Chapter 7
One month later…
There’s something cruel about candlelight. It flatters the liars, softens the wrinkles of monsters. It glints off crystal glasses and golden forks while hiding the blood that brought them to the table.
I sit at the far end of the dining hall, dressed in a silver chiffon dress that glitters when I move. I haven’t touched my drink. I haven’t looked at my father. I just keep breathing. Quietly. Evenly. Like a girl raised to be beautiful and still.
There are twenty people at this table. Every one of them carries a gun or has given birth to someone who does. Capos. Sons. Wives with diamond rosaries and fake smiles. Everyone is pretending to be civilized while carving up power between courses.
Everyone is pretending I’m not the next course.
I'm so used to these charades that my smile stays plastered on while I survey our guests.
Further down, Jacomo DeLuna has my father engaged in a deep discussion; Jacomo's eyes move over to Eduardo Zanello, our new Don.
Jacomo doesn't look happy. He has made a point to state that he thinks Edoardo is too young for the responsibility he's carrying; no friendship exists between him and the new Don. My father looks angry as always, waving Jacomo off with his hands. Next to Jacomo sits Gigi, his daughter, who has taken on the role of the family’s matriarch-in-practice, managing alliances and keeping the social front intact, after her mother’s death.
At least one friendly face, I think. We haven't had a chance to talk yet, but I'm hoping for some quiet time later.
My mother's absence wraps around me like frost. Even after all these years, I miss her.
My father didn’t cry. Neither did Angelo. They said her death was unfortunate, like she tripped on a rug and snapped her neck instead of wasting away from something unnamed and quick. They buried her in a crypt lined with imported marble and forgot she ever existed.
The only other person friendly to me, Marcello, is still halfway across the world, exiled to Sicily so he won't contest Angelo.
They shipped him off in the middle of the night, only hours after Mamma's death. The last call I got from him was three months ago, when he told me to stay strong, that he was working on something, and he’d be home soon.
He won’t.
He’s the only one I ever loved besides Mamma in this house. And he’s gone, and so is she. So now it’s just me. And the monsters who call themselves my father and my brother.
"Such a beautiful young woman," one of the men states.
I blink. Smile. Nod. I don’t hear who it was. They all sound the same when they want something.
I look up, just once.
He’s here.
Raffael.
Standing in the shadows by the entrance to the dining room, half-lit by the flicker of a candelabra. He's wearing a black suit and tie with his hands folded in front of him, a gun holstered beneath the jacket. A deep yearning runs through me; he's always close and never close enough.
He hasn’t spoken to me in a month. Not once.
But sometimes I feel him watching, from the shadows like now, or from across courtyards, or through tinted glass when he's coming or leaving.
In my weakest moments, I wonder if he ever thinks about the alley.
About the blood. About the kiss. About the girl who clung to him like he was the only safe place left in the world.
A fork clinks against a wineglass, and my father stands.
"Thank you all for coming," he says. His voice is oily with triumph. "Tonight is not just about business. It’s about legacy."
My stomach knots in dread.
He told me that tonight was the night he was going to announce our engagement.
Roberto sits across from me. So far, I've avoided his gaze, but now I have to look up and meet his dark eyes.
He smiles at me in what would have been a winning way.
I have to admit he's handsome, but as Cammie's brother, he's just that to me—my friend's older brother.
Daddy Dearest's smile is making him look like an overfed devil.
"I have the pleasure of announcing my daughter’s engagement to Roberto Giordano. "
My blood runs cold at the thought. Even though Cammie and I have never been as close as Gigi and Izzy and I, we are close enough for her to have given me insight into Roberto's insidious side—his cruelty.
I swallow. Normally, a year's engagement would follow this announcement, but my father has already made it clear that he expects me to get married in six months.
He claims my stunt from the other night requires closer supervision of me, and a husband is the only way he gets that and political pull.
The room claps. I'm under no illusion that they're applauding my engagement; no, they're in awe of my father's latest chess move.
Roberto stands across from me and raises his glass. I lick my dry lips and look at him through lowered lashes, trying to see the man I'm supposed to marry through the eyes of a bride, not someone looking at one of my father's business friends.
