Chapter 26 Annetta
ANNETTA
A month passes quickly. I look out over the black, frost-kissed waters of Lake Michigan. Delicate piano notes trickle out of the Spirit of Serenity, broken up by bursts of laughter.
A few partygoers I vaguely recognize from other family events stumble past us, rosy-cheeked from the winter air and huddled together. The men in the group nod respectfully to Dom as they pass onto the massive party yacht.
“We don’t have to do this,” Dom murmurs.
I break my gaze from the dark waters and turn to him. Tonight, he let me tame his hair into a half-up style, and he’s dressed up in an all-black three-piece suit with a light blue pocket square. There are a few buttons undone to reveal a tantalizing window of tattoos and chest hair.
Next to him, I feel like a fraud.
I’m wrapped in a beige wool coat, a pink sheath dress with a modest neckline, and conservative beige heels.
My makeup is made to look completely natural, and my nails are long and blush pink.
The tip of my nose aches, a lovely winter reminder of my nose job.
My hair’s beaten into a shimmering, golden waterfall.
Only one thing would betray my picture-perfect image if anyone thought to look—the gun I’m carrying in my purse.
“Mom would be upset,” I say.
She was very clear that this party would be of utmost importance in convincing the rest of the family that I was Serafina and not a threat to anyone.
I’ve done everything I can to keep up with that ruse, subjecting myself to another “spa day” to look like my sister and perfecting the floral arrangements for their delivery.
He slips his cold fingers into the warmth at the nape of my neck. “You always listen to your Mom?”
“Salvatore would be mad.”
Don Salvatore agreed that acceptance from our family would undercut the Chiarellis’ beliefs about my identity and paint them as blood-hungry paranoids.
“Fuck Salvatore.”
I can’t help the smile that creeps across my face as I tuck myself into his arms. “He won’t like hearing you say that.”
Dom’s grin is wide and infectious. “Fuck. Salvatore.”
A low voice cuts in. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”
Dom and I look up from our embrace.
Salvatore watches us from a few feet away without any emotion in his amber eyes, and Marisol smirks at us from his side. She’s stunning tonight in a red gown that clings to her curves underneath her thick black coat. Salvatore looks like a mortician next to her in his all-black suit.
Another man, tall and lean with a crop of dark hair, lurks a few steps behind them.
He looks so completely out of place with his hoodie, oversized bomber jacket, and ripped jeans that I reach for my purse.
He glances toward me with a flicker of interest, his eyes the same intense amber as Don Salvatore’s.
“Serafina, this is my half-brother, Nico Matassa,” Salvatore says without affection.
“You’re late.” Dom shifts his body between me and Nico.
Nico smirks.
“We had a small change in plans,” Salvatore says.
As if on cue, Marisol reaches out for me. “I heard lemon tarts are on the menu.”
Salvatore turns his head to the side to speak to his half-brother. “Go with them.”
Nico makes no sign that he heard, but when Marisol takes my hand and pulls me toward the yacht, he trails behind.
“See you inside,” I call out to Dom.
He frowns at Marisol’s back as we walk away.
She leads me up the steps of the concrete dock to the yacht, her arm hooked around mine, and leans in to murmur in my ear, “They found more women the other night. Another warehouse.”
Her gentle tug is the only thing that keeps me from completely stopping in my tracks.
Marisol waves off the pale bald man with a headpiece on the deck. “They’re with me,” she says smugly and pulls me forward.
Apparently, the man recognizes Marisol by sight, because he lets us and Nico through without a problem.
As I step forward, I look down into the dark gap between the boat and the deck. I can just barely make out the glint of the icy water far below, and for one heart-stopping moment, an intrusive thought—what if I slip?—enters my mind before Marisol guides me fully onto the deck.
A server appears from the small crowd of people and extends a tray of champagne to her.
She waves him off. “Just orange juice, please, and a plate of those lemon tarts.”
A tendon jumps out in his sharp jaw, but he bows his head respectfully and retreats.
Marisol pulls me under one of the space heaters while Nico watches us from the yacht’s edge, leaning carelessly against the railing. Just one push and he’d go tumbling into the water.
I turn away from him. Most of the guests are milling around the inside of the first deck salon, but a few are huddled around the space heaters, smoking cigarettes or cigars.
