45. Lucia
45
LUCIA
B efore I invited Antonio to be my date for the gala, I was planning on wearing my black cocktail dress. It has a conservatively high neckline, the hem brushes my knees, and it’s perfect for a work-social event.
But now that I’ve invited Antonio, I need to up my game. I text Valentina.
Help. I need a dress.
She calls me back immediately. “A dress for what?”
“I’m going to the Palazzo Ducale gala with Antonio.”
“Antonio’s going to that?” She sounds surprised by my revelation. “And Leo cleared it?”
“I don’t think he knows yet.” Antonio’s security chief has one goal—to keep us safe—and he’s extremely single-minded in his pursuit. If he had his way, we wouldn’t leave the house until the threat was over. “I asked Antonio about it, and he said, and I quote, ‘Leo isn’t in charge. I am.’”
I don’t add that Antonio also said that he was besotted with me and wanted the world to know. That moment is just for me.
“Leo is going to flip his lid when he finds out,” Valentina predicts. “Which will be fun. For as long as I’ve known Leo, I’ve never seen him lose his cool.”
“Can we get back to what I’m going to wear? Antonio offered to get me a dress, and I loftily announced that I’d take care of it myself. But the gala is next week, and I have nothing suitable.”
“I know just the person you need to see,” she announces. “You remember Rosa Tran? She was a few years behind us in school.”
I search my memory. “Quiet, skinny, always had a sketchbook with her?”
“That’s her. She went to design school and apprenticed with several Paris houses, but then her mother got sick and she moved back. She has a boutique on Calle del Traghetto in Dorsoduro.”
Calle del Traghetto is close to the university and littered with trendy shops, bars, and restaurants. Good for Rosa. “You think she can squeeze me in on short notice?”
Valentina chuckles. “You’re going to a gala as Antonio Moretti’s date. Everyone is going to be wondering who you are. Rosa’s not an idiot—she’s not going to pass up a chance to dress you. I’ll call her and make an appointment.”
Rosa agrees to fit me in on Wednesday. Valentina and I go to the studio, and after the initial greetings, we get down to business.
“Green is the obvious color, of course,” Rosa murmurs, studying me with narrowed eyes. “But one must always try to do the unexpected. Do you already have your jewelry picked out?”
Is this how the rich live? Do they really have their gowns designed to match their jewelry? I feel like I’ve walked into the middle of a patch of quicksand. “I have this,” I say, showing her my ruby pendant. “I’ll wear this; I always do. And I have a matching bracelet.”
“You do?” Valentina asks immediately. Damn it; I should have known she’d pick up on that. My best friend doesn’t miss a thing.
I feel myself flush. “Antonio gave it to me.”
“Do you have it with you?” Rosa asks.
“No, but I have a picture.”
I pull out my phone and show Rosa and Valentina the bracelet Antonio had custom-made for me. Valentina whistles under her breath. “If those are real rubies,” she says, “then this bracelet is worth?—”
“Don’t tell me,” I interrupt. “I don’t want to know. It’ll just freak me out.” I turn to Rosa. “Any thoughts on a dress?”
She zooms in on the bracelet and nods. “I have just the thing in mind.”
The dress Rosa brings out is gold. “The fabric is a metallic lamé,” she says. “Try it on.”
I change into it, and Valentina helpfully zips me up. “Wow,” she says. “You look amazing.”
“I do?” I look in the mirror, and my mouth falls open. Rosa is right; this is the perfect dress. The metallic fabric catches the light, shimmering delicately as I move. The bodice is draped, clinging lovingly to my bust and falling in soft folds over my arms. The skirt has a high side slit, and the hem pools on the floor. The dress is reminiscent of the togas worn by Greek goddesses but in a modern, updated way.
“I’ll have to alter the fit a little,” Rosa says, circling me slowly and making notes on a tablet. “If you like it, that is. What do you think?”
“Yes,” I say instantly. I don’t even ask her how much it’s going to cost—it doesn’t matter. I can’t wait for Antonio to see me in this dress. I feel like a magical creature, a mythic goddess sheathed in golden glowing fire. “Yes, yes, yes.”
I invite Valentina for a drink after we visit Rosa’s studio, and she responds by giving me a teasing look. “I’ve barely seen you in weeks, and now you’re inviting me for a drink?”
“Have I really been that bad?”
