Jacopo’s grumpiness is also due in part to his boyfriend’s revelation that he, too, was invited to this engagement party some time ago. And since Jacopo is going, Miller has now decided to attend also.
I settle my bow tie with satisfaction and then turn to him. “How did he persuade you to let him go along?”
Jacopo’s face turns thunderous. “He didn’t. But we got to a point where either I accepted it or he was going to turn up there anyway. He has a bee in his bonnet about his sis—about someone turning up who shouldn’t. Thinks if he goes, it’ll prevent that happening.”
“Are you a man or not?” I ask scornfully. “If he were mine, he would know his place.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, he’snotyours.” He comes over beside me and tweaks his own bow tie. “And how’s your mother doing these days, huh?”
He raises one eyebrow at me in the mirror, and it’s enough to make me give a rueful laugh. My mother’s hold over me was something he always teased me about.
“Alright,” I concede. “Alright. As long as I’m not being accused of involving Miller this time. That’s all on him.”
His smile dies away as we turn to leave. “Still, Boss. I gotta say. This is a bad idea.”
* * *
The bodyguards and drivers tonight are drawn from Jacopo’s team, his most trustworthy men. Jacopo and I travel in the first dark-windowed town car, and the rest of the guards follow in another. We spend the drive to the North Hollywood art gallery in silence. My mind is on not only what I might learn, but the fact that I am making an appearance in public.
The state of my face is well-known among the Families here in Los Angeles, and I have never once shown anything but pride in it when I am in a public arena. Pride in a mark ofsurvival. My face is an important symbol, sends an important message.
No matter how hard you try, you cannot kill me.
I only wish I believed it myself. The fear, the horror, the disgust, the mockery—everything they feel, I’ve felt myself looking into a mirror. My only option is to bear this scar with pride in the eyes of other people.
But tonight, it’s not just Family members.
Julian is well-known in Hollywood, a standard fixture at these parties. A familiar, good-looking face amongst all the others. Tonight they get me instead. I’ve been mentally preparing myself all afternoon for the usual reactions, the double takes, the widening eyes, the hushed, horrified whispers.
The occasional laughs.
There are myriad photographers gathered around the red carpet entrance, but our driver, Freddy Lazzaro, already instructed, sweeps around the back to the private door. At least my face won’t be laid bare under the photographer’s lens.
We’re led through the back corridors by two Bernardi men, all of us on high alert as we go, and are asked to wait in a small antechamber outside the party proper. It’s already begun, judging by the chatter and the noise that seeps through the door.
“Eyes sharp,” Jacopo says to the guards with us. I don’t like it either. But a moment later, the reason for our stop here becomes evident. The door through which we came opens, and in limps the old Bernardi Don, leaning heavily on a cane.
“Alessandro,” he says warmly, and then, “Don Castellani.” He embraces me, kissing me three times. Is it my imagination, or does he linger a little over my scar?
The scar that his own men put there.
We exchange the customary pleasantries, and then he says, “I wanted to greet you personally. I want you to know that I’d like to put all that bad blood behind us. Our Families are better off as friends than enemies.” I don’t like the eager gleam in his eyes. “Don’t you agree?”
My father was on the brink of shutting out the Bernardis from business in Los Angeles completely before his murder. His attempts to bring other groups into one enormous syndicate would have made the Castellanis almost untouchable. The Espositos weren’t interested. PacSyn weren’t invited. But the Bernardis were never a consideration at all.
And if the Bernardi Boss thinks I’m too stupid to know that, he has very much underestimated me.
“I’m here tonight for pleasure, not business, Don Bernardi,” I chide him. “For tonight, we’re all friends. But let’s set up a meeting to discuss ongoing considerations some other time.” His mouth hardens, and I nod toward the party. “I wonder if a friend of my father’s will be here tonight. A Lina Lamond?”
For the first time, Don Bernardi seems genuine when he says, “Lina? Oh, she used to accompany your father at times. But she was not…” He hesitates, his hand wobbling his cane back and forth slowly as he tries to find the right words. “She was not invited alone to these events, you understand.”
She’s not going to be here. And there’s no way for her to gatecrash; security is much too tight. This evening is likely to be a waste of time, other than showing the other Families that the Castellanis are still a force in this city.
“Well,” I say jovially, “we’re missing the fun.”
His eyes are like flint. “Of course, of course,” he mumbles, and makes a gesture toward the door that leads into the party. “After you.”
Jacopo steps forward, his eyes just as hard as Bernardi’s. “Oh, no, Don Bernardi,” he says coolly, his hand on the doorknob. “Afteryou.”
