I had loved Antonio Moretti since I was six years old. It started with a lemon ice. We were at some mafia garden party Father’s associates laughing over cigars, Livia twirling in a lace dress, and me, hiding behind the hedges like a feral cat. Antonio, barely eight but already princely in his little suit, had broken away from the adults. He’d found me crouched in the dirt, knees scraped from where Livia had pushed me earlier. “You look sad,” he’d said. Then, without another word, he’d shoved his half eaten lemon ice into my hands and run off. It was the first kindness I’d ever tasted. Ten years later, I was still starving for it. The day Antonio came back, I was scrubbing blood from my fingernails when I heard Father’s voice through the study door. “Moretti’s arriving at seven. Keep Livia ready. And for God’s sake, hide Selene.” My heart lurched. Antonio. I didn’t care about the hide Selene part. I was already running to the servants’ quarters, to the one thing I owned that wa
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