After the meal was done, Aloysius took Rosalia’s hand and led her to the music room. I followed, standing with my father in the doorway to watch as everyone sat on the couches. Rosalia took her place at the piano with Aloysius beside her, his hands clasped and his face glowing. He caught my eye across the room and gave me an enthusiastic and unsubtle thumbs up. I laughed and my father shook his head.
“Have you met with Lucien recently?” my father murmured.
I shook my head. “No, he’s been busy.”
“Apparently Merrick Llwyd is coming into town.”
I turned, surprised. Merrick Llwyd was the head of the elusive, and incredibly powerful Welsh Mafia on the East Coast. They were the reason that Lucien had ultimately decided not to touch the Irish in Boston. If we were to take over their ports, we would still have to contend with Merrick Llwyd and his well-oiled machine. Rumor had it, he had men in state governments all along the coast and that he’d paid off several prominent politicians in DC to ensure his power was never challenged.
“How the fuck did Lucien land that meeting?”
“Language, Peregrine, there are women and children here,” my father said. “Apparently Merrick got wind of Lucien’s failed attempt to make an alliance with the Russians and he’s interested in an alliance of his own. If I had to guess, he wants Boston because it’s so close he could just absorb it.”
“Why don’t I know about this?”
“It just happened this morning. I was with Lucien when he got the call,” my father said. “I’d be shocked if he doesn’t contact you by the end of the day. I’m kicking myself for retiring now. I’d have killed to sink my teeth into a situation with the Welsh Mafia. Nobody talks to the Welsh, they’re like a secret society.”
I laughed. “Well, it looks like I’ll be talking with them.”
Across the room, Rosalia began playing the baby grand. Against my will, my stomach tightened at the sight of her hair flowing down her back and her elegant wrists crooked over the keys. She played the scales twice, the sound rippling through the room.
“What do you think?” she asked Aloysius. “What do you want to hear?”
“Rock music,” he said.
She laughed. “How about ‘Un Bel Di’ fromMadama Butterfly?”
He nodded even though I knew he didn’t know the song. Her fingers rippled over the keys and she cleared her throat. When she began singing, the room went completely still. She had a sweet, pure voice that filled the air like golden light and had us all entranced.
Something strange was happening to me as I gazed down at her. I’d assumed that we would live an amiable existence together, that we would sleep in the same bed, fuck out of duty, and be satisfied with our lives. But I’d never anticipated that she would rouse such confusing feelings in my chest. I wasn’t sure what to call it, but it felt a lot like desire.
And not just sexual desire, although that was there in all its feral glory. The stupid part of my brain was thinking about pushing down the seat when we got back in the car and laying her back. Getting my mouth between her thighs to see if she tasted as good as she looked.
The other part of my brain wanted to play with her, to strip her bare, to peel her back and see what kind of woman she really was. I had a feeling that years of being pushed to the sidelines had given her a colorful mind. One that I looked forward to exploring.
It was an hour later when I finally made an excuse about having to be at work and ushered my fiancée out to the car. As soon as we were alone, she released a sigh and sank into the seat beside me.
I took out the ring I’d picked up from the jeweler that morning. It was my grandmother’s and the delicate vines that made up the band culminated in a large, black diamond. I passed it across the seat to her and started the car, pulling out onto the street.
“Is this…my engagement ring?” she asked.
“Looks like it, doesn’t it, Lia.”
“I wanted a regular diamond.”
Her eyes widened as the words slipped from her mouth and she watched me warily, waiting for my reaction. I bit my tongue against the harsh words I wanted to fling at her, but I reminded myself she didn’t know the significance of the ring. But that didn’t quell the anger bubbling in my chest.
“Just fucking wear it,” I snapped.
That night, I went downstairs to my studio. It was a large space in the bottom of the house. Here I could sketch and carve in peace. Here, in the dark, when my mind wouldn't let my body rest, I could find some solace. I’d always been an insomniac. It was probably why I was such a good sculptor. I’d spent hours and hours each night working with plaster, clay, and marble until the things that took shape beneath my hands were perfect.
Divine, almost.
It was a cleansing ritual. One I did with the faint hope that I would finally do it right, that at the end of each statue there was a chance at redemption.
I walked through the rows of sculptures, my shoes making prints in the white dust. My grandmother could have rivaled Bernini himself, but because she was a woman, she’d never been allowed to pursue her career. So she’d taken me under her wing and taught me everything she knew. She’d instilled in me a love for beauty and art that had lasted far beyond her lifetime. It was her legacy and now it was mine.
There was a large piece of plaster in the center of the room, waiting for me to make something of it. I’d intended on using it to sculpt a Hades and Persephone, but instead I took up my pencil and sketched Rosalia’s face onto it. I might not love my fiancée, but I could appreciate her beauty. So I drew her likeness, transfixed by the lines pouring from my fingers.