24. Contessa
24
Contessa
There’s a special kind of torture in being able to see the whole world without being able to reach it. When I was with Salvatore, locked up on the third floor, I only had the torment of seeing a few houses and a front yard. Up here, I am privy to all of New York, the endless city stretched out in every direction. It feels like being trapped in a snow globe. I don’t know how my father stands it.
My days are monitored now after I deliberately set off the fire alarm, trying to con my way out through the fire stairs. A failed escape attempt in my constant pursuit of freedom. Were there not countless families in the massive building underneath us, I could happily burn this place down for real.
My father has spent his days dealing with something . I like to imagine it’s Salvatore. It might really be, judging by the amount of curses I overhear behind the office door.
My father makes flimsy promises to keep me pacified. In a week, I will be able to leave the apartment. In four days. In two.
I am terrified for what is supposed to happen to Salvatore tomorrow. What makes tomorrow so different from today? I sit and look out the window, as if I can see him out there somewhere. As if I can warn him something is coming, though I don’t know what.
My day of so-called freedom finally comes. My father informs me a stylist is coming to do my hair. A treat. My father does not do ‘treats.’ I would rather buzz myself bald if it meant just one wig shop between me and Salvatore, but I wait it out, begging for this all to be worth it.
To finally be out .
My hair appointment is not nearly as simple as I was led to believe. It takes almost half the day, a full styling with makeup and nails. I know something is off even before I am brought a dramatic rose-gold ball gown and a pair of matching heels.
I have a million questions.
‘ What the hell ?’ encompasses most of them.
I don’t bother asking. If I am getting this dressed up, then that means I’m going somewhere . As long as I am out of here, there may be some chance for escape. There has to be. I play along, like my father’s dress up doll, squeezing myself into the flaring dress that trails after my every step.
I look myself over in the mirror, running my hands over the gorgeous gown, and wonder what the occasion is.
In the car, I am not allowed to sit by the doors. Uncle Emil sits on one side and my dour-faced guard sits on the other, both dressed to the nines. It seems my father isn’t attending.
Shocker.
I try to ask Emil where we’re going, but he simply beams and tells me it’s a surprise—a good one.
I wish I could agree. I ask, as casually as I can muster, if they’ve dealt with Salvatore Mori. If the threat is over. Soon , he says. I do not like the way he says it.
The evening has set in when we reach an event hall with a sprawling ballroom with gold light and marble floors. I get only a glimpse before I am taken around the back, up into the corridors that connect to fitting rooms, catering storages, and lounge areas. It feels like being behind the curtain of a stage. I find myself silently taking note of stairwells and exits, but my uncle guides me along with his grip on my arm.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Right through that door,” Emil encourages me, as if there is a surprise waiting for me on the other side. The door is plain and unassuming, telling me nothing about what might be behind it.
Bracing myself for the unknown, I turn the handle and step inside.
The door leads to a vacant space above the main room, where doors mark the multiple entrances into the ballroom below. And there, pacing the middle of the room—James.
My head spins, heart dropping as though performing evasive maneuvers. I bump clumsily back into the door that has just shut behind me.
“Jesus Christ,” James breathes as he looks me over. He steps closer, moving in with the intent to sweep me up in his arms. I press myself back into the door, as if a monster has stepped into the room with me. Those soft, deceptive brown eyes and gentle expression, just rugged enough to seem interesting but soft enough to seem safe. The first man I ever really fell for.
The sight of him here, dressed in this sharp tuxedo, rips open the old wound. That I once daydreamed about marrying this man like a lovestruck teenager makes me feel ill.
“Why the hell are you here?” I demand, gathering up my dress as if keeping every part of me away from him, even my clothes. He stops short, sensing our reunion isn’t a happy one.
His expression flickers.
“Why wouldn’t I be here...?”
“How should I know?” I demand, panic eating at my patience, “I don’t even know where we are!”
“…He didn’t tell you?” James asks. “Of course he didn’t,” he scoffs, his annoyance only feeding mine. He steps forward, but I tell him to stay where he is. There isn’t enough room in this building for how far away from James I want to be.
“Really? That’s how you’re going to be? After everything?”
