She tucked herself behind me, peeking out from the side, as Scott steamrolled his way toward me. We collided at the same time and somehow Scarlett went flying.
I heard her breath rush out when she hit the floor, when some of the beads from her dress scattered, and the collective gasp from the crowd when I took him by the jacket, swung him around, and drove him into one of the booths.
“You have something to say to me,” I spit at him, “fucking say it. You want to hit me. Do it. But I’ll spend the rest of my life in jail if you even breathe the wrong way on my wife again. Accident or not.”
By this time, his breath had come back, and he was shoving at my hands. I let him go. He fixed his suit and then came in close to my face.
“This isn’t over, Fausti. Your rich father-in-law saved the day. But what happens when he’s not around? It’ll be you and me. Badge or not, I’ll see you in jail someday, rotting. You think you got away with murder, and God knows what else you’ve done in your life—I won’t sleep until we have you and your bum brothers in handcuffs, just like your worthless father. I won’t rest until you’re proven guilty and I’m proven innocent here.”
He spit on the floor.
“It’s only a matter of time. History has a way of repeating itself.Yourwife. She’s a good girl. She just can’t see beyond the charm and lies. She’s also a smart girl, and one day she’ll get wise and someone else will take your place. I’ll be waiting in the wings, applauding in your face.” He applauded once, something that was even more smug than his fucking smile. Then he got serious again. “Nick was wrong about you. Even in death you double-crossed him. He wanted to marry her someday. Instead, the angel married the devil’s son.”
He let that linger until the sheriff patted him on the shoulder and steered him toward the door.
Guido had helped Scarlett to her feet, and I checked her over, making sure she was all good.
“I’m all right,” she said, hiding her face in my jacket. “I’m not hurt.”
I hadn’t even realized the music kept steady—more modern day. The guests milled around, no one dancing, most of them waiting for the next fight to pop up.
All of the beads that had scattered to the floor from Scarlett’s gown shone in the soft light. I kept her with me as I picked up each one.
“Brando—” she tugged at me. “It’s all right,mio angelo. Really. I didn’t lose many.”
“Enough,” I said, and my voice came out sharper than intended.
We stared at each other until a live microphone tapped against a palm, commanding the crowds’ attention. “Nerts! It’s time to bring out adoozieof a cake!” Then a layered cake as tall as Scarlett’s mother, big enough to need sparklers as candles, rolled out. The man with the microphone counted down. Three, two, one…the birthday song began, the band lending its instruments.
All of this took the crowds’ energy and shifted it toward the theme of the night, Pnina’s birthday. Everett stood next to her, a cigar still in his mouth, his hand on her back.
By the end of the party, the skirmishes had become a distant memory, one of many that might or might not rise above the good-time fog and the alcoholic haze.
I hadn’t forgotten and wouldn’t, though. Whatever Everett had on Sheriff Stone had to be good.
* * *
We had just arrived at the hotel and I was taking the beads out of my pocket, placing them one by one on the counter next to the fruit basket.
“Why’d you do it?” Scarlett asked.
My wife held a glass of champagne, bubbles floating to the surface—I had asked the attendant to open the bottle and bring up chocolate-covered strawberries upon our arrival—as she stood before one of the windows, the Manhattan skyline behind her, building lights creating small, lit shapes around her slim frame.
“Every one of these beads will be sewed back on,” I said, rolling one underneath my finger. “Have your mother’s seamstress take care of it.”
She tapped her dark nail against the side of the glass. “Why’d you do it?” She asked again.
I threw my jacket over a chair, loosened the tie from around my neck, and then rolled up my sleeves. “It’s a beautiful gown,” I said. “It belongs to you. No other man is allowed to ruin your clothes, accident or not.”
“Except for you,” she said into her champagne.
“Only me.”
She took slow steps toward me until I stared down at her and she stared up at me.
I used my fingertip to move a strand of hair from her face. “All that’s yours should be perfect,mia moglie.”
“I don’t want perfect,” she whispered. “I’d rather you tear it to shreds.” She took my hand and used it to remove another bead. “When I send this to the seamstress, I’ll have her put them all on but this one. Years from now, I’ll remember why you ripped it off.”
