“She has nothing else to change into.” Mama defends my choice, knowing I don’t want to dress like a nun.
“Papa, let me live a little. Sheesh.”
He waves his hand in the air, dismissing the discussion. His phone rings and I can tell it’s Uncle Federico on the other end. Good, that takes the focus off me, which is what I was counting on, Papa being distracted with work and bigger problems. Federico is not my real uncle. He’s Papa’s underboss of highest rank.
It’s a long ride to the museum, and by the time we arrive, the humidity has caused a few tendrils of hair to fall out of my chignon. No matter how much hairspray I use, it will turn curly in this humidity.
It’s too dark to see the gardens so maybe I can talk Papa into coming back in the spring.
We pose for pictures on the red carpet, just like movie stars. This is extremely satisfying as cameras flash as we briefly pause and continue. I grab Laura’s hand when we exit the area, and we’re like two teenagers seeing our first boy band.
While Laura and I make our way round the room looking at art, I notice a man and stop abruptly. I almost spill my champagne but save myself the embarrassment. The last thing I need is to appear to be sloshed.
“What’s up with him?” I ask Laura.
“Holy mother of God.” She makes the sign of the cross over her chest. “That’s one gorgeous specimen of a man. Looks Italian, and so fine in that tux. I’m horny just looking at him and wish Marco was here.”
“Who is he?”
“Hell, if I know, but I’m liking what I see. The way that tux is tailored, I can tell he has a body built for sin if I ever saw one.”
His dark hair is thick and curly, his dark eyes are the kind that hold secrets. I wonder if Papa knows him. He has someone with him, a friend or brother, judging by their body language when they talk. Eye contact and facing each other says a lot in the criminal world.
I check for a ring on his finger, knowing it’s useless. Men can always take a ring off. Normally, Italian men don’t have to sneak around. Cheating is part of the culture and not something they have to keep secret.
I notice there is a spark missing from his eyes and it reminds me of my own. So much of me has been chipped away that I have nothing left to lose. I live in a void of emotion. No longer huggable by my parents since I was a child and now, not attached to a man. I’m in the grey zone, each day like the last. Empty.
We continue to walk, and as I turn to avoid him, our eyes meet. A shiver goes down my spine. I can’t break away from the darkness in his eyes.
Laura whispers in my ear, “Don’t look now, but the devil is in the room.”
7
Massimo
“Alright,” Savio concedes, “I’ll walk around and see what I can find out.”
“I’ll do the same,” I say, nodding and heading in the direction of my goddess. Just before I reach her, a woman approaches visibly excited and whispers something in her ear. They both look at a gentleman across the room, but I can tell he’s no gentleman. With scars across his knuckles, his hands belong to a boxer, not a businessman.
Stepping behind a large Baroque vase filled with enough flowers to hide me, I’m close enough to hear what’s being said without being seen.
“He’s so handsome, maybe that will be the one,” says her companion, who is shorter and possibly younger.
“Hum, well, I’m not impressed.” My new obsession says this with a firm tone. She has common sense. Good girl.
She also has eyes the color of a blue Tiffany box, unusual for an Italian but not impossible with our history of mixed ancestry.
“This dress is too damn tight. I didn’t eat all day and now I’m starving. Can you grab me a plate of the shortbread with tuna caviar and dill mousse? I could eat that all night.”
Indeed. I’m thinking there might be something off the menu that I’d like to eat all night, as well.
Her friend leaves and returns with a small plate of hors d’oeuvres and another glass of champagne.
Using this as an opportunity to make my move, I step out from behind the flowers and walk towards her. With the skill of a pickpocket, I bump into her and some of her champagne splashes on my coat.
“I’m so sorry.” She blushes and fumbles with a napkin, dabbing in my coat. It’s a black coat and the wet spot can’t be seen anyway. I just wanted to meet her, and the bump-into move works every time. It’s the first thing we learn on the street when it comes to stealing items, especially items of value. And she looks valuable, priceless in fact.
“Would you like another drink? Perhaps something other than champagne?” I offer as she stands up, giving up on my soiled coat.