“After what? Our breakup ?”
“After what you went through, Tessa. With Mori. You know, I was one of the people trying to get you back—”
“The people who tried to get me back are dead or dying,” I correct him, sharply, refusing to let him have any kind of credit where it wasn’t earned. “Now tell me why we’re here.”
When I don’t buy into the pleasantries, his smile dulls at the edges. I see a glimpse of that awful man I recognize. The one that only comes out once the polish is rubbed away.
“You didn’t miss me at all, did you?”
“How could I? I never really knew you.”
He feigns hurt, shakes his head. The fucking liar, acting as if I’m the one who betrayed him.
“Okay, Tessa. Let’s get the truth out of the way. Your father has decided the best way for your family to recover from this is a happy ending. Ours. He asked me if I would still be willing to have you.
And I’ve agreed.”
The words are so absurd, I can only scoff at them.
“Well, I haven’t agreed to anything—”
“We’re engaged, Tessa,” he interrupts.
“I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere before,” I say, deadpan. He stares at me like I’m the crazy one, like he’s never seen anything so offensive.
“Are you serious? You said it yourself. People died for you, Tessa—died to get you back to your family. Is that not enough for you to finally grow up and play your role in it? What the hell does it take?
You had your little bout of freedom, and look what a fucking mess you made of it.”
“Shut up,” I snap at him. “If everyone would just leave me alone—”
“That’s not how the world works, Tessa! Not our world. You don’t get the same choices as everyone else. It’s not fair, but it’s reality. The more you fuck around, the more people get hurt. You and everyone around you. Haven’t you learned anything from all this?”
The accusations burn behind my eyes. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing it affect me. Of course there’s a part of me that blames myself. How could I not? Over and over, I think about the things I might have done differently, the heartache I could have saved everyone if I had just played by their rules.
Balancing the worth of your life and someone else’s life—it’s a painful scale to have to weigh.
“Tessa. . .”
I hate the way he says my name. Soft and deceptive, just how it sounded in the early days of our relationship. I instinctively try to pull away, looking at anything but him, blocking out the words and all the old emotions that come with them. “You and I both know we could have been happy together. We almost were. We can still have that, baby. It’s not that bad—compared to what could have happened to you, I thought you’d be grateful just to see me.”
What could have happened.
Salvatore keeping me as his—forever.
I thought I was crazy for wanting that, but standing here with James, I understand it perfectly.
How Salvatore made me feel was confusing while I was with him. Standing toe to toe with James gives me the clarity I’ve been longing for. This sweet-talking demeanor covers up his cruelty and his temper, his true self hidden behind a flimsy mask. A few months with him, and he couldn’t keep up the charade anymore.
Salvatore was the opposite. His cruelty and his temper were the mask, a rugged exterior that hid something softer—something that was for my eyes only. I could only glimpse it in the quietest, most vulnerable moments, but it was there. And once or twice, he let me see that part of him. What he really was, underneath it all. What he was willing to be only for me.
“I don’t want this,” I say, digging in my feet again, no matter how much he ridicules me for it.
“You really are a selfish brat,” he snaps. Clearly this didn’t go how he expected. “You and I are going to go out there,” he continues, “and we’re going to have a happy night, and convince all those people who you made suffer, that their loved ones didn’t get killed for nothing. It’s the least you can fucking do after all this.”
I don’t have any clever retort. I don’t want to. This wasn’t my fault. But none of that feels like it matters in the face of that accusation, something brittle in me finally snapping.
“I tried to stop it,” I say again, feebly, clinging to that fact like it can change something.
“He was the one that sent them. Even when I begged him not to—”
“Well, you didn’t. So, fix your fucking face, and let’s go.”
I push him away. He pushes me back, my back colliding with the door. He gets too close, the threat of him looming.
“Tessa,” he says, his voice different now, his patience spent, “Your father didn’t give a damn the last time I had to knock some sense into you. You think he’s going to care if you go crying to him now?”
Our eyes meet.
“Salvatore Mori is still out there,” I whisper, “and I hope he tears you apart with his bare hands—”
James smiles.
“Let him try. We all got dressed up for the occasion, after all.”
I don’t follow his line of thinking.
