She bounded off, leaving the two of us alone. A few quiet seconds passed as we watched people drift through the gallery.
“You don’t hold it against me, do you?”
I glanced at him, noting the tension in his jaw. He hadn’t looked at me when he asked.
“Of course not. We all have to do our part.” I knew Rafe loved me. I also knew that he was still don. I could’ve made both our lives hell by putting up a fight and telling him I wouldn’t marry the man he’d picked for me. But what would that have gotten me? I’d have damaged our relationship, put him in an impossible position, and would’ve probably ended up walking down the aisle anyway.
In a family like ours, everyone was expected to make sacrifices for the benefit of the whole. I was no exception.
He nodded. “I hope you can be happy with him.”
“Me too.” Love or romance were unlikely to be in the cards, and hoping for either was risky. Sure, Cleo and Rafe had it, but for every loving marriage in the mob, there were half a dozen that weren’t. Our own parents’ marriage had been a prime example of that.
What I was hoping for was much more realistic—someone I could get along with. That would be enough for me.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
I finished my champagne and put the empty glass on the high-top table beside me. “I’m going to walk around. I’ll find you and Cleo later?”
He squeezed my shoulder. “Yeah. See you.”
My heels click-clacked against the polished marble floors as I weaved past the crowd in the main gallery. That sharp, staccato sound reminded me of the exhibit hall back at the Palais des Nations in Geneva. After Elena was hired at the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, she’d pushed me to apply for the events role with the UN.
My twin saw my coming back home as a tragedy, but if I was honest, my life abroad had never quite fit me as well as I would’ve liked.
In Geneva, I’d been Fabiana Castellano. A fake. A piece of fiction.
In New York, I was once again Fabiana Messero. The daughter of a dead mob don. The sister of his successor.
It was hard putting down roots somewhere while living under a fake name on borrowed time. My life in Europe was never meant to be permanent because I’d always known I’d come back here when duty called.
I reached a smaller room where a piece I wanted to see was displayed. Spotlights had been angled toward the painting, but the rest of the space was kept dimly lit so nothing would distract from it. There was no one else here.
Bride’s Doorloomed before me, vast and solemn. As I walked up to it, goosebumps rose over my skin. It was simple in the way only great art could be. Nothing decorative. Nothing eager to please. Just force and raw emotion that all but broke through the canvas and reached deep into your soul.
It spoke to me the moment I first saw it, most likely because of the situation I’d found myself in. I could almost hear the chiming of wedding bells as I stood there in the empty room.
Soon, I’d be hearing my own.
I let out a breath. The blank canvas to the right of the white panel gave the impression of standing before a door.
What would I find once I stepped over the threshold?
Behind me, footsteps sounded against the concrete.
I glanced over my shoulder. A man had entered the room. He stood in the darkest part of it, his features lost to shadow, his body nothing more than a tall silhouette.
I turned back to the painting. A few moments passed, but I could no longer focus on it. The silence in the room had taken on a strange charge.
“What do you think?” I called out.
“What is it?”
My breath hitched. The man’s voice was low and rich, sliding over my skin like warm oil.
“A painting by Helen Frankenthaler.Bride’s Door.” When he didn’t say anything, I took it as an invitation to continue. “Some people think it’s a meditation on marriage as a threshold into a new life.”
“And what do you think?”
