behind. I have a home. Food on the table. A roof over my head. A family that loves me. And yet, it’s Raffaele’s texts that bring me true joy.
Me: First class. Then piano recital. And later tonight, I have to go to a fundraiser with my parents.
Rafe: Boring!
I laugh because I can almost picture him rolling his eyes.
Rafe: Ditch school. Ditch the recital. And definitely ditch spending Friday night with old rich farts.
Rafe: Ditch it all. Go have fun instead.
I let out a sigh and turn over in my bed, burying my face between my pillows.
The way Raffaele is always so hungry for all that life has to offer would be contagious if it wasn’t so depressing by comparison.
Even if by some miracle I were brave enough to cut class, skip recital, and come up with an excuse to miss the fundraiser tonight, where would I go? What would I even do? Who would I have fun with?
The only friend I have is him, and he lives in another state. It’s not like I can drop everything and go see him in New York.
Not that I would, even if I could. In my house, New York has become synonymous with scum. Any time the Donato name is so much as mentioned, my entire family seems to sour, as if the surname itself were cursed.
Knowing he’s waiting for a response, I spin onto my back and type something else instead.
Me: What about you? What are you doing today?
Rafe: School. Home.
I frown. Where is his zest for life now?
Me: That’s it?
Rafe: What else?
My brows pinch together as the three little bubbles bounce up and down on the screen as he weaves another reply.
Rafe: I’ll also be texting the prettiest girl in all of Chicago the whole night through. Does that count?
I smile, small and shy.
Me: That counts.
Rafe: Then that’s what I’ll be doing. Unless my asshole of a father springs something on us.
My smile fades instantly.
Raffaele has made it clear over the years that there’s no love lost between him, his brothers, and their father. In fact, I think they all hate the man, which still surprises me.
I could never hate any of my fathers, and I have three of them.
Raffaele has never come out and given me the reason behind why he detests his father so much. Still, whatever it is must be valid because I can’t imagine him hating anyone, let alone his own blood.
Me: I’m sorry.
Rafe: It’s not your fault my dad’s a prick.
I frown again.
Me: What about your mom? Is she better?
The typing bubbles appear on the screen, then vanish. Then reappear. Then disappear again.
I bite the corner of my lip, already kicking myself for asking. Raffaele hardly ever speaks about his mom, and when he does, his texts are usually short and to the point.
The one time we managed to sneak away and FaceTime each other, he told me she was sick. That’s all he said. But I could tell it hurt him even to admit that.
Rafe: Can we talk about something else?
I let out a quiet sigh and nod, even though he can’t hear or see me.
Me: Sure. What do you want to talk about?
Rafe: Have you caught up with that show I told you about? About the girl with superpowers?
I smile when a slew of texts begin to come in explaining most of the plot of his new favorite show.
Deflection is Raffaele’s default setting.
Why talk about what is wrong in our lives when we could talk about anything but that?
And Raffaele never runs out of things to say.
He loves telling me about the movies he’s watched, new series he’s discovered, songs he’s heard.
His taste in music isn’t the same as mine, and neither is what he watches for entertainment, but I still find myself sitting through his shows just to feel closer to him.
I wonder if he ever picks up the poetry books I love, or listens to classical piano just to feel closer to me.
Sometimes I imagine him lying on this bed, his arms folded behind his head, eyes closed, simply taking in a piece by Chopin or Mozart. I know it’s silly. He probably wouldn’t be caught dead listening to classical music. Still, it’s a comforting image to fall asleep to.
Rafe: Shit. Gotta go. Nico is all up in my ass.
That’s all he says before sending me a quick snapshot of himself on a balcony, probably in his penthouse apartment, flashing a peace sign.
I stare at the picture and laugh. Raffaele’s long blonde hair is blowing in the wind, pushed back from his light eyes, his cheeks pink from the cold air.
“What’s got you smiling like that?” Stella asks, amusement lacing her tone.
I glance up just as she steps into the room, fresh from her morning shower, a towel twisted around her head and another wrapped securely around her frame.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, locking my phone and tucking it out of sight.
