27
“I’m thinking Audrey Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I mumble, as I ask her to do my hair up fifties style. I have the entire outfit down to a T, even with the black elbow length gloves and the black shades.
Giulia pulls and tugs at my hair like she’s making dough, but surprisingly, she knows what she’s doing, because it doesn’t hurt. “I’m going to get him to pay you more,” I say, “You technically aren’t supposed to be my hairstylist.”
“Mr Costa pays me enough, no?” she says, “Too much.”
I consider that for a moment.
When she’s done, I look at my reflection in the mirror. I only had to show Giulia a picture of Audrey for her to get the hairstyle on point. I have about three hundred bobby pins in my hair, but it looks good. Theatrical.
My makeup is minimal — just a nude lip with a little eyeliner.
My body is covered by a Givenchy sheath black dress made of Italian silk.
Sleeveless and floor-length, it’s a replica of the one from the movie.
The dress is chaste, but with the pearls, the gloves, the shades, and the hair, the costume is scathing.
It’s satirical— considering that Audrey Hepburn was an escort in the movie.
I stuff my gloves and my sunglasses in a purse, sauntering out of my room in the pair of black kitten heels that were originally meant for me, heading for the lounge to show my future husband my outfit.
I’m to call out oh dear husband, when I notice Torren sitting on the couch, his head down. My heart stutters to a stop.
The past few days, he’s been busy with the funeral arrangements, and I was more than happy to simply stay out of his way. I didn’t think he was close to his father, so it was justifiable that he didn’t show much emotion after hearing the news.
But now, he looks . . . tired.
I take a step closer to him, the plush carpet masking the sound of my heels. Even though I’m quiet, he knows I’m here. And he isn’t budging from his spot on the couch or picking up his head to glance my way.
I take another step closer, and then another, until I’m right in front of him.
He still doesn’t move.
I never considered that no matter how horrible, Salvatore Costa was his father, and he might be mourning in his own way. Or that he might be mourning the father he never had.
I’m out of my depth. This was meant to be a moment where I obnoxiously flaunted my outfit, after which he would casted me derisive look, and then we’d leave the apartment with him walking so fast that I?d have to run to keep up with him.
But he’s so . . . different now.
I can’t bring myself to take pleasure in it.
Tentatively, I lift my hand, only barely touching the hair at the nape of his neck. He stiffens at the touch, but he doesn’t slap my hand away. I take it as a good sign. Swallowing, I sink my hand further into his hair, moving my fingers in circles.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing, but it’s my version of an olive branch. His breathing turns heavy.
Suddenly, his arms come up around my waist, and he grumbles softly as he pulls me closer to him.
My heart kicks up its beat in my chest as his hands burn holes through my dress and into the flesh of my hips.
“Do you . . . want to talk about it?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head against my stomach.
I chew on my bottom lip as I glance down at him. “Are you crying?”
He scoffs, drawing his hands away from me. “Fuck, you’re such a brat.”
Finally, he stands, looking down at me. Although he hasn’t been crying, there are dark circles under his eyes. Annoyingly, it doesn’t make him look bad. There’s a softness to his usually sharp features.
“Let?s go,” he snaps.
And then he turns and starts walking out the apartment. I sigh, having to walk twice as fast to keep up just behind him.
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The place is packed, stuffed to the brim with flowers. A lot of the Italians even dragged their children to the funeral, their little black-clothed bodies fidgeting in the heat.
As soon as our feet hit the dried patches of grass around the cemetery, Torren slips past me.
It’s blistering hot, if any indication where his father’s ending up.
Torren doesn?t seem too bothered by the heat, though. He’s been in a suit the whole day and he hasn’t broken a sweat, despite being involved in everything. Nobody told me how many procedures there are for Catholic funerals.
Giulia somehow gets me a tiny electronic fan that I’ve been using. It’s not helping much, but something is better than nothing.
“Miss Freya.” A hand falls on my shoulder briefly before pulling it away as if I burnt him. Angelo, the driver I’m most familiar with, hands me a black umbrella. “Boss said you might need this.”
And I guess I look at him strangely, so he continues to explain himself, pointing at the sun. “It’s very hot.”
I guess an umbrella is as good at blocking the sun as it is the rain. There are a few other women holding up their own to block the blinding rays of the sun.
With an umbrella in hand, I follow the cobble stone path, leading to a group of men lined up along the side, heads bowed to Salvatore’s coffin. I spot Ana’s blonde hair gleaming in the sun, the only bright thing amongst the darkness of suits and dresses.
Placing myself between Ana and my father, I whisper to Ana. “I’m guessing you had to buy something black for this. Welcome to my side.”
She smiles and tucks her head down so that Mama doesn’t catch it and chide her. Ana passes me a small smile, popping the top button of her blazer to reveal the neckline of her blouse. It’s white.
“Wow, wearing white to a funeral,” I muse. “Scandalous.”
The light moment is dimmed when I catch Mama glaring at us. No doubt she’s muttering under her breath about how much of a bad influence I am on Ana. I adjust my frame and face forward this time, catching Torren aside the priest as they softly go over sacraments.
Turning to my father, I lower my voice as I ask, “Were you responsible for this?”
I couldn’t help but wonder where my father had disappeared to during the ball, and what exactly he’d meant by I’ll take care of it. Papa’s silent, eyes fixed on the ground.
“Papa,” I say, doubt creeping in.
“I do what I have to,” he says. His voice is cold. Stern.
This time, I don’t push it.
I don?t try to think too much about it, either, because the implications of it are dire.
If my father truly did have some hand in Salvatore Costa?s death, that would mean that we?ve dug so far a hole that leaving this world would be impossible.
We?d be forever entrenched in the violence. The lechery. The blood.
I clear my mind, focusing on the grave in front of me.
