Pull yourself together,I tell myself.You have an event to attend, a father waiting for information and a sister who needs you to hold this together.
I look at the dress one more time.
It fits perfectly. Of course, it does.
"I hate him," I say to my reflection, with feeling.
My reflection does not look entirely convinced.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
RAFAEL
She has no choice but to wear the dress.
That was the whole idea when I left her wardrobe with nothing but the black one hanging in it. I imagine all the emotions she went through before she realized she had no choice but to wear it.
I try to keep the grin off my face when she comes downstairs a few minutes later.
The venue is one of Matteo's — a private club in the old city, stone floors and high ceilings and the kind of lighting that costs money to look this effortless. By the time we arrive the room is already full, the particular density of people who come to these events because they have to rather than because they want to. Dark suits. Expensive jewelry.
Gia takes my arm at the entrance without being asked. A performance, her hand on my sleeve, her posture immaculate, her face composed into the specific expression she wears in public, present, pleasant, giving away absolutely nothing. I know this face now. I've catalogued it the way I catalogue everything that matters for operational purposes, which is a lie I tell myself, because the reason I know her faces has nothing to do with operations.
We make the necessary rounds. Greetings, handshakes, the ritual of appearing unified and uncomplicated in a room full of people who are paid to notice cracks. Gia handles it efficiently, with the light touch of a woman who grew up in this world and learned young which smiles to deploy and when. She introduces herself where introduction is needed. She laughs at the right moments. She keeps herself close enough to be credible and far enough to be untouchable.
Then Alessia Romano crosses the room toward her.
Gia registers her from ten feet out and the constructed posture gives way to something that actually belongs to her. Alessia reaches her and grins.
"You look incredible," Alessia says. "Is that new?"
"It was chosen for me," Gia scoffs.
“Hello Rafael, you are looking rather dapper yourself,” she smiles at me.
I nod with a smile. “Hello.”
Alessia's eyes move back to Gia.
"And how are you finding… all of this?" Alessia gestures, a small, contained movement that manages to encompass the room, the event, the marriage, and probably several other things.
And just like that, they’ve forgotten I exist.
"It's fine." Gia picks up a glass from a passing tray. "The canapés are good. The company is mostly terrible. I've been told four times that I look just like my mother, which is not the compliment people think it is, because my mother was miserable."
Alessia laughs and Gia's mouth curves.
"Should we get more drinks and find somewhere easier to gossip?"
"Immediately," Gia beams. "Point me at the bar."
They move together and I realize I keep staring at them and when I finally catch myself, I grunt in annoyance and redirect myself toward Dante and Matteo at the far edge of the room. The problem is she's still visible from here. She's visible from everywhere in this room, which I have confirmed over the last thirty minutes.
I track the men who keep finding reasons to face her. The one by the bar who's looked over four times in ten minutes. The younger one near the window who hasn't stopped since she laughed. The older man from the Ferri family, silver-haired, who turns his head toward her on a twelve-second rotation he probably doesn't know he's keeping.
What the mafia world would think of me if I went on an eye-gouging spree tonight is something I consider with complete seriousness. All three of them. Starting with the Ferri man. The Brotherhood's reputation, the diplomatic fallout, whether Matteo could smooth it over, I run the actual numbers on it and the numbers are unfortunately not in favor.
I push the idea aside. Not permanently.