“Let’s go,” he says. “If you aren’t out there in front of everyone, he’ll never believe you’re really here.”
His hand closes around my arm. I’m too stunned to resist him, following along in a numb haze.
This is the trap. This is the horrible thing that is going to happen to Salvatore. I am.
Because Salvatore is just crazy enough that even a roomful of men ready to shoot him dead would not stop him from trying to get to me.
Music surges in the ballroom. Below, men mingle near the catering table, while dance partners sweep across the ballroom floor. This is a party, just like any other. There are families down there, young and old.
The women laugh and gossip, the men swap their stories—how many of them know that this is a trap? That their lives are on the table, right alongside the champagne and finger food.
My eyes drift upwards, toward the balcony that encircles the room. Dark figures loom just out of sight. My heart pounds in my ears.
James and I descend the stairs.
People turn to stare. The dancing stops. An enthusiastic applause swells, welcoming me back into the family. I am on the verge of weeping, James’ iron-clad grip giving me just enough pain to keep the tears from falling. I force myself to smile through it, the pain drawing my lips into a tight grimace that is close enough to count.
We are caught in a rush of well-wishes and fond embraces.
James puts on a stunning show of being my bright-eyed husband-to-be, my solid rock. I keep looking into the shadows, into the corners of the room. Every dark, out-of-focus silhouette catches my attention, draws my eye.
I tell myself he won’t come, but I can’t really make myself believe it.
James leads us to a wide table, overlooking the dancing, where we sit like a king and queen presiding over court. He tries to take my hand, but I snatch it away from him, refusing to give him the satisfaction. He still sits too close, his leg touching mine, his arm over the back of my chair. My anger burns in the places he touches me, so hot it feels like a physical reaction, as if I am now allergic to the affection of other men. Every point of contact seethes with a single reaction:
I am not yours to touch.
I resist the urge to scoot away.
“Look happier,” he complains out of the corner of his mouth. “You can sulk for the rest of your life if you want, but for tonight, you might as well look happy.”
My expression shifts from unhappy to murderous, but the moment is broken by Dr. Armata. My expression doesn’t change at the sight of him.
“Miss Lovera,” he says, extending his weathered hand. I don’t shake it.
“Your father asked me to deliver this on his behalf.” He takes something from his pocket and slides it to me, face down. It’s a business card. The cursive script advertises a Dr. Steward, some kind of surgeon in Manhattan. I’ve never heard of him.
“This is a wedding present from your father,” he explains. “Dr. Steward is undoubtedly the best in the business.”
“What business?”
“Cosmetic surgery.”
I’ve never so much as gotten lip injections, much less wanted any kind of surgery. I push it back to him.
“Why does my father think I need surgery now? Am I not pretty enough, on top of everything else?” I scoff. Armata laughs as if I’ve made a joke.
“No one would suggest that, Miss Lovera. But your father is adamant that everything that was done to you should be undone, and it will be. You’ll have your first time as you should have.
On your wedding night. Everything can be repaired, including innocence. Your wedding night will still be perfect. Not even Salvatore Mori can take that away from you.”
The offer is so absurd, I’m almost too numb to react.
“And if I don’t want it?” I ask, icily, already anticipating the answer.
Dr. Armata shifts in place.
“Well…I’m sure you can speak with your father and your fiancé about that. That would be a decision for you all to make together.”
“That’s very thoughtful of him,” James interrupts, thanking him profusely and sending the old man on his way. “Jesus Christ, they’re just trying to help you,” he mutters bitterly as he sits again.
“Who does this help?” I ask, flipping the card around between my fingers. “Me? Or your ego? Did you ask for this?”
“No. But I didn’t turn it down. For your sake.”
I don’t want to hear it anymore. I tear the business card between my hands while James quietly seethes behind his dreamy, lovestruck smile. I’m not surprised by how good he acts. He tricked me with it for long enough.
My eyes wander over the doorways. Exits shift in and out of my vision, obscured by dancing couples. How far would I get if I ran? A few feet? A few miles? Would it matter?
