Epilogue
Luca
Halloween night. One year later.
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” I ask Dante, pointing at his outfit. It's just his every day, dark three-piece Brioni suit.
He took the easy way out, so someone has to give him shit, and I’m the only one brave enough to do it. Other than his wife.
“A mobster. What the fuck else?” he growls grumpily in his low, gravel voice, like he's shocked I have to ask.
“And so how is that different from any other day?” I ask sarcastically. The man is the head of the Vescari criminal empire, so he is an actual mobster. This shouldn't count as a costume.
Dante rolls his eyes, holding up a fedora, and pointing to the framed picture sitting on the entry table.
Okay. I guess I can see it now, and it is kind of creepy how much Dante resembles his grandfather in the picture.
When he adds the hat, they could be twins. His grandfather was one of the original Vescari off the boat from Italy. It’s rumored that he ruled Chicago with a fair, but iron fist, and I’ve always thought he was who Dante wanted to be like, not the motherfucker that was his father.
May he rest in hell.
“What’s your costume?” he asks dubiously, pointing at my tux. An eight-thousand-dollar bespoke tuxedo, thank you very much.
I dangle a black half-mask in front of me. “I’m a mysterious businessman. Can’t you tell?” Swiping my hand down my body with a pout.
“What the fuck ever,” Dante rasps mockingly, rolling his eyes. “You pussied out just like me.”
"Yep. " I agree with a simple shrug. Then, we bump fists, because no way in hell were Dante Vescari or I ever going to dress in a ridiculous costume to attend some boring political fundraiser. Halloween or not.
We did, however, have to make some sort of attempt to play the part because Dante’s wife loves Halloween. It’s Evangeline’s favorite time of year, and she’s been planning her costume for weeks.
We’re waiting patiently when eventually, our queen descends the stairs. And she’s a vision.
I’ve seen Evangeline Hart, no, Evangeline Vescari, in many states of dress and undress, thanks to my boss’s inability to keep his hands off her. And don’t get me wrong, I love Evangeline, but only as I would a sister.
Dante and I have forged a friendship over the years that’s deeper than blood. We’re closer than any brothers could ever be. Both bound not only by our oath to the Vescari family but tied by blood and our experiences. Those experiences have made us what we are today.
Tonight though, Evangeline is dressed as Glinda the Good Witch, and someone please close Dante’s gaping mouth, because she looks enchanting.
Her gown is a sweeping confection of pale pinks and crystals, the kind of costume that should look absurd anywhere other than on a Broadway stage, but on her tiny frame, it works. The crown glitters under the chandelier in the entryway, and her wand sparkles when she lifts it with a wicked grin.
“Boys,” she teases, pausing halfway down the stairs, and waving her wand, “are you really going to a party with Glinda looking so grumpy?”
Dante's frozen. The Evil One himself is struck dumb. The man has always been stoic, but with Evangeline and me, he’s usually more vocal, more animated. More of a smartass in my case.
His eyes devour her, and his silence says more than words.
I whistle low. “Sweetheart, if you show up like this, nobody’s gonna remember that it’s a fundraiser, much less know who it’s for.”
Her laughter bubbles, light and teasing. She’s gotten comfortable with our lifestyle. She’s comfortable with the monster she calls husband and with me as the devil’s second shadow.
Dante finally speaks, voice low and possessive. “A good witch shouldn’t look that sinful, bella.”
She just winks at him, and I almost gag. If I have to watch them make out one more time, I might throw myself down the stairs.
“What? You couldn’t convince him to be a flying monkey?” I mock, pointing to Dante.
“Glinda didn’t have flying monkeys,” she points out. “And he absolutely refused to be a munchkin.”
We both laugh at that image because that’s preposterous. The man is as tall and wide as a fucking house. Nothing about him screams munchkin.
“Hey, the hat means he went all out. You should be proud of him,” I say as we make our way out the door.
I walk in front of them and scan the perimeter out of habit.
Dante’s home outside the city is basically a fortress, but as his underboss, I will always protect him and those he loves. This includes Evangeline now.
Which is why when the limo door opens, I hang back. “I’ll ride with the detail,” I mutter. “So, you two can…,” I swirl my hand in a circle, “do whatever it is you two do on the way.”
Swear to God, I wouldn’t put it past him to whip his dick out just to prove he can. She’s so in love with the man, I’m betting she’d get down on her knees in the limo if he asked.
And I don’t want to know whether he’ll ask. Some things you can’t unsee, and that would be one of them.
The smug look Dante gives me confirms my suspicions. Yeah, they’re definitely going to ruin the leather seats.
The fundraiser is everything I’ve grown to hate. The cameras, the fake smiles, hands to shake, the people pretending they don’t know exactly what kind of man Dante is.
Dante and I agree that it’s useful to know these people. It’s beneficial to donate to their causes so they can repay him down the road.
Quid pro quo.
So tonight, Dante plays his role and has Evangeline on his arm like the crown jewel she is. They glide down the red carpet, with reporters shouting and light bulbs flashing from the cameras.
They are the city’s current golden couple.
Slipping away as soon as I can, I aim straight for the bar. Politics and bullshit are easier to swallow with liquor, preferably whiskey.
That’s when I see her.
Not Evangeline, no, she’s across the room. I know because I’m keeping my eyes on her. Dante has stepped away, and she’s laughing with some wives of men who would doubtless sell their souls for her husband’s money but then plunge a knife in his back if given the opportunity.
No, it’s the woman who is approaching Evangeline I’ve clocked.
From her gown to the dusting of green shimmering powder painted across her face and any visible skin, she is the Wicked Witch in the flesh.
Unlike most of the women here tonight, she’s not dressed to be sexy. The small woman is wearing a simple conservative black dress, covering her from neck to toe, with a tall pointed black hat. I can see from here that her eyes shine as bright as emeralds under her long, dark lashes.
This woman looks ridiculous. And she looks magnificent.
“Glinda,” she says, sweeping up to Evangeline, hugging her close with a grin, “we’ve been separated far too long.”
Evangeline giggles instantly charm the “Wicked Witch.”
They laugh together like they’ve known each other for years, but this is the first time they’ve met as far as I know. Moving in protectively, I’m standing next to Evangeline, stiff, hovering like a guard dog.
But when the witch turns her head and those green eyes land on me … something hits my chest. Hard.
For a second, I forget my duty. Forget the people in the room. Forget Dante’s rules, the cameras, the danger.
The witch is still smiling. She’s playful and unafraid, her voice lilting when she says, “And who are you supposed to be? The Tin Man?” she asks mockingly, indicating the stiff, almost military stance I’ve taken.
I should look away and shake it off. But I don’t. I don’t say a word.
In that moment, there is one thing I know with absolute certainty:
This wicked witch just put a spell on me.
And Luca Romano doesn’t believe in magic.
THE END