Eli gives him a stern look. “Leave room. Refusing food at a Bianchi wedding will cause offense.”
“Ah, everything offends that guy. He can go fuck himself, inviting our enemy to his fuckin’ wedding,” Doc shoots back. “Anyway, I need energy for what I’m gonna do to our woman.”
He grins at January. “How do you feel about getting railed by four guys in the bathroom, Tesorina?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Nico…”
“Probably not but I wanna get you pregnant. Just a quick one?”
That gets a smile out of her. “Maybe later. After my performance.”
“It might help your performance. Make it more convincing?”
She laughs and as she and Doc tease each other I feel myself relax slightly, a warm glow washing over me. Maybe it’s the sugar but everything feels like it’s going to be okay. The ceremony is over, January’s family photo is done with, and after a few hours of drinking and dancing we’ll be back at Velvet House, and all of this will be behind us.
Chapter Eight
January Whitehall
The security toget through the gates to the wedding reception is worse than at any airport I’ve been to. The boys and I are scanned, patted, questioned, and my Gucci clutch is opened and thoroughly examined. I almost have a panic attack when Doc has to turn out his pockets and show the little baggies he’s carrying, but as he explains, “Security doesn’t give a shit about anything except you not blowing Bianchi’s brains out while he gums down cake.”
“Of course, Domenico could spare us the embarrassment of actively carrying illicit substances,” Eli says, guiding me along a length of blue velvet carpet. “But he won’t do that, because he’sun idiota.”
“Takes one to know one, fuckhead.”
We walk along a winding path surrounded by twinkling blue lights, mounds of fake snow, and giant ice sculptures. I gasp when I see the venue. It’s an enormous, snowy-white mansion, at least six stories high and gleaming like a jewel in the gathering darkness. It looks old but perfectly maintained like something out of Gone with the Wind.
“Whatisthis place?” I ask Bobby, sure I should have read about it in school.
“La Vita è Bella,” he says. “A five-star Italian hotel. Back in the day, it held all these balls and dinners advocating for Italian acceptance in mainstream society. A bunch of important people stayed here. Senators. Movie stars. That kind of thing.”
I look up at the glowing mansion, covered in slightly tacky winter decorations. “And Mr. Bianchi owns it?”
Bobby’s jaw twitches. “He does now.”
“Did he… Was he not supposed to get it?”
Bobby gives me a gentle smile and presses a finger to his lips. I go quiet at once, taking his hand and letting him lead me into the mansion.
Blue-jacketed hosts with snowflakes on their lapels direct us into an exquisite ballroom, ten times the size of the one in Velvet House.
I gape at the paintings on the gold-lined ceiling, swans and goddesses in flowing robes and men with bulging muscles. Eli moves Bobby aside: “These were all painted by Pasquale Adianta, the most talented artist since Michelangelo. The men who built the hotel couldn’t afford to have him sneeze on the walls, but Adianta was so impressed by America and their vision of a new world for their people, he worked at no cost.”
“Wow,” I say. “You know about the hotel too?”
“Every American Italian does. I stayed here with my father when I was very young, before it…” Eli’s face darkens. “Before things changed.”
I now know better than to ask what he means, especially with the number of eyes on us.
Hundreds of people are already sitting at the round white and blue tables, bottles of vodka frozen into the centerpieces in front of them. Many of the men smile and nod at my boyfriends and the women ignore them entirely. I don’t know if it’s a custom, but I do the same. My stomach is starting to flutter with pre-performance nerves and knowing Corinne and my siblings are somewhere in this ballroom doesn’t help.
Seeing Lachlan, Harris, and Margot was worse than I ever imagined. I expected them to be weird, but they refused to even talk to me. Is it because of my relationships? Or is Corinne blackmailing them?
“Here, Pryntsesa.” Adriano pulls out a silver-backed chair and I realize we’ve arrived at our table. It’s right next to the dance floor, and the head table where Mr. Bianchi and Yelizaveta will sit. We take our places and waiters immediately start pouring champagne and handing around smoked salmon canapés. My men fall on them like wolves, demolishing the little fish disks in seconds.
“Aren’t you going to test them?” I ask.
“Bianchi’s team will have run everything through the same wringer I did,” Doc says, his mouth full. “There’s better security than the Pentagon at this shit.”
