CHAPTER 4
VICTORIA
I’VE LOST COUNT of how many charity balls, galas and parties I’ve attended since arriving back home. My father has been putting me down as his plus one for every event he’s invited to, and he gets invited toa lot. The event coordinators know he has money, and my father wants to flaunt his wealth and show off, so it’s a win-win for both parties.
Even though I’d rather do anything but attend these events, my father knows how compassionate I am, even though he secretly doesn’t approve of it. He knows I won’t turn down a chance to help raise money for charity. But the charity aspect isn’t at all what he cares about. My father just wants to rub elbows with the city’s elite and bring them over to his side — the dark side.
Tonight’s charity gala dinner is in Long Island, a place I haven’t visited in years, since my mother was alive.
When I finally arrive by the car my father sent to my apartment — no doubt to make sure I’d attend and not back out — I’m greeted by the flash of cameras. I’m sure my face will be gracingPage Sixtomorrow right smack dab in the middle of all the other celebrity gossip.
The socialite status is something I neither care about nor want. I’m famous for doing nothing, like so many others in this world, and it makes me sick. I would rather be known for saving someone’s life or curing cancer.
Simply being renowned because my father runs this city — illegally, I might add — is not something to be proud of.
My father, on the other hand, insists that I keep up to date on my social media accounts. He even hires people to post for me, saying it keeps me relevant. It might keep me relevant, but nothing on my Facebook page or Instagram account isreal.
For the outsider looking in, I appear to be rich and spoiled — wearing the latest trend and attending the most exclusive parties with other notoriously famous people all while dining at the most expensive restaurants and enjoying the finer things in life just because I can. Because it’s expected of me.
But the real me isn’t like that at all. My public persona seems like another person entirely, someone I don’t even recognize. It’s simply just notme.
I’m supposed to enjoy events like tonight. But all I really want to do is stay home in my PJs, eat chocolate chip ice cream and catch up onGrey’s Anatomy.
The smile on my face falters as I get caught up in my inner thoughts, and I quickly hide behind my shielded hands, telling the photographers I’d like to go inside now.
The lights quit flashing as I make my way to the front door of the gorgeous, sprawled-out mansion in Long Island. The doorman checks for my name on a long list attached to his clipboard before granting me access inside.
The foyer is busy, bustling with people leaving their coats with coat check and meeting and greeting others. I hate crowds. I always have. My father knows this but chooses to ignore it…or maybe he simply forgot. My social anxiety gets the better of me sometimes, but I can’t let it rattle me tonight. I promised to be on my best behavior, and my father promised this is the last party of the year.
Pushing my way past the crowd, I escape into a nearby hallway so I can breathe. I grasp the locket under the silky material of my dress, take a few deep breaths and instantly feel better. The necklace Arlo gave me so long ago is my security blanket, in a way. It keeps me grounded when I’m feeling overwhelmed.
Turning, I catch a glimpse of myself in the tall mirror in the hall. My long, deep purple Versace ball gown looks stunning in the reflection. The dress is strapless with a modest neckline. But the most alluring part is the long slit that reaches a little higher than mid-thigh.
I hired a makeup artist and hairstylist, and they decided to do a smoky eye to accentuate my deep blue eyes and put my hair up in a stylish and elegant chignon with tendrils hanging down to frame my face.
Feeling satisfied that I’ve successfully averted a panic attack, I leave the deserted hall and weed my way through the abundance of people gathered in the main ballroom.
The space is open and huge, revealing hundreds of round tables already dressed with fancy linens, crystal glasses and fine china. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings, and soft light radiates from wall sconces.
There’s an open space in front of a small, lighted stage at the far end of the room where a string quartet plays music quietly in the background.
My heels click-clack on the wood flooring as I make my way to the crowd gathered just outside of the room through the open doors leading to the backyard.
This is how I always manage to find my father at large gatherings like this. He’s constantly surrounded by people, whether it be his bodyguards or people who want him for something. I always look for the biggest group of people, and there he will be.
This time proves to be like all the others, because my father is standing in the middle of a throng of people, laughing and shaking hands while he puffs on one of his signature Cuban cigars.
Smoke billows up to the night sky as his eyes find mine. His smile is bigger then, genuine even as he waves me towards him.
The crowd parts, letting me through, and my father embraces me in a brief hug. “So glad you came, Victoria,” he whispers in my ear. He’s dressed up in a nice, dark-colored suit tonight, and power seems to radiate off of him.
“You say that like I actually had a choice, Papa,” I whisper back wryly.
He pulls back and smirks. “Excuse us for a moment,” he says before wrapping his hand around my arm and leading me away from the people blatantly vying for his attention.
My father is a powerful man. I always knew growing up he was involved in the mafia in one way or another, but I never knew the extent of his power until I moved back to the city.
He’s the mob boss for the Italians, employing thousands of people to do his bidding all while controlling his half of the city.
