Ricardo
Chapter Six
The ballroom is too bright.
That is my first thought when I step inside with Mario and Victoria beside me. Too much gold light spilling from chandeliers, too much polished silver, too many white flower centerpieces arranged at nonsensical heights that interfere with conversation.
The orchestra plays near the far wall, discreet enough that you know they're expensive. Servers move between clusters of people with champagne and practiced smiles. Every surface shines. Every laugh carries just a little too far.
Chicago society likes to pretend it has better manners than New York, less desperation than Los Angeles, more substance than Washington.
It is a charming lie.
I button my jacket as we pause near the entrance. “How long are we required to stay?”
Mario glances at me. “Long enough to be seen.”
“An hour, then.”
“Two.”
“That seems excessive.”
“You say that every time.”
“And yet you keep inviting me.”
“I did not invite you,” he says. “I told you to come. You are my dealmaker, Ricardo.”
“I can make deals in an hour,” I say.
Victoria, standing on his other side in a deep green dress that makes at least three men near the entry try not to stare, looks between us with dry amusement. “Does this improve with age, or have you two been like this since childhood?”
“I would say it's gotten worse since childhood,” I say.
Mario smiles faintly. “He was more obedient then.”
“That is because I was smaller and had fewer options.”
Victoria laughs, and Mario’s expression softens immediately.
He does not mean to do it. He would probably deny it if I pointed it out. But I have known my brother all my life, and I know what it looks like when the rest of the room becomes less important to him.
Tonight, he stays close to her.
It's not obvious to those outside of the inner circle.
But his hand rests at the small of her back when people approach.
His body angles toward hers during conversation.
His gaze cuts too quickly toward anyone who looks too long at her stomach, though there is barely anything to see yet beneath the cut of her dress.
The baby is not a secret.
The family knows. Our people know. There will be no formal announcement. The world will simply find out when it does.
Still, he is watchful.
Possessive.
Annoyingly happy.
I am glad for him.
And I don't blame him. After being widowed in the way he was, and after the attempt on Victoria’s life, I would be intolerable too.
The event itself is a charity obligation connected to the museum board, the kind of evening where checks with many zeroes are written.
Conti Enterprises is listed as a major sponsor, which means Mario must shake hands with those who would smile to his face, but whisper his name the moment his back is turned.
Useful people, mostly.
Hypocrites, entirely.
We make our way through the first group near the bar.
A bank chairman and his wife. A developer whose son has a gambling problem and therefore speaks to Mario with gratitude.
Two aldermen, one retired judge, three donors who treat Victoria with the careful friendliness people use when deciding whether a woman is powerful in her own right or only powerful by proximity.
They learn quickly.
Victoria is polite, elegant, and precise.
She answers questions without over-answering them.
She smiles without giving anything away.
When a woman in pearls asks how she is finding the demands of being engaged to a man as busy as Mario, Victoria tilts her head and says, “I’ve always found work easier when everyone involved respects competence. ”
The woman blinks.
Mario takes a slow sip of his drink.
I nearly smile.
We are twenty minutes into the evening when I see Judge Patrick O’Brien.
He stands near a tall arrangement of white orchids, one hand in the pocket of his tuxedo, silver hair perfectly combed, posture judicial even with a glass of champagne in hand. His wife stands beside him in pale blush silk and diamonds.
Suzanne O’Brien is fine-boned, elegant. Just like her daughter with a few decades added on. I note that the red in her hair is nearly the same shade as her daughter’s, although not natural as Julia’s.
A bit of jealousy there, perhaps?
I know them by reputation more than acquaintance.
Judge Patrick O’Brien has spent decades cultivating the kind of influence men rarely admit exists in public. He is respected, well-connected, and not nearly as clean as his press would prefer.
His decisions have helped people I know. His friendships have protected people he would never dine with openly. He understands where power stands in this city, and more importantly, he understands how to act surprised when someone points to it.
One of the reasons Julia was hired was the possibility of access to him.
I remind myself of that as Mario notices him too.
“Judge O’Brien,” Mario says.
Patrick turns at once. His smile appears easily, practiced but not false enough to insult us. “Mr. Conti.”
“Mario, please.”
“Then Patrick.” He extends his hand. “Good to see you.”
They shake.
Patrick’s eyes move to Victoria with immediate calculation, then warmth. “And Ms. Murray. Congratulations are in order, I believe.”