His suit fits like a second skin. He’s twenty-six, eight years older than me.
Strangely, part of me is relieved. Probably because I always knew this day would come, and I’m partially relieved that he's not sixty.
He's sharp-jawed and good-looking in a cold, sculpted way, but I also notice that his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
Still, I suppose it could have been worse.
I throw a glance in the direction of where Raffael stood a few minutes ago, but the spot is as empty as my heart.
I call myself a silly girl, because… because he and I could never be.
He's one of my father's soldiers, and I'm a mafia princess.
That didn't stop me from daydreaming through.
From dreaming that Raffael would confess his undying love for me, and my father would grant him my hand because he was so grateful for Raffael saving me that day.
Like I said. Silly.
If I want to have any chance of a happy life, I need to stop thinking about Raffael right now. Cut him out of my heart and my thoughts like he has so obviously done me. He called me a mistake, after all. I just don't understand why my stupid heart won't get the message.
Roberto walks around the table, toward me.
My heart beats a little faster at being under the scrutiny of twenty pairs of eyes.
My father and brother are just two of many, but they are the ones I need to please the most if I don't want to finish the night black and blue.
I need to plaster a smile on my face right now.
It forms, but it's hard to maintain, almost harder than watching Roberto approach and not staring at the empty spot by the wall.
"Sophia," he says in a smooth voice, going down on one knee and holding out a black velvet box.
It’s all wrong. Too quiet. Too rehearsed.
Too formal for a proposal that isn’t a choice.
I smile anyway, but it must look a bit strained, because I hear my father’s chair creak and Angelo’s sharp inhale.
I take these as warning signs, so I smile more, trying to force it to reach my eyes, because my ribs remember what happens when I don’t.
Roberto opens the box, and inside sits a diamond the size of a small planet, nestled in platinum. The ring catches the light and throws it across my skin like fire.
"Will you honor me by accepting this symbol of our union?" he asks.
His tone is perfect. Elegant. Respectful. Every inch the gentleman.
I swallow and nod. "Yes. Thank you."
He takes my hand and slips the ring onto my finger with the reverence of a priest, then lifts it and presses his lips to my knuckles.
The room erupts in raucous applause, but I barely hear it over the ringing in my ears.
He rises smoothly and offers me his arm like I’m some delicate heiress in a period film.
I take it because I’m supposed to. Because my father is watching, and the eyes of New York’s most powerful men are drilling into my back.
Roberto leads me out onto the terrace, and for a moment I can breathe again.
"You look beautiful tonight," he says, his voice warm, polite. "I hope the announcement didn’t upset you."
Upset me? Please—learning my life’s been auctioned off like a commodity isn’t upsetting. It’s terrifying. "No," I lie. "My father told me."
He smiles, a small, knowing smile. "I wanted to speak with you first. But your father preferred the dramatic route."
Of course he did.
Roberto stops near the edge of the balustrade.
The garden below us glows with soft lights, as if pretending we’re not standing at the edge of a cage.
People will take pictures tonight and fold them into stories that will last longer than I will remember.
I’m not here to fall in love, I’m here to perform civility, to practice smiling while my life is priced and parceled.
The expectation isn’t subtle: be presentable, be fertile, be pliant, produce heirs, secure alliances, never speak inconvenient truths.
The other daughters had birthdays and mistakes and time to find themselves; they learned the role in increments.
I’m being made to fit the costume before I’ve finished growing into my own skin, and that difference tastes like theft.
"I know this isn’t what you expected," he continues.
"It did come as… a surprise," I answer politely, because if my mother taught me anything, it is to be polite and to smile when your heart is breaking.
He doesn’t bristle. In fact, his lips tilt in the faintest curve of amusement.
"I meant no disrespect." I hasten to add.
He turns to me and studies my face with those cool, calculating eyes. "I don’t intend to hurt you, Sophia. This doesn’t have to be a prison sentence. You’ll have freedom, comfort, and security. I promise I’ll treat you well."