Chapter 7 Valentino
It’s a quiet week until Thursday, the night of the ball.
My father loved these things. Any opportunity to mingle and make new friends, he would take it, and bask in it, too. Here I am, in the world he carved for us all. A world I fit in, yet also…don’t.
Because I’m not him. I don’t flit from person to person, making connections and introducing them around as this ‘friend of mine’ like my padre did. Give me a day in my study with my Steinway across from my desk and the window behind me opening onto my little garden on the family grounds, and that’s where I’m my best self.
It’s not exactly behind the scenes, but I’m not a center of attention kind of guy.
And it helps that at this ball tonight, no one will even know who I am as I exit a limousine like every other guest to then stroll in and out of this grand venue that is Richmond Place, an historical manor on the border of New Jersey and New York. The fact it’s a masked event gave me a push. I can slip in and out incognito all while achieving my goal for the night.
I spoke too soon, because right as I gather a flute of champagne, I want to turn back and flee with a groan. But she’s seen me already—I can’t escape.
A soft whack of her cane thumps across my shin.
I wince while forcing a smile. “Good evening, Zia Vivi.”
A throaty laugh is my only reply as she offers her cheek and I dutifully drop a light kiss on her paper-thin skin.
“Now I know why Francesca raised me a hundred on seeing you here tonight.”
I sigh. Genevieve Staub is not an aunt by blood or marriage, but as my Nonna Lorena’s best friend and also my dad’s godmother, she’s been more family to us than anything else.
“Of course she did,” I tell her as she steps back to gaze at me. My sister is a cunning fox—her nickname isn’t volpe for nothing.
“It’s good to see you out and about.”
Does my smile look like a grimace? I don’t really care right now. Another cane whack slaps my ankle bone this time.
“Step up, Val,” she says in her tone that brooks no argument.
“Si, Zietta.”
She has the gall to laugh. Of course she will. Here I am, head of a powerful Borgata, yet being chided like I’m a ten-year-old up to some mischief.
She takes my arm, and we move to a small alcove from where we can watch the room with no one behind our backs.
“I really didn’t expect to be seeing you here tonight. You loathe such things.”
She’s right, but I’m here for a purpose tonight.
Speaking of, there she is. It’s easy to single her out of the crowd of lavishly attired women swirling around with the scintillating gleam of their high-end jewelry catching the light from the many gleaming chandeliers lighting up this grand ballroom.
Naomi doesn’t need any artifice. The pistachio-green off-the-shoulder ballgown hugs her delicate curves gently, the fabric flowing around her lithe form like a soft breeze. Unlike the other females in the room, she isn’t dripping in diamonds and other precious stones. A simple gold filigree necklace encircles the long column of her neck.
What draws the eye onto her is the intricately designed mask hiding her eyes and cheekbones. It’s a light, creamy color, streaks of pale gold finely decorating the piece. Unpretentious, unlike the many monstrosities I can see around, with feathers and sequins galore.
She shines with her freshness and simplicity, like a flower allowed to bloom without the weight of artifice on it.
“Ah,” Zia Vivi exclaims next to me. “Of course, there’s a ragazza involved.” She pauses, and I can feel her piercing gaze on me. The silver arabesque mask on her face is doing nothing to diminish the impact. “You know what you’re doing?”
Here she is making me feel like a foolish teenager who knows nothing.
In the past, bluster would’ve overtaken me, and I’d have stormed away while biting my tongue. You don’t speak back to your elders.
But this is now, and I’m not a boy anymore. In our family now, I’m the eldest.
“I thought you were like Switzerland, Zia. Not getting involved and all that.”
She scoffs. “I only married a Swiss.”
I take a sip of my champagne. “When it suits you.”
“It’s for your own good.”
Every society has one like her—a meddler who likes to pull strings from the shadows. Nonna Lorena is the quiet one in their duo. Zia Vivi always knew she’d be better as a strategist. If she’d married my Nonno, she would’ve run our Borgata with an iron fist. But he had eyes only for her gentle friend.
While I appreciate her concern—no one would ever want to get on her bad side—she’s not running the show here.
I turn to her and tip my flute of champagne her way. “I’m better placed to figure this out, don’t you think?”
A long beat of silence stretches between us, the din of the ballroom settling into the void, until she closes her eyes briefly then gives me a soft nod.
“It’s good to see you step into his shoes,” she says.
“I have a feeling you want to add ‘finally’ to this,” I mention.
She chuckles then sobers. “You were all grieving.”
Still are, I want to tell her, but bite my tongue. Nonna says grief is love that has no place to go. An apt description.
Zia Vivi thumps my ass with her cane. I quell the urge to wince.
“So, you’ve set your sights on a girl to build your own family now, ensure the lineage continues?”
I groan inside. All these old ladies want is babies. Weddings first, then lots of bambinos. “What century are you living in? Regency times?”
“It is your duty now, you know.”
A sigh escapes me.
Zia Vivi draws closer, her hand on my arm closing tight as she presses her slight frame against me to reach up and whisper in my ear. “She is a Reeves on her mother’s side, but her father is…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence. Everyone in my entourage knows what a piece of work Joel Smith is, though not all of them know the whole truth.
The cazzo himself comes into my line of sight. The champagne in my mouth sours, and I spit it back out into the flute before dropping it off on a side console.