Victoria smiles. “Thank you, Judge.”
“Suzanne,” Patrick says, turning slightly, “you know Mario Conti. This is Victoria Murray, his fiancée. And Ricardo Conti.”
Suzanne O’Brien offers her hand first to Mario, then Victoria, then me. “Of course. It’s a pleasure. We’ve heard so much about Conti Enterprises lately.”
“All flattering, I hope,” Mario says.
“Mostly interesting,” Patrick replies.
Mario smiles.
There is a pause, brief and smooth and full of teeth.
I enjoy my brother most when other men forget that rooms like these are not the only ones that he is comfortable in.
Patrick looks at me. “Ricardo, I believe we’ve met once before. Years ago. At the Harrington dinner.”
“Briefly,” I say. “You remember well.”
“I try to remember people worth remembering.”
“Useful habit for a judge.”
His smile deepens. “Essential.”
The conversation settles into ordinary territory first. The museum expansion. The board’s fundraising target. A city development matter that Patrick refers to in careful, neutral terms.
Mario listens with the mild expression he wears when he is deciding how much a man wants from him and how much he is willing to pay for it.
Victoria speaks when appropriate, and Patrick adjusts to her quickly. Not condescending. Not careless. He is too intelligent for that. But I notice how he measures her. Her background, her usefulness.
Her current position beside Mario. The child she carries. The alliances implied by all of it.
Suzanne watches the exchange with a softer face and colder eyes.
I try not to let Julia’s voice from earlier in the week enter the conversation.
The food was perfect. The flowers were perfect. The seating arrangement was perfect. Sit this way. Smile now. Don’t say that. Wear this. Be grateful. Be careful.
It would be unfair to judge them on the most painful part of their daughter’s evening.
People are rarely at their best in family matters.
I know that too well.
So I give Patrick O’Brien the benefit of his public reputation and the caution due a useful man.
For almost seven minutes, he makes that possible.
Then Suzanne says, “We understand Julia is settling in well with you.”
Mario’s face changes by one degree. Almost nothing.
Enough that I see it.
“She is,” he says. “Very well.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Suzanne’s smile is composed. “She has always been capable when she applies herself.”
My hand stills around my glass.
There are several ways to praise a daughter.
That one chooses none of them.
Victoria glances briefly toward Mario, then back to Suzanne. “Julia is highly capable. Mario relies on her already.”
“Does he?” Patrick asks, with a small laugh that sounds fond until one listens beneath it. “She’ll like hearing that.”
“I have told her,” Mario says.
“Good. Good.” Patrick nods, then looks at me. “She has always done well with responsibility. Sometimes she simply needs the right structure around her.”
The right structure.
I hear Julia’s voice again.
I take a drink because it gives my mouth something to do besides say something unwise.
Mario speaks before I can. “In my experience, Julia does not require much structure. She requires only clear expectations and room to do the work.”
Patrick’s eyes move to him.
The sentence is diplomatic.
It is also a line drawn with a knife.
Victoria’s expression does not change, but I know she heard it as well.
I haven't known her very long, but enough to know she doesn't like what she hears.
Suzanne gives a delicate laugh. “That sounds like Julia. She likes to appear independent.”
Appear.
This time, my gaze settles fully on her.
She does not seem to notice. Or perhaps she does, and assumes I will be polite enough to ignore it.
I am polite.
I am not always kind.
“She moved across the country and secured a position in a difficult office,” I say. “I would say she more than appears independent.”
Suzanne looks at me, and for the first time, I see the smallest flicker of surprise.
Patrick smooths it over. “Ricardo is right, of course. Julia has spirit. Always has. Even as a child, once she decided something, convincing her otherwise took an act of Congress.”
“Fortunately,” Mario says, “she is no longer a child.”
The temperature in the little bubble we're in cools.
Not enough to draw attention. No one nearby turns. The orchestra continues its polished little waltz. A server passes with champagne. Across the room, someone laughs too loudly at something a senator says.
Patrick’s smile remains in place. “Of course.”
Suzanne’s gaze slides toward Victoria. “I only mean that this has been a transitional period for her. The move back. The broken engagement. A new job. It is a great deal of change all at once.”
“Some changes can be healthy,” Victoria says.
Suzanne looks at her with a gentleness I distrust on instinct. “At times, yes.”