Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Alessio
Damian has been odd ever since the day of the wedding.
Since he left to talk to Eivor that night, actually.
He never told me what it was about, and I haven’t had the chance to speak with him alone.
Rosalie has been by my side the last couple days.
It’s only at night that she goes to sleep in her own bed and leaves me to entertain myself.
Not that I mind. I’m just as interested in consummating our marriage as she is. Which is not at all.
Even at night, talking to Damian seems impossible. He’s always finding something to do, something to check, or he’s simply quiet.
Something isn’t right, and I need to find out what it is. It’s driving me up a wall not to know.
Unfortunately, Eivor has insisted upon my and Rosalie’s presence at a charity gala that’s been hosted in the ballroom of the hotel we’re staying at for another night.
It’s almost like the risk to Rosalie’s life is of no concern to him.
We still haven’t found more information about the shooter, nor if the Tulos are really the ones behind it, but no matter. We’ll go to the goddamn charity ball and act like a happily married couple regardless.
We have no other choice.
Cutting that son of a bitch driver’s fingers off a couple days ago should have given me the serotonin I need to get through all of this, but I just find myself falling deeper into the black pit that takes up what should be my stomach.
My wedding tux, that once had his blood splattered on it, is at the cleaners, but I know I’ll never wear the damn thing again. If I don’t have to see it again that will be fine with me.
Needless to say, I’m in mood tonight as I take the elevator down to the event with Rosalie and Damian. My suit is pressed and I have a tie that perfectly matches the dark coral tone of Rosalie’s dress. But my expression is far from what it needs to be for entertaining.
Each floor that we go down is another second that I’m trying to pull myself together. As the doors open to the corridor just outside the ballroom, I take a deep breath and look over at my wife.
Rosalie places her hand on my arm and clearly expects me to lead her out of the elevator. I do just that. I walk with her down the corridor and I can already feel the tightness in my chest. The drum of my pulse in my ears and throat.
This is our first outing since our wedding. I know photographers will be there. Waiting to take our pictures. People will want to ask us questions.
Do I have the answers to those questions? Yes, yes, I do. Are they the ones they want to hear? No, not even remotely.
The double doors into the ballroom open and the long, drawn-out drone of a classical symphony fills my ears. That and the murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses.
I could really use a drink right about now.
Rosalie doesn’t let me go through nor does she seem to be headed toward the open bar. Instead, she leads me right toward the photographers that are practically drooling at the sight of us.
“Let them get a few pictures,” she says with a smile on her face. My own smile tugs uncomfortably at my mouth, and I struggle to keep it up without wavering. I wonder, briefly, if it even reaches my eyes. My eyes feel cold and distant.
I look beyond the cameras and see people looking at us, talking to each other. They look away quickly when they realize I’ve noticed them, but the smiles and laughter stay with them.
“How are you enjoying your married life?” someone asks as they approach us.
It’s almost like this entire charity gala was just an excuse to get us in a room looking pretty so people could ogle.
“Well, it’s only been a few days, but I can tell you it’s wonderful so far,” Rosalie says in a soft tone that’s meant to be endearing to those listening, but to me it just sounds fake as hell.
We’ve barely done anything together the last couple days, certainly not what a newly married couple should be doing. The sex doesn’t bother me. I don’t think someone could pay me to fuck Rosalie, but for some reason the fact that we’ve barely spoken the last few days causes my chest to ache.
There’s a part of me that wants to know her. If I’m going to be married to her, I should at least know her as a friend, shouldn’t I? We should at least speak to each other on a regular basis.
I can’t fathom the idea of being married to someone who I can’t even talk to.
My eyes burn, and I’m once again reminded that I’m stuck in this. Regardless of what I want or how it turns out. I’m stuck.
Someone is asking another question, but I can hardly focus on it.
“Excuse me,” I say suddenly, and pull away from Rosalie.
I don’t give a reason for my departure, I simply walk away from her and toward the bar.
If I’m going to get through tonight, I need a drink, or two, or three. I don’t have access to anything stronger here, and I doubt Damian is willing to procure what I’m desiring.
I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t need this, or anything to get through this… but alas, I do.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks with a warm and friendly smile.