Look at him being the happy buffoon. Joel Smith looked affable anytime you saw him. Full of laughs, cheeks a little too pink from drink, but he struck anyone as jovial and not a drunk. His gray hair gave him an air of respectability, the aura quite literally expanding whenever he drew his beautiful daughter to his side.
I wince as he pulls Naomi to him with one arm, smiling in a besotted, benevolent way at her.
The world saw the devoted single father who single-handedly brought up his only child when his wife tragically drowned during a family vacation in the Hamptons.
I knew for a fact Joel Smith had, despite hinting at getting into politics one day, not entered the running for any official position on purpose until Naomi had finished school. It gave him credence as a family man to have his only daughter standing on her own two feet before he deigned to take his focus away from her to pursue his personal ambitions.
While he did exactly that, it’s not because he’s a good father. It’s been a planned political move all along. It makes for a heartwarming story in a Hallmark movie type of way.
The only one who doesn’t see it is Naomi.
A snarl curls my mouth as I watch them.
“It’s hard to believe your father and he were such good friends at one point,” Zia Vivi says.
Her words make me tense up. I’m the only one who knows why my father fell out with one of his best friends. They bought houses next to each other to be together, the third one in their trinity, Antonio Bravi, getting a place on the next block. As close as they were, they became sworn enemies.
“Be careful,” she continues. “He’s up to something.”
“I know.”
“He always had it in for your father. Don’t go shaking the hornet’s nest, Val.”
I pat her hand and give her a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’m not afraid of him.”
Joel Smith has it in for me, too. Because I once confronted him many years ago, throwing all his dirty dealings at him. The fact I know makes me a target.
“Tale padre, tale figlio,” she says with a sigh. “I hope you know what you’re doing, figliolo.”
The fact she used the endearment which can mean son or grandson softens her admonishment a bit. I can hear she’s worried for me. Just like she was for my father, who fell for the only daughter of a Turinese boss and almost started a war when he began courting her.
I place a soft kiss on her temple. “I’ve got this.”
She nods. “Know we’re all here for you.”
The solicitude in her tone almost unravels me. I know I’m not alone, but to hear it stated like a pledge by those who are mine never fails to make my heart trip a little.
I clear my throat. “Looks like the governor is making a beeline for you.”
No mask can hide the poufy ginger coiffe that gives the man away from a mile out.
“And you’re going to use this to slink back in the shadows,” she quips.
I wink at her. “You know me too well.”
She scoffs, then extricates her arm from mine and starts in the direction of the governor, leaving me to my own devices.
I scan the room for Naomi again. She’s still with her father.
Some insipid man comes up, and Joel introduces him to Naomi, who is graceful and the epitome of polite charm. Another one joins them, and it dawns how alike those men are. Similar height and build, blond hair, bland good looks like a store mannequin come to life. Naomi was dancing with another clone a few minutes ago.
From the corner, I stop and stare at the small grouping.
Joel is keeping the conversation going between all of them. I can make out bits and pieces—they sound like lavish praise about Naomi’s numerous stints in official government postings in the recent years. It is impressive. Even I’m awed by what I can hear from her resume.
Yet, one look at the clones tells a different story. Did someone forget to give them a brain at the manufacturing plant? Their faces are borderline-blank.
Worse, they’re not even looking at Naomi like she exists.
A surge of jealousy flares inside—I’ll kill anyone who dares to look at her with lust in their eyes and filthy thoughts in their minds. That’s my privilege and mine alone.
Yet, any red-blooded male must see how desirable she is. Not only does she have a fantastic body, she is the whole package.
My eyes narrow on the clones. They’re not seeing her because…
Ah, it clicks now. She’s just a connection to Joel Smith, a step up the ladder because he will be a political big wig someday, and soon, if he has his way. I hear he’s a shoo-in as Mayor. Provided nothing derails his plans.
Said plans which seem to be to pair his daughter off in an influential political match that will also look good on his ongoing campaign trail. Look at that all-American wholesomeness oozing from their little grouping.
How can Naomi not see this, not see that he is playing her like a pawn?
Because she is clueless. She has always hero-worshipped her father, not knowing what a piece of work he is.
When we Andretti boys were growing up, our father would present us with the true tale of Joel Smith. Any decision we were to come across, we were to ask ourselves this question: what would Joel Smith do? Once we had the answer, we were to do the exact opposite.
That’s how much of a scum Naomi’s dad is.
But she doesn’t know this.
And I won’t be the man to burst her bubble. She doesn’t deserve such indelible suffering on her heart.
My eyes drift back to her, and I squint.
The little minx.
Slowly, she has been creeping away from her father’s side. He’s engaged in conversation with a senator from New York, one of the clones hanging on to his every word. The other has vanished. A glimpse at her empty hand suggests she may have sent him to the bar to get her a drink.
Clever girl.
Yes, she really is the whole package.
Five years ago, honor bade I couldn’t pursue her as I might want to pursue a woman who catches my attention. Because she was barely legal.
Now here we are, somewhat in the same season…
Maybe we could pick up from where we left off.
Heat rages inside me as my pants grow tight and my eyes tunnel-vision on Naomi’s form as she draws close to one of the French doors leading to a stone balcony.
Five years ago, I had to let her go.
Today, there’s no reason keeping me from pursuing something with her.
So, I take a step closer to her in the open doorway and drop my head lightly, so my mouth is aligned with her ear.
“I wonder if there’s any mistletoe left hanging somewhere.”