“Jesus, Anna. Relax. I’m not going to narc your burner phone to the parentals. It’s all good.” My jaw drops.
How long has she known I’ve had Raffaele’s phone this whole time? I even bought a new cover for it so it would look like the one Mom got me. But apparently, nothing gets past my sister. Absolutely nothing. I should’ve known.
“You promise you won’t tell?”
She leans in and hooks her pinky with mine. I smile widely and wrap my finger around hers.
“I swear. Sisters first, remember? I’ll always have your back,” Stella says with a wink.
“And I promise I’ll always have yours,” I vow, the tension melting away from my shoulders.
I love all my siblings, but Stella… she’s my person. I don’t know who I’d be without her.
“Now, quit looking at me with those googly eyes and get dressed. It’s a big day for you.” She laughs before turning toward the closet and pulling out her usual black ensemble.
I do as she says, slipping into my school uniform.
Today is a good day, and not just because Raffaele texted me. It’s the last day of school.
Eighth year has been especially hard. Cliques formed early in junior high. Tight, cruel little circles I was deliberately kept out of. Not that I had any interest in being part of something so exclusive and antagonizing. I do what I always do. I keep my head down and stay out of everyone’s way.
Somehow, my refusal to conform only makes me more of a target in their eyes. They tease me, bully me, whisper hateful things when they think the nuns aren’t looking. And I take it. I take it all in stride without so much as a word of complaint.
Sometimes, that only makes it worse. They see my unwillingness to react as weakness, when in fact it’s a small mercy I’m giving them. Because in doing so, no one will ever know the hell I’ve endured these past two years at school. And when I say no one, I mean my family. Especially my siblings.
Well, not so much the twins. Lucky and Enzo don’t scare me. If the twins ever found out, they’d probably plan some elaborate prank meant to humiliate my bullies.
But Stella? With her fondness for daggers, I don’t even want to imagine what she’d do to anyone she thought was harassing me.
And then there’s Marcello. He’d burn Sacred Heart to the ground if he so much as suspected someone had touched a hair on my head.
No. I can’t risk that.
I might not be as strong or as clever as my siblings, but I’ve learned how to bite my tongue. How to keep the peace. How to protect my brothers and my sister at all times, even if that means protecting them from themselves.
Most days, I spend my time counting the hours until I can leave school. Today, at least, there’s an end in sight. Just one more day. I can handle one more day. Then I’ll have the whole summer to recover. And then high school.
The twins will be seniors when I enroll as a freshman, which means I’ll have at least a year of grace before my torment begins again. No one will dare hurt me while they roam the halls. Once they graduate, though, it’s anyone’s guess.
Just one more day. You can handle one more day.
I repeat the mantra in a loop as the hours pass. And when nothing remarkable happens all morning, I almost believe I’ll finish the year on a high note. But hope is a dangerous thing to have. It blinds you to the dangers lurking around the corner.
My last class before lunch is P.E., and though I’m not athletic by any stretch, I manage well enough. When no balls are thrown at my head and no slurs are aimed in my direction, I almost enjoy myself.
Does this count as fun? I wonder, already imagining telling Raffaele how I managed to spike a volleyball over the net, win a point, and actually get congratulated for the effort.
When I return to the locker room to shower and change, I realize my day is far from over. Four girls from my class are standing by my locker. My open locker.
Blaire Kensington is the one holding Raffaele’s phone, twirling it between her fingers as if it belongs to her. Veronica Hale, Camille Prescott, and Madeline Sinclair flank her, watching me with matching smiles.
“That isn’t yours,” I say, panic seeping into my voice.
“Who says?” Blaire laughs, tossing it over to her friend.
“It’s locked,” Veronica complains when she tries to access it.
“Give it here,” Camille snarls, shoving the phone in my face, hoping it’ll scan me. When it doesn’t, she scowls.
“The bitch must’ve password-protected it,” Camille mutters in disappointment, throwing the phone back to Blaire.
“Give that back,” I demand, though the words sound weak even to my own ears.
“Unlock it,” Blaire orders, her low, growled demand far more forceful than mine.