“It does not,” he heard the boy say.
“Does too,” Violet said in her sing-song way. “Brown, red, orange, and yellow. Everywhere.”
Alberto stopped walking, confused. What was his child doing?
“What about the sky?” Kazimir asked.
“Gray—like your daddy’s eyes.”
Kazimir’s brow puckered. “But the grass is still green?”
“Very green. Like your jacket.”
Violet closed her eyes, still kicking her legs and smiling.
“Where is the sun, then?” the boy asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Violet laughed. “I closed my eyes, so now I can’t see it, either.”
“But you were supposed to be helping me see, Violet.”
Alberto watched his daughter’s eyes pop back open instantly.
“It’s hiding behind the clouds,” she said. “But we’ll find it again.”
Alberto didn’t quite know what to think. Children weren’t like adults. They didn’t understand the boundaries between cultures, and surely not ones as difficult as Cosa Nostra and Bratva.
But there his girl was, helping a Russian boy to see, in her own little way.
It was still time to go.
“Violet,” Alberto called. “It’s time to go have some gelato.”
Kazimir frowned.
Violet jumped off the bench without argument. “Next time, Kaz.”
“Okay,” the boy agreed, his frown fading.
Alberto didn't correct the children.
Life would teach them.
It always did.
Her father was going to kill her, if the alcohol didn’t first.
Violet Gallucci had waited for this day—the day she finally turned twenty-one—counting down until she was able to taste the freedom that her birthday brought. Until now, she had been confined to the places her father deemed appropriate. And when it wasn’t him breathing down her neck, it was her brother, Carmine.
And she had toed the line, doing exactly what was asked of her, even as she had rebelled in small ways.
But tonight, she was pushing the boundaries as far as they would go, teetering on the edge. Violet might have known what her father would say if he knew where she was headed, buckled into the backseat of the cab with two of her best friends, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Amelia was to her left, texting away on her phone. She was oblivious to everything around them, her brows drawn together as she read whatever excuse her boyfriend, Franco, was feeding her as to why they wouldn’t be able to hang out later.
Then there was Nicole to her right, whose gaze was rapt on the passenger window, watching the city pass them by as they sped toward the outer limits of Brooklyn to Coney Island. She was the quietest of the three, and the one most anxious about where they were going, but being the good friend that she was, she’d dutifully come along.
And right in the middle, was Violet. She had been nervous before they left, but a shot of raspberry tequila had fixed that and now she was just bubbling with excitement. It wasn’t just the club they were heading to that had her adrenaline flowing, it was the risk—the thrill of something she knew was against the rules.
But, she never outright broke the rules her father had set forth, merely bent them a little.
“Franco is an asshole,” Amelia muttered with a frown as she locked the screen of her phone and dropped it in her lap. “Remind me again why I put up with his shit?”
“Because you love him?” Violet asked.
“Because he’s the only one of your boyfriends that your father approved of,” Nicole supplied, finally looking away from the passing scenery and to her friend.
“That’s not entirely true,” Violet said. “He liked … what was his name, Ben?”
Amelia made a face. “Because he was a political trust fund baby.”
Violet shrugged. “He still approved.”
Amelia scowled as her phone buzzed again, her attention on whatever message had come in. Nicole tossed Violet a look, rolling her green eyes.
“Still loves him,” Violet said, too quietly for Amelia to hear.
Nicole shook her head. “Not the kind of man to love.”
Amelia didn’t seem to notice her friends’ discussion, or she just didn’t care, with her phone in her hand and Franco giving her his time.
The three girls had been friends for longer than Violet could remember. She had memories of playing in the middle of a giant pile of tulle ballet skirts, dressing up with her mother’s shoes, and stealing the makeup from her vanity. All those memories featured Nicole, Amelia, or both, in some capacity.
In a way, her best friends had been picked for her.
Violet knew it was true.
Alberto, her father, kept Violet on a leash that was shorter than anyone actually knew. Sometimes it didn’t seem like it was there, but it was. Her friends were just one example of that.