By Any Other Name Read Online Free

wondered how he had fared after their arrest. Had he been released, too? Did he even have anybody to call to get him out? Her father told her not to see him anymore, but well, she was never very good at listening.
    And even sober, she still thought the guy was pretty damn cute.
    "Genevieve?"
    Her eyes shot to her father's when he called her name. "Yes?"
    "Where's your mind?" he asked. "I've been trying to talk to you for the past few minutes."
    "I, uh... nowhere. Sorry, I'm listening."
    "I was asking about Umberto Ricci."
    Her brow furrowed. Why's he asking me about Dante's friend ? "What about him?"
    "You and him ought to get together. You know, go out sometime."
    She grimaced. "Really, Dad?"
    "Yeah, what's wrong with him? He's a nice Italian boy. The two of you would make a good family together."
    "He's Umberto! He's like, four feet tall." Not to mention the fact that he could never carry a conversation. Talking to him was painful. "Besides, didn't he just get out of jail? For the second time?"
    "Yeah, so?"
    "Jackson steals one car and he's the spawn of Satan. Umberto makes a living breaking the law and you practically try to marry me off to him! What gives?"
    Primo scoffed and looked away, turning right back to his dinner. He wouldn't answer, but he didn't really need to. Genna knew why.
    Umberto Ricci worked for him.
    "Whatever," she muttered, shifting more food around on her plate. "I'm not interested in making a family with Umberto, but thanks, anyway."
    Before her father could scold her for her curt tone, a ringing cell phone shattered the silence. Dinner was interruption-free time, all of their phones turned off and put away, except for one. It was one her father carried with him everywhere—one everyone knew was reserved solely for emergencies. Genna had never dialed that number before and hoped to never have to.
    They tensed, watching as Primo grabbed the phone and answered swiftly with a simple command: "Talk."
    The call lasted less than thirty seconds. Her father hung up without saying another word. Sighing, Primo shoved his chair back, tossing his napkin down, as he looked between Genna and her brother. "Barsanti."
    No elaboration. No explanation. It was unnecessary, anyway. Dinner was over twenty minutes early. Primo marched from the room, a man on a mission, while the word lingered around them in his wake, like a heavy, ominous cloud of noxious fumes, hell bent on poisoning whoever breathed it in.
    Barsanti .
    Fuck. Shit. Goddamn. Cunt. Cocksucker . None of those words held a fraction of the offense of uttering the curse Barsanti around the Galante household. If Genna's mother had been there, the mere sound of it would have driven her to prayers as she madly made the sign of the cross, outraged to have the blasphemous word spoken at her dinner table.
    At that thought, Genna carefully set her fork down, giving up the façade of being interested in eating ever again , as her gaze drifted to the empty chair right beside her. It had been vacant for a little over four years, but every single night, without fail, a plate and silverware were set at it like someone might actually sit there again someday.
    The chair across from it, too, remained uninhabited, also set for dinner, never again to be used. That one had been unoccupied for as long as Genna could remember. She had only been two at the time, much too young to recall what happened.
    Dante had been five, though. It was his first memory… one she knew he would never forget. He carried the scars with him, mentally and physically, the skin on his chest thickened and distorted from extensive third-degree burns, his perception forever tainted.
    "I should go," Dante said quietly, standing up. "Dad might need me."
    Genna nodded but otherwise ignored him as he walked out. She always wondered what he thought at these moments, if he was reliving that day—their fatal run-in with the Barsantis.
    To nobody's surprise, New York was a hot spot for organized crime. Five