That’s how I felt about Chase. How Mo felt about Tex, and I’m assuming how Trace felt about Nixon.
They had so many damn pieces of us that losing them would be like losing yourself. How did a person ever recover from that?
“Mo?” Trace cleared her throat. “He’ll come around, I promise. Tex is just — different. He needs time to adjust.”
“He’s had five damn years to adjust, Trace.”
“Adjust?” I whispered out loud. Crap. I totally meant to ask that question in my head.
Both Trace and Mo turned with blank stares.
“You really don’t know who Tex is? After everything that’s gone on? You’re not playing dumb?” Mo asked, her face unbelieving.
“No.” I shook my head. “Guys, I was at a boarding school for like half of my life. I was tort—” My voice fell. They didn’t need to know my past, my reasons for doing what I was doing, for being what I was.
Mo nodded. “She’ll find out tomorrow anyway. It’s fine. Just — just tell her. I’m going to use the bathroom.”
Mo got up and walked the short distance to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
I got up from the bed and paced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interfere or—”
“It’s fine.” Trace waved me off. “But you may need more wine.” She grabbed my cup and filled it to the brim. “And I’d recommend sitting. I’m sorry. I really did think you knew.”
“Knew what?” Okay, seriously. I was going to lose my mind and start shooting at things.
Trace took a large gulp and bit down on her lip, her eyes wide with… something. Was it fear?
“Mil… Tex is Vito Campisi’s biological son.”
The wine fell from my hand to the blood-red floor. It happened in slow motion, the wine hitting the ground, my shriek, and then I saw it again, the blood. Hell, there was so much blood.
“Mil!” Trace pushed me away from the wine as it splattered against my jeans. I stood motionless. Unable to really think clear enough to say anything or do anything — I stared.
“I’ll get a towel.” Trace cursed.
Time was still going by slow, so I wasn’t sure if she was gone five seconds or five minutes, but soon, white towels covered the mess: the red of the wine seeping into the purity of the white color, soaking every last thread until the towel was just as hellish as the liquid that filled it.
I used to be that towel.
White.
“Maybe you should sit down.” Trace pushed me onto the bed just as Mo came out of the bathroom, her eyes puffy.
“Wow, you took that news well.” Mo wiped her cheeks and smiled through fresh tears.
“His son?” I repeated. “But—”
“I’ll give you the short version,” Mo interrupted. “Tex was sent away when he was really little to stay with our family. A sort of mafia war or something broke out in parts of Sicily, and they thought the heir to the awesomeness that is the Campisi family would be safer in America with one of the most powerful families in the States.”
Trace joined us on the bed, quiet as Mo continued the story.
“I don’t know exactly what happened. I mean, we were all still in diapers, but the truce was broken by one of the families — either the Campisis or the Abandonatos. Nobody really knows, but in the end, um… in the end, Tex stayed until he was old enough to make a choice. See, he didn’t really know his own family. Again, I don’t know the whole story. Some say the Abandonatos stole the heir and caused an all-out war — another fun reason we don’t ever deal directly with the Campisi family, but go through Luca, the minion, if you will.”
I nodded, taking my time to process what she’d just said. “But what about five years ago? You said he’s had five years to adjust.”
“Right.” Mo sniffled again. “Thanks to my jackass of a dad, nobody told Tex — or any of us — until five years ago. By then the choice was basically made for him. Turn his back on the family he’s known his entire life, never to see them again, move to Sicily and take his place… or stay.”
“And be cut off.” Trace finished.
“Cut off?” I repeated. “What does that even mean?”
“He’s not an Abandonato, and he’s not technically a Campisi. — I mean, I guess he is. Blood and all that. He’s just not recognized by them. Tex is a made man. His birthright is bluer than anyone in America, but to claim it means—”
“Losing everything,” I finished. “So he stayed.”
“And he gets paid handsomely,” Mo said tightly. “But nothing like what he deserves.”
After a few moments of silence, I giggled.
Trace’s and Mo’s eyes widened with horror, but I couldn’t stop the fit of laughter erupting out of me.
Wow, I wasn’t making any friends, but I couldn’t help it. “After all that, you still want to eat everything in the mini-bar and charge it to his card?”
“Hey.” Mo cracked a smile and then started laughing. “He could be a freaking saint, and I would still charge to his damn card. That guy is a pain in my ass!”
“But you still love him.” Trace smiled, patting Mo’s leg. “Admit it.”
“I admit nothing.” Mo closed her eyes and crossed her arms, then with a loud laugh said, “Except… I’ve been eyeing those stupid M&M’s for the last ten minutes. I don’t care who pays for them. I just need food. Too many tears were shed, and chocolate cures everything.”
“And wine,” I added. “Chocolate and wine.”
“And hot men.” Trace winked at me.
“Weird, because aren’t the hot men what drive you toward the chocolate and wine? Yet after you’re done with all that self-loathing, you crawl right back to the six-pack with a silly grin on your face and stars in your eyes.”
“Hmph,” we all said in unison. I took a swig of wine directly from the bottle.
“Speaking of six-packs.” Trace cleared her throat. “How’s Chase?”
The wine spewed out of my mouth, landing on the red floor. The dark carpet soaked up the red immediately leaving a large wet spot that looked more like water than anything.
“We’re so going to have to pay damages.” Mo shook her head. “And we’ve been here like fifteen minutes.”
“Our damage is a wine stain in their red carpet. It’s Vegas. That’s normal.”