“I’m just messing with you. Sorry, I can’t; I have to get back. Are you going to be okay on your own?”
“What kind of question is that?” I ask indignantly. “I’ve been on my own my whole life—of course, I’m going to be okay on my own.” That’s a lie. I miss Antonio already. “I’m going to binge all ten episodes of my Korean mafia drama without Antonio watching over my shoulder and commenting on how unrealistic everything is.”
Valentina laughs. “Sounds like a plan. Have fun.”
We part ways, and I walk home, my ever-present guards trailing me. I’m almost at my building when I turn the corner and see the neighborhood restaurant I used to go to almost every night when I first arrived in Venice.
I haven’t eaten there in weeks. Signora Stanescu must be wondering what the hell happened to me.
On impulse, I duck inside and take a seat.
It’s more crowded than usual, and the cheerful proprietor is nowhere to be seen. I glance at the menu, not really reading it, and find myself listening in on the two American tourists beside me.
“I love this place,” one of them says. “This would’ve been a great neighborhood to stay in. It’s so quiet but still near everything.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Our place fell through,” the other replies. “We’d booked it ages ago, but the host canceled on us at the last minute. He said the building got sold, and the new owners weren’t allowing tourist rentals. I practically begged him to reconsider, but he said he would get evicted if he did, and he wasn’t going to take the chance.” She sighs noisily. “At least he refunded us. Can you imagine having to fight for that money back?”
“And you couldn’t find anything else around here?”
“No! It was so annoying. It’s winter—shouldn’t there be plenty of apartments? But I swear it seemed like every rental in this area disappeared overnight.”
I can’t hear what she says next because, just then, Signora Stanescu bustles up to my table. “Lucia,” she says warmly, kissing both my cheeks in greeting. “I haven’t seen you in forever. Pasta today, or the special?”
“The special,” I reply. “Signora Stanescu, did your building get sold?”
She gives me a very peculiar look. “It wasn’t just this building,” she says. “Didn’t you get a notice?”
I frown in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Your building was sold too. Someone came in and bought every building in this square.”
“What? Why?”
She shrugs. “No idea. There are rumors of a big hotel development, but nobody really knows what’s going on.” She clucks in disapproval. “I’m surprised you didn’t get a notice. You should talk to your mailman and make sure you’re getting everything. You don’t want to miss something important.”
“I’ll do that.”
The only thing in my mailbox lately has been bills. But they’re arriving like clockwork, and there’s been no indication that the building has been sold, none at all. Well, none except for the elevator getting fixed.
People gossip in this city, especially in winter when the streets are quieter and there’s nothing much to do. But for someone to come in and buy every building in the square? What a preposterous idea.
* * *
There’s an email from Rocco Cacciola waiting in my inbox when I get back home. It’s a repeat of his voicemail. He apologizes for the delay and wants to know when we can schedule an interview.
I stare at my screen for a long time, unsure of how to respond.
Everything is perfect. I care about Antonio, and I know he cares about me. Things are going well between us. Really well.
And yet. . .
And yet, I hesitate to write back and tell him I’m not interested in working at the Uffizi.
For ten years, I didn’t get involved, didn’t go on dates, and wouldn’t let myself get emotionally invested. Antonio is my first real relationship, and he was worth the wait. What we have is real and special, and I don’t want to jeopardize it.
But the Russian threat isn’t the first time he’s in danger, and it won’t be the last. His life is violent. In his world, people settle their disagreements with bullets and blood. If I become a part of his life, it would be my world, too.
And one day—maybe now or maybe never—I will get a phone call from Dante or Enzo or Leo, and they’ll tell me what my parents’ lawyer said to me so many years ago. They’ll tell me that he’s dead.
I almost didn’t survive that first phone call. I won’t survive another.
Every minute I spend with Antonio, I fall deeper in love. Every minute I spend with him, I’m consumed by a gnawing anxiety that something will happen to him. That the worst-case scenario will come true.
I don’t care about the Uffizi job. It’s just a way to pretend that if something were to happen to Antonio, it wouldn’t wreck me. Telling myself that I can walk away from him without a backward glance is the lie that helps me cope with the dangers of his world.
But of course, it’s not true. I’m already in too deep.
I should just reply to Rocco Cacciola and tell him I’m no longer interested. Instead, I find myself writing, ‘How about sometime next week?’