I tap my fingers on the bar anxiously. I can feel the well of emotions building up in my chest. I need to move, I need to do something, I need to…drink. I need to smoke. I can’t do the second thing in here. I can only do the first.
So, I will.
“Triple of your oldest whiskey,” I tell him.
“You got it.”
He has to search for a moment, and that moment is long enough that my breath gets heavy. My chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. All I can do is grip the bar with my fingers digging into the shiny polished resin.
For a minute I can’t imagine not feeling this way. As far as my brain is concerned, it’s all I’ve ever felt and I cannot remember what it was like to not feel this way.
My drink is poured. Too slow. Seconds feel like hours.
I find myself bouncing one of my knees while I lean against the bar. I don’t care who is watching me, looking at me, I can hardly focus on staying upright, much less worry about being watched in my poor state.
“Alessio,” Rosalie’s voice comes from behind me, along with the clicking of her heels. Angry clacking on the marble tile. “What are you doing?”
Finally, my drink is done and slid over to me. I grab it and turn to Rosalie out of instinct as I down it in all its strong caramel-colored glory.
I feel the burn down my throat, but most of all as it fills my stomach from first to last drop, I feel relief wash over me almost immediately.
I can understand now how Carmine got into the state he was in after our father died. How he wound up a drunken reckless mess.
It’s this feeling.
I suck in a deep breath with my eyes closed while my heart is starting to settle in my chest.
“Getting a drink,” I tell her.
“You walked away in the middle of an interview. They were expecting you to answer questions and get more photos of us,” she huffs at me.
“They weren’t going to get anything out of me, trust me,” I say.
Rosalie’s hair bounces as she moves her head in frustration.
“What is wrong with you?” she asks under her breath.
Grit my teeth. “Oh, I don’t know,” I hiss back at her. “Perhaps it’s difficult to be married to someone who simply glances at me in the morning before she gets her coffee, and then simply tolerates me during the day, before disappearing into her bedroom without so much as a goodnight or get bent.”
Rosalie’s expression shifts from anger to surprise. Her brows knit. “Alessio I…” she shakes her head. “Now isn’t the time for this.”
“No? When is the time?”
She takes a deep breath and looks around us. “Look, whatever you’re dealing with, I’m dealing with shit too, but I’m not making you look bad. Don’t embarrass me again.”
My jaw tightens further. I’m just barely feeling the alcohol set in, but that tiny buzz makes it just a little easier not to snap at Rosalie.
I know the bartender is behind us listening. If he knows what’s good for himself, he’ll keep quiet.
Both to and about us.
“Fine,” I mutter.
My eyes shift to Damian who is standing a few feet away, not looking at us. Likely pretending he can’t hear anything we’re saying, but I know he can.
“I’ll mingle like a good boy if it’ll make you happy.” I brush past Rosalie, but then turn to her and reach out my hand. “Would you like to join me?”
Rosalie eyes me from head to toe, her face a bit flushed.
She looks back to the bar, then back to me. “After I get my own drink.”
After about an hour of talking to people as a couple, Rosalie breaks off from me to talk to people on her own. It’s natural enough, no one seems to question it, but it leaves me to my own devices. Which means another drink.
The bartender looks almost concerned when he sees me for the third time tonight.
“I’m surprised you’re still on your feet,” he tells me with a slight chuckle.
I feel fuzzy, and a little floaty, but most importantly, the pain is still there. The several drinks before didn’t quite get rid of it. If at all. The physical manifestation of it in my body is gone, but I can still feel the ache of anxiety and sadness.
It weighs heavy on me tonight. Still, I force a woozy smile. “All good,” I insist. “I can handle one more.”
He narrows his eyes at me for a second. “Alright, but after that I’m cutting you off. You’re having a little too much fun.” The way he says this is pointed. As though he’s really saying the opposite. I’m just sober enough to recognize the tone of his voice.
My hooded eyes flick away from him, because the eye contact feels uncomfortable.
“Another whiskey?” he asks.
“Just a single.”
That is much faster than a triple, and I’m not even sure I could handle one anyway.
I take the whiskey down again without much of a burn this time, and sigh. Surely this will help.
Before I have much breathing room, there’s someone standing next to me, and they seem to want my attention.
“Alessio Dresvanni, is it?” the tall and blonde older man asks me.
I nod my head as I slide my empty glass back toward the bartender.