Indebted to the Mafia King
Enemies Too

Eleni

I stare at the scene around me in something between surprise and horror.

This is Dante's backyard. I look up and see his house looming over the party. But instead of the yard being filled with gunfire or hushed conversation, classic rock blares from a pair of speakers. Dante himself stands at the grill, flipping burgers and nursing a light beer I've never seen him drink before. Tony and a couple other capos hold court by the grill. A few East Asian men Dante warned me when they walked in were representatives of the triads chat with some Saints soldiers. Cal Duncan stands alone by the pool, holding a bottle of dark beer he brought and surveying the scene. I turn away, toward the platter of watermelon salad-whatever the fuck that is-before his gaze can alight on me. Still, it looks like something out of a coming-of-age movie, not a tense meeting between some of the most dangerous men in New York City.

The only concession to normalcy is the color palette of Dante's outfit. Sure, he's wearing cargo shorts laden with grill tools and the remote for the speakers, as well as a short-sleeved button down that dances terrifyingly close to the Hawaiian shirt line, but all of it is blessedly black. It feels like an anchor in a surreal storm.

Nicky breezes up to me in a skin-tight white sundress with a passel of wives in tow. I adjust my romper, a dark charcoal to compliment Dante's outfit, which fits me tighter than any single piece of clothing I've ever owned but gives me more maneuverability than her dress allows.

"Eleni!" She throws her arms out for a hug.

I hug her back. After a few weeks of barbecue meetings, the embrace has become non-negotiable.

"Aren't you so cute." She releases me. "You two are a matched set these days, huh?"

I shrug. "I wanted people to be able to pick me out of the crowd."

"You and me both." Val squeezes me and passes me down the line. "So, has he popped the question yet?"

My stomach drops to my toes. Dante hasn't breathed a word about the ring box I found, which seems really weird if it's just the ring we already talked about. Could the wives know more than I do?

"Oh, ignore her." Nicky rolls her eyes. "Val is just a gossip monger. If you're not ready, you're not ready."

"I'm-"

"No, what she should really be asking about is kids," Nicky continues. "Obviously, you'll get married when you do, but it's never too early to start thinking about school districts." "School districts?" Val screeches. "God, Nicky, you'll move them to Scarsdale before she even knows he's serious."

"Oh, like Dante would've gone this far if he wasn't—"

I close my eyes and let their bickering fade into the background, another skill I've developed over the weeks of meetings. Mama and Baba would've loved this. The first few years, they tried to throw a Fourth of July party to "have the real American experience," but none of the other Greek immigrants they made friends with really cared.

After three years of Christos and I sitting sullenly next to a melting red-white-and-blue cake we both refused to eat, they gave up, and we just watched the fireworks every year instead. If Mama was here right now, no one's drink would get lower than a few sips deep before she'd already refilled it, and she'd still find time to bother Dante about his grilling technique. I allow myself a small smile. Maybe next year.

The bickering abruptly falls silent, and I open my eyes. A stunning woman maybe a decade older than me with long, cornsilk-blonde hair looks around the backyard.

"Oh my god," Nicky whispers. "I didn't think she'd come."

"She's got some coglioni." Val snickers.

"Who is that?" I ask, watching her float through the backyard, talking to this group and that. Everyone seems to light up at her arrival.

"Camila Donato." Nicky smiles conspiratorially. "The widow Marco, one of Enzo's capos."

It takes me a second to connect the name "Enzo" with Dante's father, partially because Camila looks more like she's Dante's age than his dad's.

"Why is it weird that she's here?" I ask.

"Don't worry, doll, it's all rumor." Nicky puts an arm around my shoulders and turns me away from Camila. "All you need to know is she gets taken care of like a made man's woman deserves. Apartment in the city, spending money, all courtesy of...the Saints."

More snickers break out. I whip back to look at the other wives, and Camila catches my attention again. She's wearing a simple, floral sundress, but something about the fabric or the cut makes her look like she's caught in her own private music video, the wind tousling skirt and hair in perfect unison.

"The girl deserves to know the truth," Val says with a click of her tongue. "The rumors say she killed Marco. And he wasn't even hitting her or nothing."

"Val!" Nicky says. "If that were true, she wouldn't be a kept woman."

As I watch, Dante looks up from the grill and notices Camila. A smirk floats across his expression. When I turn back to Camila, I catch the ghost of a smirk on her lips before she notices me. She looks me up and down with icy grace, and something sick shivers down my spine.

I don't like Camila.

Dante flips a burger, then shuts the lid and strides across the lawn toward me. Nicky releases me quickly enough that Dante doesn't even have to pause before sliding his arm around my waist.

"All right, folks, grub's up in a second." He raises his cup. "But first, I'd like to give a toast. Usually, I brag about how well we're doing, what we can look forward to in the upcoming year." He grins down at me. "But this time, I want to brag about this woman right here. Eleni is a tribute to the Saints, a literal lifesaver, and someone I'm so happy to call mine."

He dips me into a kiss, and people whoop. But when he tips me back onto my feet, laughing, I can't help but notice Camila is staring at us.

No, not us. Dante. With a predatory look in her green eyes.