Upstate

Eleni

I glance at Dante out of the corner of my eye. After he dropped the bomb about the situation changing, I expected him to explain or something, but he only took my half-packed bag and loaded it into his car. He drove me away from his house in Staten Island a few minutes later, and we haven’t exchanged a word since then.

“Fuck, Philadelphia?” Dante says. “I was really hoping…no, no we can handle it.”

That’s not to say Dante hasn’t been talking. He’s spent the whole drive with his phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear, taking increasingly intense phone calls. This is the first mention of Philadelphia, and I have no idea what to make of that. The Lombardis only operate in New York, or so I thought. It’s hard to think of anything beyond how absolutely furious I still am.

He spins the wheel and pulls into a long, horseshoe-shaped drive. A house emerges out of the trees. Li