There’s a scrape of a fork. Someone coughs. “I was just telling Angelo you’re from Devil’s Dip,” Alberto says carefully, pinning me with a wary glare. A don’t-you-dare-embarrass-me glare. “Angelo grew up there too. I’m sure you two will have much to talk about.” Angelo checks his watch, then returns his gaze to the wallpaper above Dante’s head. “Not much to discuss,” he drawls. “That place is a shit hole.” Tor lets out a loud laugh, and next to him, Dante smirks into his lowball glass. “Why’d you go back then?” Silence. It’s hot and heavy and my comeback hangs in the dining room like an ugly
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