Behind Marisol, the city twinkles and glitters like thousands of diamonds. She’s talking, but it’s the lake that takes hold of me, stretching out endlessly into a pitch-black horizon. Is it my imagination, or is it lapping higher against the hull of the boat than I first thought?
“What do you think?” Marisol asks.
I blink a few times, dragging my attention back to her.
The other women they’d found—she wanted to know if I could help them. She said they didn’t want plane tickets back home. They want to stay here, but they’ll need help finding jobs and housing.
“Why do you want my help?”
“Because I trust you,” she says with a playful smile.
I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or trying to manipulate me, but in either case, I couldn’t possibly accept what she’s offering, not when I almost got myself killed trying to help Maria and Lucia.
“I don’t think it’d be fair to those women. I don’t know what their needs are or how to help them. Don’t you have someone more qualified?”
“More qualified? Sure.”
The server returns with a flute of orange juice and a small plate of lemon tarts, and she murmurs thanks, sipping from the juice.
She continues. “But I thought you cared about this? Helping others and all that. Without someone like you, they’re just going to land back on the streets.”
I bite back my immediate response, then realize I don’t have a more tactful way to ask. “Why do you care?”
She doesn’t seem bothered as she shoves an entire tart in her mouth and hums at the taste. “I don’t, but we have a bit of a PR problem, and having little pet projects like this goes a long way when we have to rub elbows with certain social circles.”
She looks at Salvatore and Dom, who are stepping onto the deck.
“I’ll send the details over to you,” she says with a wink. “Think about it.”
Marisol departs, joining her husband, and Nico detaches from the railing to follow.
The crowd, the boat, and the lake fade around me as Dom and I lock eyes across the deck. In a few quick strides, he wraps me in an embrace so tight it’s like we haven’t seen each other in weeks. I press my face into his chest, breathing in his scent.
Since we came home from the cemetery, we’ve been nearly inseparable. I keep waiting for his interest to fade, for him to detach, but instead, our need for each other grows stronger every day.
The desperate, restless way we’ve been fucking lately has simmered into a gentle and tender lovemaking.
It scares me sometimes, how intense it is, and I can’t help the feeling that Dom is treating me so sweetly because my life is in danger.
Then he texts me photos when he’s away from the penthouse of fluffy pigeons on the street, or of him sadly eating a subpar restaurant meal, or flashing me a pair of my stolen panties in his pocket, and I think that’s just how he is.
Of the rare, lucky people who find great love in their lives, maybe I’m one of them.
Dom unwraps himself from me to kiss my forehead and peppers kisses down the side of my face, making me squeal, until he’s kissing my mouth, deep and slow. I drag my nails into the nape of his neck and tug at his hair.
When he pulls away, he has that wild look in his eye like he’s thinking about pulling me into an empty room to dip his head beneath my dress. In moments like this, I don’t care how little time I might have left—what I have with him is bliss.
He kisses me again, and right as I consider demanding we go find one of those empty rooms, he takes my hand and murmurs, “I want you to stay near me tonight.”
Fear drips down my spine, though his presence dulls it. “What did Don Salvatore say?”
“I can’t say right now. Can you trust me?”
I squeeze his hand. “Of course.”
Elegant piano music washes over us as we step inside the first deck and pass our coats to the attendant by the door.
Neil’s playing is better than I expected, a small relief.
The suit I bought him fits well, and his face splits into a wide grin every time someone passes by and shoves another bill into the already overflowing tip jar on top of his piano.
Waiters weave through the crowd with sizzling flutes of champagne while Chicago’s most dangerous citizens dress up in designer clothes and pretend, for one night, to be harmless.
Couples splinter off from the crowd to chat with us, and for once, I’m grateful no one expects much of me.
The men try to preserve an air of dignity as they kiss Dom’s ass, and the women offer me lavish compliments and saccharine condolences for my loss.
I smile, thank them graciously like my sister would, and stand silently at Dom’s side until the next person speaks to me.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Carlo says as he strolls up to us. “Serafina, could I have a word with you?”
From his sharp-eyed look, I get the uneasy feeling that my brother’s completely sober—something he only does out of absolute necessity.
Before I leave, Dom grabs my hand and kisses my cheek before whispering in my ear, “Stay where I can see you.”
The council member’s wife exclaims something about “Newlyweds!” as Dom turns back to them with a grin.