"THAT IS NOT FUNNY."

"Come on. It's a little funny."

I shake my head. "You think it's funny because you weren't there. Believe me, it was terrible. It was awful. It was-"

"Humiliating? Embarrassing? Awkward?"

"Hey!"

Vittoria grins. "What? I thought we were just supplying words."

I give her a look. "Well, we weren't."

Just then, the waiter arrives holding two plates. Penne for me, gnocchi with basil for Vittoria. The scent of tomato sauce and grated Parmesan cheese is heavenly.

Around a forkful of pasta, Vittoria says, "So . . . this all happened this morning?"

I swallow and nod. "This morning. Which begs the question-how much did I drink last night?"

Vittoria's eyes flicker guiltily. I may have met her only a few days ago, but as my roommate, I've noticed one particular tell of hers-that conscience. That guilty, guilty conscience.

As she dips her fork into the gnocchi, her eyes dart away. "Well, the alcohol I ordered was a little stronger than what you . . . Americans . . . might be used to. Here, in Italy, we drink wine with everything, which means our tolerance is high."

I finish for her. "And you need stronger drinks to actually get drunk."

Vittoria nods, a nervous smile twisting her lips. "Sorry, mia cara."

I wave her off. "It's fine. Just please-a warning next time?"

Her answering grin is devilish.

I dig into the plate, and Vittoria says, "When do you think you'll see her again?"

I shrug. "Probably never. I don't even know her name."

Vittoria narrows her eyes. "Listen here. This isn't your little Americano city . . . Las Vegas? New York?"

"Los Angeles," I supply.

"Right. Los Angeles. This is a small city, and everyone knows everyone. Chances are, I know your little girlfriend." She twirls her fork in the air, and a wide grin splits her face. "Oh . . . I know. You'll see her at the Gala this venerdi!"

Venerdi. Friday.

"Gala? What Gala?"

Vittoria's eyes are dreamy, lit by the glow of the golden light bulbs. "Oh, it's just the most beautiful art ball in the world. The university students are all invited, and they put these great works on display for everyone to see. Once, they even had the Mona Lisa brought over."

Images of the Desperate Dancer painting in the woman's room flit through my mind's eye. I push them away. She was lying. She had to be. I didn't steal anything.

"And she'll be there?" I say doubtfully.

Vittoria opens her mouth to respond, but in the next second her arms are across the table and she yanks me down to floor.

Gunshots ring across the restaurant. The window shatters. Glass sprays.

Screams pierce the dark, and then I hear it: The sound of an engine, roaring. Then wind rushes through the broken windows, and the vehicle takes off.

From where I'm laying on the ground, head tucked into my arms, I slowly lift myself up.

"What the hell was that?" I ask, breathless. Eyes wide.

Vittoria stands, brushes herself off. She doesn't look at me, but instead at a man who has rushed to the front of the restaurant. Judging from the way he's dressed, I know he's the owner.

Too quickly for me to catch on, she begins to speak to him. "Cos'hai fatto? Come li hai fatti impazzire?"

Something about making people mad?

The man shakes his head, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Ero a corto di soldi e ho cambiato la mia alleanza con la famiglia Genovese. Non potevo permettermi la protezione dei Falcones."

He couldn't afford something . . . but what?

Vittoria's voice suddenly becomes very soft and very, very dangerous."Sei sotto la protezione della famiglia Genovese?"

Blinking tears from his eyes, the man gestures to the room. At the people, crouching down on the ground, the others gathering their things to leave."Sì, ma che importa? I Falcones hanno appena sparato ai miei clienti. Gli affari sono rovinati."

Vittoria's eyes are hard, cold. I only met her last week, and even though we've been roommates for less than seven days, I have never seen her like this. Furious.

"Non preoccuparti di questo. Lo abbiamo coperto," she says.

This time, I understand the last sentence: We'll take care of this.

We?

Vittoria moves towards me and urges me to collect my things. The owner pushes away everyone who tries to pay, but Vittoria shoves euros into his hand anyway.

In English, she says, "Take care."

The owner nods briefly, looking grave. "Grazie."

Outside of the restaurant, in the cool night air, I glance at Vittoria. Too full of questions to ask one. I've never seen anything like that before-a drive-by at a restaurant?

Vittoria takes in my expression, and as we walk, begins to explain.

"What you saw back there . . . it's part of a long, long history between the three families in Sicily. The Genoveses, the Abruzzis, and the Falcones."

The streets are empty ahead of us, lit by the golden glow of the streetlamps. Beneath our feet, the cobblestone shines with damp rain.

"For as long as anyone can remember, they've always been at war. Fighting for money. Territory. Women. People here, around these streets-they pay for protection. But sometimes the price is too steep, and they can't afford it. Back there at the restaurant, the owner bought the protection of the Falcones . . . but he couldn't keep it. So he cut a deal with the Genoveses. And the gunshots? That was the retaliation of the Falcones."

"They're the Mafia," I guess.

Vittoria nods grimly. "They own this city. Everything except the churches . . . and the universities. Otherwise, you'd have to pick a side."

Something occurs to me. Hesitantly, I say, "Back there, you said-we. We are going to take care of this."

Vittoria's eyes cloud over. Instead of answering my question, she says, "Two years ago, something happened. Something that put into motion the events of today. The Falcones never should have retaliated with gunshots during a time when innocent civilians could be hurt, but this has become the normal for them. Killing when angered."

I can't help but ask. "Why?"

"It's revenge. If it had been the Abruzzi family the restaurant cut a deal with, they wouldn't have fired their guns on innocents. But it wasn't. It was the Genoveses."

I hold my breath. Waiting.

"Two years ago, the Genovese don slaughtered the Falcone don. But not only that . . . the Genoveses killed his entire family. Unprovoked. With no reason anyone can think of. Sure, they were at war-but murdering all of them, especially when they did business? Unheard of."

"And that's why the Falcones are so harsh when the Genoveses are involved?"

"That's right. Because now the Falcones are run by the Angel."

"The Angel?"

"Nobody knows who it is. But rumour has it, the Genovese don didn't finish the job that night. He left one Falcone alive, and that's who is taking revenge."

The Angel . . .

Vittoria sighs and links her elbow with mine. The Accademia looms ahead of us, lit by the glittering streetlights. "Come on, Cade. Don't worry about it anymore. Let's go home."

I nod, matching the spring of her step. But I can't think of anything but the sharp edge of a bird's wing, the glistening white of a feather.

And I can't help but wonder.

Who is the Angel?