Fiona
The Montaltos are a staple in King’s Trace, a fixture achieved through force and intimidation.
They run our little town in Maine, although if you asked random passersby on the cobblestone streets downtown, the unspoken truth would somehow bleed out—that, while the Montalto family seems to run this place, the Ivers are the historical and financial backbone of the community.
We have fingers in every pie, from organized crime to generational wealth, with the added benefit of being reclusive.
My family lives in a gothic mansion, more haunted castle than home, on an isolated stretch of land away from prying eyes and outstretched hands, though that hardly keeps the evil at bay.
Our ghosts roam the narrow halls and embed themselves into the rare hardwood flooring, holding each of us hostage as we continue our communal living. My older brother Kieran stays because he’s afraid, too paranoid for his own good that our late brother’s watching him from the afterlife, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Considering their history and how things went down between them, I suppose it’s not entirely out of the question, although he’s certainly adopted more than a few of our ailing mother’s oddities.
It’s honestly a wonder that either of them leave the house at all. Especially for such a public function; one hosted by my parents, where we’re seated at the front of the ballroom, privy to every single prolonged stare and whispered conversation across the circular tables.
And even though I know they’re not really talking about me—because on the scale of interesting Ivers family members, I rank fantastically low—it’s hard not to wither beneath the weight of the scrutiny.
Especially when Kieran and our mother excuse themselves from the table, leaving me to leer at Elia Montalto as he spins his pregnant wife around the dance floor, while I try my best not to drool over my brother’s best friend seated next to me.
Reaching into my pink Valentino clutch, I dig out a piece of Hubba Bubba and unwrap the gum, popping it into my mouth as I continue my perusal, desperately trying to ignore the cologne wafting from my side. It’s rich, something clean and bold and sweet, intoxicating like the first drag of a menthol cigarette, and I squeeze my legs together in an attempt to relieve my core of its pulse.
Elia, the capo of the Montalto outfit and owner of the arts center where we’re having the fundraiser, dips his wife back; she stretches in his arms, her golden hair falling from her slim shoulders in a delicate waterfall, her navy blue gown pulling tight against the swell of her belly.
Longing pools in my gut, twisting with envy, though it’s not particularly directed at either of them—more so the complete adoration in Elia’s eyes as he swings Caroline back into a standing position, like she makes up every single piece of his heart.
It’s the kind of look my father gives my mother, even after almost thirty years of marriage, three kids, and a whole lot of evil deeds in between. The kind she returns, in spite of everything my father’s done and who he is, although sometimes I wonder if she even remembers the majority of his crimes.
Tearing my gaze away from the newlyweds, I chew the gum lodged between my teeth, trying to ignore the itch to fix the floral centerpiece at the middle of our table; one of the white roses has drooped, pulling away from the rest of the flowers as if it simply can’t withstand the pressure.
I reach out anyway, the tightness in my chest winning over the logic in my head that says fixing the flower will bear no real consequence in the grand scheme of things. But damn, if it doesn’t send a flood of relief through me when it’s erect and back in line with the others.
“Thank God, that was bugging the shit out of me.”
Freezing at the first words to come from our table in half an hour, I shift, sneaking a glance from the corner of my eye at Boyd Kelly, unsure if the sentence was my imagination or not.
My brother’s best friend rarely speaks, and certainly never to me—in fact, after seven years of him being a quiet, mysterious fixture in our lives, I’d decided to comfort myself with the fact that I’m very likely invisible to the twenty-seven-year-old.
Though he’s never been anything but to me.
“You know, I can see you looking at me,” he says, his voice low and raspy, like he’s been quiet for so long, his vocal cords have forgotten how to work properly. “Peripheral glances are not at all discreet.”
Anxiety washes over me, and I place my gum between my teeth, blowing through the hole I make with my tongue. The bubble pops against my lips as I turn slightly, meeting his deep hazel gaze, somehow seeming to glow beneath the gold material of his Colombina mask.
My own mask, also a gold Colombina since my parents insisted we all match at the masquerade fundraiser, sits on the table beside my clutch, collecting dust.
I lick my lips, searching for gum residue, my heart in my throat. If having strangers’ eyes on me was nerve-racking, having Boyd Kelly’s undivided attention is panic inducing.
My nerves pull tight, my stomach flip-flopping when his stare momentarily drops to my lips, then further, swallowing the sight of my cleavage pressed against the emerald gown I’m wearing.
His throat bobs, the tattoos lining his skin dancing with the motion, and his eyes snap back to mine, pupils dilated slightly.
Probably not enough for the average person to notice, but I’ve spent an ungodly amount of time studying everything about this man, from pictures online to stolen glances at family dinners, that I’d be blind not to notice the change.
I just can’t quite place the why. Boyd’s practically a god in his own right—tragically handsome, with honey blond hair he keeps slicked back with some kind of product, a jawline you could commit suicide on, and ink etched into every visible inch of his skin—maybe even the not visible parts.
He’s mysterious, keeping the details of his past under wraps and preferring his own company to that of others’.
Not to mention, as one of the top cyber security engineers at my father’s firm, he’s got to be at least moderately wealthy.