I have no desire to run anymore. Maybe James is right, in his own way. I tried to run from this life and look where it got me. I can’t run from it anymore. I swipe two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. I place one in front of James. He eyes me suspiciously. I make a silent toast to Vera, downing mine in a single, unladylike swallow.
I stand and sling the glass into the floor, where it shatters into a thousand shards.
All eyes turn to the sound of cracking glass. James is half-risen out of his chair, too slow to stop me. I swipe his drink next, lifting it into the air now that I have the attention of the crowd.
“Everyone,” I call out, over the music and the murmurs, “I would like to make a toast.”
The hammer of my heart pounds as all the attention draws to me. “First, to you. For all of you that are here tonight. I’m so, so grateful that you would come here and celebrate with me.
But, of course, I can’t thank those who are here, without thanking those who can’t be.”
James looks like he might throw up. Glasses lift in solidarity.
“The ones who gave up everything, who made the ultimate sacrifice to try and rescue me.
And then, the one who refuses to be here. Of course. My father.”
Uneasy laughter shakes the room.
“Gio Lovera is a titan,” I continue, “though I’m sure many of you don’t know him, and likely never will, you know his reputation. He is…uncompromising.” Murmurs of agreement sweep the crowd. “For example, two weeks ago, I was on the verge of settling peace with the Mori family,” I say, louder, forcing my voice to carry through the hall over the music. James’s hand curls around my arm, but he can’t threaten me with all eyes in my direction. “I had arranged it so this conflict could come to an end. Peacefully. But again, my father is uncompromising. He sent your sons, your husbands, your nephews, on a suicide mission.”
The glasses begin to lower, the uncertainty bristling in the crowd. A sea of stares has no opinion, telling me nothing as my eyes seek out each face, looking for a shred of agreement among them. Now that I’ve started, I can’t bring myself to stop.
“Tessa, that’s enough—” James snarls in my ear. I pull away from him.
“My father doesn’t know the cost of war because he’s never seen it. He’s never had the stomach to look most of you in the face, has he?”
Other family members approach, coming in fast to stop this. Uncle Emil is making a fast track for me, and James steps in front of me, loudly announcing that I’m still tired and stressed and confused.
“Donny and Dario were still alive,” I all but scream as James grabs me around the shoulders, trying to drag me away. “They might still be. I could have gotten them back for you!
For all of us. I could have saved them. If he’d just let me—”
A clamor breaks out. There’s outrage as James and Uncle Emil try to usher me away, while the loved ones of Dario and Donny are desperate to know more, calling out for me, trying to get to me.
I’ve reached some of them. I know I have. I saw it in their faces.
I hear people screaming to let me go, to let me keep speaking. Glass shatters as someone hurls their wine at James. Someone pulls a gun, fires a shot into the ceiling. The room goes silent, only the music going on and on in the background.
“Let the princess speak,” the older man says, his pistol a heavy threat. The room is still.
Slowly, James and Uncle Emil let me go.
I straighten myself out, looking out into a crowd of confused and terrified people.
“You said Donny was alive,” I hear a woman say, pushing to the front of the crowd. His wife breaks through the swell of people. “Is that true, Contessa? Is it true?”
“It was,” I tell her. “I saw him. I don’t…I don’t know now.”
I can’t bear to give her false hope. I pull her into my arms.
“If there is anything I can do to get him back, I’ll try. I promise, I’ll try. Dario, too.”
She cries into me until one of her daughters has to pull her away.
No one dares to speak now. I have their attention. Maybe, even, a little of their support.
“My father thinks that I’m not fit to inherit his title. A few months ago, I would have happily agreed with him. I didn’t want it, and a part of me still doesn’t. But I’ve seen how he operates now. It’s not about family . I don’t think it’s even about money. Not for him. It’s about his pride. It’s about all the things he owns—me and you both. Your businesses, your loved ones, your own lives, if he decides to take them. I don’t want anyone else to die for my father’s ego.”
My throat clenches, but I force myself to speak through it.
“But I need your support, and your love. Because I cannot take him on alone—”
My plea is cut short.
The lights go out. We are plunged into a sudden, unexpected darkness.
My unadjusted eyes see only blackness, the music gone. Silence sweeps in like a cold breeze.
Somewhere in the distance, gunshots pepper the air.