50. Champagne Problems
50
CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS
RORY
“ T o the happy couple!” Sal Santorini, Matteo’s uncle, raises his glass of champagne. The room is full of guests following suit, beaming at Matteo and me.
I sit, with a painted smile, in the middle of the fancy Italian restaurant, lifting my glass before taking a small sip of champagne. I move with practiced indifference. Barely conscious—my body might be here, but my mind sure isn’t.
The Italian Capo, Cole DeLuca, rises, next up to deliver what is sure to be another eloquent toast to the blushing bride and happy groom on the eve of their wedding.
Thick and clever makeup covers the dark bruising by my eye and jaw. But nothing can hide the still raw and bloody cut on my lower lip. It draws the attention of well-wishers. Their eyes trail over it, widening at the sight. But then, just like those before them, they quickly avert their gaze, complimenting my dress or my hair.
My father’s gaze has been heavy on me all night. Coupled with the suffocating presence of my fiancé at my side, I feel as though I’m drowning. I sit stiff in my seat, barely uttering more than muttered thank-you’s at those congratulating us. Matteo keeps his hand over mine, appearing to everyone around us as the doting fiancé. In reality, it’s a subtle reminder of the control he has over me.
There’s silence, and a sharp pinch on the underside of my arm brings the restaurant back into focus. Expectant eyes are on me. Robotically, I raise my glass and more shouts fill the room as our guests dip their glasses back. The Italian made men in attendance are more exuberant following the congratulatory words from their capo. “Salud!”,“Tanti auguri!”,“Congratulations!”
Downing my glass, I lower it only to lock eyes with Niko. I hold his blazing gaze for a moment before dropping my eyes and pushing around some vegetables on my plate. The five course meal, my last before I’m sacrificed at the altar of my father’s quest for power.
My ribs hurt from sitting in this chair all night, still sore from the beating I endured from Matteo a few nights back. I try to ignore the pain. Disassociating further into the dark daydream where I drown to death in a room full of people. The crowd laughs and sips on a-thousand-dollar-a bottle champagne, ignoring my collapsing lungs and screams for help. Help that never comes.
After dinner, we make our rounds, greeting countless more guests I don’t know, the same lines on repeat. “I’m so excited. The wedding will be beautiful. Yes, I’m so lucky to have Matteo as my husband-to-be.”
A couple hours in and I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I stare off despondently as Matteo schmoozes some big name politician—and his wife—who showed up late, tuning back in just in time to hear Matteo promising to have them over for dinner soon before excusing us from the conversation.
My husband-to-be walks me back toward our table, glancing around first to check if anyone’s eyes are on us before tightening his grip on my arm. I wince. His fingers dig into my skin, already bruised, courtesy of him. He leans in, increasing pressure on my ribs where he knows a dark bruise, black and purple, mottles the skin.
Reluctantly, I force my eyes to his.
“Smile, Aurora,” he warns, his tone low so only I can hear him. Brown eyes threaten violence. “I don’t think I need to remind you what will happen if you don’t.” He shoves two fingers hard into my ribs and I flinch away as far as the grip he has on me allows.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Both Matteo and I whip our attention around to find Niko towering over us both—wearing his usual expression of bored malevolence. Matteo visibly relaxes at the sight of my brother, knowing he’s no ally of mine. He straightens, breaking into a broad smile before clasping Niko on the back. “Not at all. I always have time for my new brother-in-law.”
Niko’s eyes narrow on my fiancé. “Not yet,” he growls before his eyes settle on me, “I need to borrow Aurora for a moment.”
Matteo appears caught off guard. His smile remains, but it no longer touches his eyes. I can tell he’s reluctant to agree, but Niko wasn’t asking.
My brother reaches out, linking his arm through mine and tugging me toward him. A move so unlike Nikolai, I make no move to resist. He ignores my stunned expression as he drags me away from my fiancé. “Carroza,” he gives a respectful nod to the Italian Consigliere before stalking off through the room and dragging me with him.
A quick check over my shoulder shows Matteo standing right where we left him, not trying to follow, though his expression has darkened severely. I try not to tremble at the sight of the dark promise in his gaze, turning back before I trip over my heels, scrambling a little to keep pace with Niko.
My brother doesn’t spare me another glance, his eyes fixed forward. I nod politely at guests as we pass, some of them trying to start a conversation with me, but Niko isn’t having any of it. He power-walks me through the bar and out onto the back terrace, right out into the intricately maintained garden the restaurant overlooks.
We’re well out of sight of anyone before I finally dig my heels in, wrenching my arm from his grasp. “Nikolai, what in the?—”
“Go.”
I freeze, staring up at my brother.“What?”
Niko stands, his size and figure a menacing sight in the shadowy garden. He’s lit only by the glow of string lights as he points in the direction he was taking me before I stopped him. I follow his finger to a black wrought-iron gate at the back of the garden.
“Go,” He repeats, folding his arms.
I stare at the gate, my brain trying to compute. I look back at Niko. “I don’t understand.”
“He hurt you.”
I furrow my brow, truly looking at my brother for the first time all night. The expression he wears on his face is murderous.
“Matteo—” Niko’s jaw clenches as he speaks the name, “he hurt you.”His eyes roam over the well-hidden bruises and marks as if he can see them.
I nod, a slow understanding mixed with disbelief and suspicion.
“You don’t want to marry him.”
It’s not a question, but I answer it anyway, “No.” My voice is no louder than a whisper. But he hears me and nods, looking over my head back the way we came, checking to ensure we’re still alone.Matteo hasn’t followed.
“You’re letting me—go?” I ask the question, my eyes going back to the wrought-iron gate barely visible in the shadowed corner of the garden.
My brother’s eyes soften when they meet mine again. “I never wanted this for you. Father—” he shakes his head, anger filling his eyes again, “—I thought he would leave you alone. Honor his promise …”
So did I. Tears burn at the back of my eyes.This time I do not stop them as a few break free and trail down my cheek, so tired of pretending.
“I thought if I made being home horrible for you, you would stay away. Prep school, college, skating… Far away from this life and this burden.” He shakes his head, “I was wrong.” His blue eyes meet mine. The sadness in them is unlike anything I’ve ever encountered, and my initial suspicion disappears. “I’m sorry. I can’t go back and change it—the things I did—said.” He swallows, running a hand through his blonde hair, out of its usual knot at the back of his head. “But I can try to make it right.”
Niko turns, striding the few yards to the gate standing between me and freedom? My mind spins. He unhooks the latch, swinging it open. “Run,” he says, his face serious.
“Run, Rory, and never… never look back.”