The ceremony is almost at an end. This whole situation is just . . . tiring.
With the last words spoken by the priest and the soil covering the grave, it’s finally over.
I’m about to walk back to the car, but Papa holds onto my arm, “Freya.”
He closes his eyes and blows out a breath.
“Listen. There will be a closed-door meeting between Torren and his most important men. I’m not included in it.
They’re discussing an important deal. Important enough to be held as leverage.
I have it on good word that it’s all kept in a blue flash drive in his private residence. ”
“Private residence?” My brows furrow. “You mean the penthouse?”
My father?s eyes light up with confirmation. “The only people with access to the penthouse are you and him.”
Something carves out in my chest. “And you think he’ll let me go because of whatever’s on that flash drive?”
Papa nods. “I’m certain. You will do this?”
There’s a moment in which I actually take the time to consider it. But then I glance at the hopeful look on my father’s face, and I nod tightly. “Okay.”
Papa pats my back softly. “Good. I’ll get you out of there, lisenok. Soon enough.”
I don?t feel good about this plan, but how could I say no to my father? All he?s trying to do is get me out. And I want to get out, right? I have to want to get out, because otherwise, what do I stand for?
If I?m not Torren Costa?s enemy, who am I?
Angelo is waiting up ahead next to the car. As I walk to it, I hear voices. I pause, crouching behind a stone wall to get a better look. I catch a glimpse of Ana’s blonde hair and dress. And I narrow my eyes.
She?s talking to Torren.
“—says she doesn’t want love, when really, she wants it more than anyone else,” Ana says.
She’s the angriest I’ve heard her. Ever.
“So if you can’t give it to her,” she says, “let her go.”
There’s a moment of silence before Torren speaks, his voice dripping with condescension. “The loyalty you sisters have for each other warms my cold, dead heart. Really. But what’s done is done. I won’t change my mind.”
Ana’s stance is stiff with anger. I watch as she tries to calm herself down.
“Freya was four years old when she came to our house. The first words my mother said to her was I hate you. My mother always treated me well and treated her badly. And still, she was my friend. And still, she protected me.”
She turns, and I hide further behind the brick wall.
“You don’t deserve her,” Ana says, “You’ll never deserve her.”
He says nothing.
“My condolences on the death of your father,” Ana says.
And then she turns, heading my way. I straighten and rush to the car, not wanting either of them to know that I just heard all of that. My chest is all warm and gooey on the inside. I’ve never seen Ana stick up for anyone, not even herself, like that. And to Torren, of all people.
I slide into the car, and Angelo’s kind enough to crank up the A/C.
“He’s not coming?” I ask Angelo.
“Boss is going to finish up and then head back. You are tired, so he said you should leave earlier.”
“Oh.” I nod, sitting back in my seat. “Okay.”
Angelo drives for a while, and I remove my gloves, heaving a sigh of relief as my arms cool down from the sticky heat. I ended up using the shades for more than just fashion, too, since the sun was beating down on the entire funeral procession like no one’s business.
When we finally arrive at the building, Angelo drops me off at the foyer entrance, and I head in, walking toward the elevator.
Suddenly, there’s a hand tugging on my arm, into a nook where a giant pot plant is located. I look up, almost yelling when I realize it’s Ben.
I frown. “Benjamin? How are you here? How did you find me?”
His shirt is rumpled, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
“There are pictures of you at some funeral online,” he murmurs, frowning down at my figure, “Why are you dressed like Holly Golightly?”
I make a face. “What? That doesn’t matter now. You have to leave. You seriously have to leave, now—”
Ben huffs an agitated breath. “Frey, just wait for a second!”
“Okay,” I huff, nerves clawing up my throat. “Okay. What?”
He swallows as he looks down at me seriously. “What exactly is your family business?”
I sigh. “Do you really want me to say it out loud?”
He lets go of a harsh breath. “Your fiancé. Do you love him?”
I knit my brows. “You can’t ask me—”
“You don’t, right?” he says. “Leave him.”
I frown, shaking my head. “Look, Ben, I know you mean well, but you’re not listening to me. Right now, it’s very dangerous for you to be here, you need to leave—”
He cuts me off. “I don’t know what kind of weird cult your father is in, but I can help you. I swear, I can help you.”
There’s a sting at the reduction of my father’s career. “He’s not in a cult, Benjamin. He just arranged my marriage.”
Ben just shakes his head. “Asshole.”
I freeze. “What?”
“I said you father is an—”
“Get out,” I snap, “Now.”
But he doesn’t back down. I don’t know if it’s because he’s brave or stupid.
“Run away with me,” he says, “We can move to another state. I’ll take care of you.”
I grimace. Like I’m something that needs to be taken care of. Like he’d be able to protect me when an army of Italian and Russian men come looking for me.
Just then, there’s a prickling sensation on the back of my neck.
“You’ll do what, exactly?”
Fear licks up my spine as I turn. “Torren.”
He’s here, just a step away from us. His jaw is tight. And he’s livid.
He stalks closer, his eyes ablaze and glued to Ben. My heart floats up to my throat as I step in front of Ben. “Don’t hurt him.”
For a brief second, he turns all that blazing anger to me. “Get inside.”
“Torren—”
He grits his teeth. “Inside, Freya.”
This is bad. This is so bad. There’s no way Ben’s going to make it out of this building alive. The certainty of it hits me, and my knees buckle as I sink to the floor. Aware that people are looking our way, I bury my face in my hands. “Please.”
There?s a brief pause. Everything around me seems to freeze, then track back in slow motion.
Torren walks over to me. Kneels on one knee. Picks me up tenderly, and for a second, I think he’s going to listen to me. But once I’m on my feet, he pushes me towards the elevator door and grits out only two words.
“Get. Inside.”
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