15. He won’t let it go
MICHELA
15
I’ve only ever seen this part of New York in the movies or if something terrible happened and it made the news. For a moment, I think of sneaking a picture, but quickly dismiss the idea. Corrado would probably think I’m silly. I am silly. And trying to contain my excitement about dining here.
Propped up on pillars, the Icon Hotel stands tall and imposing, its beige marble stairway reminding people that one must climb many steps to reach the reward. The journey from down here looks tasking since the hotel’s famous for its one hundred and one steps.
You’d think people would refuse to climb it, but they seem as eager as I am to get on their way. The perfect gentleman, Corrado offers me his elbow, and I slide my hand under it, using it for balance as we climb the steps.
Halfway there, Corrado asks, “Tired yet?”
“Not even close.”
“Played sports in high school?”
“College, actually.”
“College?”
I wince. “Ouch, you seem really surprised I attended one.”
He tsks, and I think it’s more at himself than at me. “Which university?”
“A local community one, then I finished up at a four-year.”
“Studying design?”
“Botany, actually. It’s the study of plants.”
He side-eyes me. “I know what botany is.”
“I’m used to having to explain.”
“That’s because you date turds like Tino.”
I laugh. “You can’t let it go.”
He shakes his head. “I have let it go.”
“Have not.”
“Have too.”
Corrado seems in his element, chipper, even. Not sure what to make of that. For a man who tried to give someone a gift, then got rejected, he seems unaffected. I’m both bothered and relieved. It bothers me he doesn’t seem to care much about me taking the little golden box, but I’m also relieved he’s acting mature about my refusal.
At the top of the stairs, we step directly into the vast hotel lobby. Thousands of tiny lights from dozens of modern chandeliers as well as wall mounts and lamps illuminate the nicest place I’ve ever seen. The pale caramel walls hold myriad beige and off-white paintings that add texture to the place.
People congregate on spaced-out sofas and couches, all decorated by feminine fur throws and soft cashmere blankets draped over worn, dark-brown leather couches.
A few orange Chesterfields add color and masculine character to the glitzy space.
“I love it,” I say. “It’s warm, inviting, and chic.” When Corrado says nothing and just looks at me, I blush, feeling awkward about commenting on the beautiful space. He lives in spaces like these, and I must find a way to fan girl over the interior design perfection in my head instead of out loud.
He leads the way inside, and I start noticing the glow on the skin of the women here, their perfectly manicured nails, the massive rocks on their fingers, and their shoes, many with red soles, the kind that cost more than the tuition for four years at the state university I attended.
As we move into the building, some people start doing a double take. A man sprints past us, then opens the large doors ahead of us, only to stand aside.
“Mr. Mancini,” he says and fixes his black tie. The broad-shouldered man of average height with a septum piercing and tribal tattoos over his neck and jaw spares me a glance.
“A drink before dinner?” Corrado asks, addressing the man.
I await the man’s answer.
“Wife?” Corrado prompts me.
The man’s eyebrows shoot up before he drops his gaze down my left side. I hide my ringless hand behind my back.
“Wife?” Corrado repeats. “Our table is not ready. This gentleman is offering us a drink at the bar.” He points at a gorgeous brown-and-white space ahead of us. It’s also full of patrons and people standing at a large bar that runs along the right side of the wall. Most of them aren’t holding drinks.
“We apologize for not being ready, sir.”
“Don’t apologize, Samuel, when you are perfectly irritated that I didn’t call ahead as my family normally does. I didn’t call because I don’t want our family table. A regular table in the main dining room will do, and since my pregnant wife can’t drink, we will not make a round at the bar.”
Samuel looks from me to Corrado, clearly wanting to say something, but unsure if he should.
“You wish to be seen,” Samuel says.
Corrado nods.
“And the dessert?”
Corrado turns to me, a decadent look in his hazel eyes. “Dessert I will eat in private.”
I swallow. What kind of dessert is he saying he’ll eat in private?
His full lips part slightly, and he swipes his tongue over the bottom one, catching it between his teeth before releasing it.
“Your lounge will be ready by then,” the man says.
“A lounge?” I ask.
Corrado nods. “I enjoy a private section of this restaurant whenever I visit.”
Right.
“And he relishes keeping us on our toes,” the man adds.
“That is also true.”
“I have to say, sir, I’m surprised you remember my name,” Samuel says.
“The devil is in the details.”
Something uncomfortable passes between the pair of men. Samuel steps back and touches his earpiece.
A hostess appears out of nowhere. She wears a beige suit with a modest skirt, and her hair is up in a bun of curly dark hair wrapped in a matching silk scarf. Her warm dark-brown eyes assess me before she smiles, showing perfect white teeth.
“Welcome to the Icon,” she says, then leads us toward the dining area, past another bar, where most of the patrons are couples made up of older men and younger women. The deeper we get inside this place, the quieter and more sequestered it becomes.
We enter a room with only about a dozen tables and no fewer than nine chefs at the far end of the space working in the kitchen. The few tables in here are all taken by men in suits and scantily dressed women. This place clearly caters to wealthy men who wish to privately indulge in the company of women who might not be their wives.
I find it interesting that Corrado chose this place to “be seen” with his wife. While I presume most of the companions are escorts or mistresses, and while Corrado and I aren’t really married, it makes me wonder why he chose this place out of all the others.
The hostess walks through the room, heading for one of the six floor-to-ceiling doors that lead onto a large terrace with more seating. Corrado makes a detour.
He approaches a table where a man who seems to be in his sixties is dining with a brunette less than half his age. She wears a long white dress with a side slit all the way to the hip, exposing her entire left leg.
As Corrado approaches the table, the man stands and greets him in Italian. The woman remains seated. Corrado ignores her completely.
The man’s hair is slicked back with gel, exposing a handsome face with pronounced wrinkles around his dark-brown eyes that brighten as he regards me. “When they told me Corrado married, they never mentioned he married a siren.”
I smile at his compliment.
“Michela, this is Domenico Benvenuti. Your friend Tino’s older cousin.”
Oh man, Corrado can’t let it go. “Nice to meet you.” I glance at Corrado, hoping no more surprises come my way. I also try introducing myself to the woman, but she excuses herself to the bathroom.
“How do you know Tino?” Domenico asks.
“From Club Torniquet.”
“Oh yeah? You like the place?”
Corrado bumps my toe with his shoe. I don’t know what that means, so I look to him for an answer.
“She loves it,” he says. “Don’t you, baby?”
I confirm with a nod and a cheerful “Love it.”
“Since Tino won’t be there, next time you’re there, tell the bouncers in the front, and I’ll treat you to the VIP room.”
“Thank you. That’s very generous of you.” Katie will love this. She’s been wanting to get up to the VIP room for years.
“I appreciate that,” Corrado says. “Tino left town?”
“Mmhm.”
“On business?”
“He doesn’t work for me.”
“But he’s family, no?” Corrado asks.
The man narrows his eyes. “He is. What’s it to you?”
“I would prefer you keep him out of town.”
Domenico lazily peruses my body, an inappropriate, sleazy gesture toward someone else’s wife. Since men often look at me that way, I’m used to it and I don’t fuss, but next to me, Corrado tsks. “Deliberately provoking me is a bad idea.”
“Yes,” I agree, and tug Corrado’s sleeve, trying to get him moving.
He’s a pillar. Unmoving.
The men engage in a staring contest.
This can’t be good.