21. Jasmine
JASMINE
“ I s this too tight?” Mom walks around me with a tape measure in hand, wrapping it around my bust as she moves.
“No, but I thought you already knew what size I was? Has something changed?”
“I want to get you a dress for the engagement party,” she replies.
I catch her hand as she passes in front of me. “We’re having an engagement party?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Don’t tell me you don’t want one?”
I haven’t even considered it, but now that it’s a prospect, I’m not sure I do. Given the fact Catherine is in recovery and I have no desire to be around Alto, there aren’t many people I’d like to invite. “No?” slips out as more of a question.
Bianca immediately balls the tape up in her palm and stomps away to the counter. “You’re impossible sometimes, Jasmine,” she mutters. “I’m trying my best to make this situation bearable for you, and I feel like you’re throwing it all back in my face!”
Concern pulses through me like a wave. “Mom, what do you mean?” I follow her to the other end of the lounge where she has several fabric samples spread out in binders. “I’m fine.”
“Are you?” She slams the tape down on the table and clutches at her chest with one hand.
“Your father has you marrying an absolute monster of a man. We’re going to be tied to a terrible family for the rest of our lives and you…
” She turns to face me with deep sadness darkening her face.
“God knows what that family will do to you.”
“Don’t you think I can take care of myself?” I ask, attempting to ease how she feels.
“It doesn’t matter how strong you are, darling.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it painfully tight. “They are so much worse, and they will ruin you.”
“Roman isn’t like that.”
“Isn’t he?” she scoffs bitterly. “All Gattis are the same. Wretches, the lot of them! And he’s far too old for you!”
“Mom, he really isn’t. And what does it matter how old he is? Dad is seven years older than you, and what about the other man you wanted me to marry? Was he my age?”
She doesn’t answer, which is my answer.
My heart aches. She’s distressed because of me, because I created this situation with the Gattis, so it’s on me to fix it. “If you met him properly, you’d understand.”
“I don’t want to meet him.” She turns away like a child having a tantrum and snatches up several fabric squares from the table. “But the least you can do is let me throw a party.”
“Do you really want to throw me a party to celebrate, or are you just doing it to show off to every other family waiting for this union to take place?” I ask, pulling my hand away.
My mother may often be miles away in her own thoughts, but I know how much she values her social standing, and throwing an engagement party will definitely catch the eye of a certain larger family I’m trying to keep off our necks.
“I resent that you would even ask me that,” she mutters, refusing to look at me.
“Well then, if you really care then let’s not have a party. Let’s have dinner instead.”
“No!” she barks and spins to face me. “I will not host that family in this house!”
“Not the family. Just Roman. He’s going to be my husband, and I think you would like him if you just spoke to him and got to know him a little.”
“You wouldn’t have to marry him at all if not for your father,” she grumbles under her breath, crumpling some of the fabric in her hands.
I place my hands over hers and gently ease the silk out from between her fingers. “Dad’s doing what he thinks is best?—”
“No, he’s doing what will make him more money. That’s all he ever does.”
“— but ,” I say louder to get her attention. “That doesn’t mean we can’t be nice. I know you think Roman has a reputation, we all know how savage the Gatti guard dog is, but he’s really not like that in person. You need to meet him, okay?”
It takes me two days to get my mother to agree to dinner and a further two for it to be planned out.
My father is less agreeable to sitting down with Roman but eventually agrees after pressure from my mother.
Despite her initial pushback, her enjoyment in planning dinners takes over, and soon the dining room is flooded with warm, golden light from candles lit all around the room.
The best red cloth drapes the table, the best silver plates signpost everyone’s seats, and the chef’s been cooking diligently all day under Mother’s strict eye.
We haven’t had a dinner party in months, and while this is just a small gathering, Bianca’s going all out, and the smile on her face is genuine. It eases my guilt a fraction.
Roman arrives a little after eight looking all kinds of nervous, which is a strange look on such a handsome, usually confident face. He stands on the doorstep with a massive bouquet of flowers cradled in one arm and his other hand repeatedly adjusting his blue tie.
“If I didn’t know any better,” I tease, accepting the gigantic bouquet. “I’d say you’re nervous.”
“Your father has a reputation,” Roman replies with an easy smile that barely hides the nervous flit of his eyes. “Is it true that he hosted a dinner party and had the necks of every attendee slit?”
“That would be telling.”
“Noted.”
“And my mother?” I gaze up at him with warmth in my heart. “Any scary reputation stories I should know about?”
Roman shakes his head with a soft chuckle. “Nope. Which makes her infinitely scarier.”
“Noted.”
“No rumors just means she’s too good, never been caught.”
“Ah, of course.” I take his hand in mine and he grips it tightly while running his thumb over my knuckles.
“You look beautiful by the way,” Roman says in a low voice. “Though how you expect me to get through a dinner with your parents while you’re looking like that, I have no idea. You’re a cruel woman, Jasmine.”
“Consider it a test of strength,” I tease, smirking.
The dress I chose for tonight is a simple strapless silver dress that just so happens to be so skintight, it’s like I dipped myself into silver and walked out with my head held high.
The only way I can get away with such a dress is that I made Mom think it was her idea.
Not difficult to do since she’s eager to take credit for any design and creative choice I make.
“Consider me tested.” Roman’s chin lifts briefly while we walk down the hall, then suddenly, he uses his grip on my hand to push me up against the wall, knocking one of our gigantic paintings off balance. “Consider me failing.”
He presses me there with his body, and the flowers in my arms get crushed by the sheer miles of muscle Roman possesses.
He leans in quickly and presses his lips firmly to mine, earning a brief taste of my raspberry lip gloss that seems to melt between our lips as the kiss quickly goes from soft to hungry in half a second.
He kisses me deeply until the sound of a door opening drives us both apart, and he stands nearby smoothing down his tie once more.
Our eyes meet briefly and he smirks very faintly while I have to swallow down a laugh at the sparkling lip gloss transfer on his lips as my mother steps into the hallway.
“Jasmine! What on earth are you doing to those flowers?”
I jolt up from the wall and warmth floods my cheeks as I thrust them forward into her arms. “A gift! From Roman!”
Bianca’s eyes widen at the sheer array of color and variety in the bouquet, then she looks at Roman as he steps forward and lightly takes her hand.
“It’s an honor to finally meet you properly, Mrs. Falzone.” He dips his head and brings the back of her hand to his lips. “I’m even more honored that you are allowing me to marry your vision of a daughter.”
My Mom’s cheeks flush a dark pink and her eyes turn faintly glassy as if this is her first experience with any kind of romance. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she titters. “It’s no trouble. I kept telling Jasmine to bring you around sooner, but you know what she’s like I’m sure!”
The laugh that escapes her is high-pitched and unlike anything I’ve ever heard from her before. Surely it can’t be that easy for Roman to get on her good side?
“And these flowers are beautiful. Jasmine, be a dear and find some of the servants to set them in water.” She thrusts the flowers back into my arms and loops her hand around Roman’s arm, then she frowns while leading him into the dining room. “Are you…wearing lip gloss?”
I track down a servant and have the flowers taken care of, then I head to dinner where my mother has Roman sitting next to her.
My father sits at the head of the table tearing into a steak, my mother is at least one glass of wine deep, and Roman only looks faintly uncomfortable.
The relief in his eyes when he looks at me makes my heart skip a beat, and when I sit next to him, his hand grips my thigh under the table.
The rest of the food is served as Bianca scolds Enzo for being impatient.
Then the meal starts, and for the most part, it’s incredibly pleasant.
Roman answers all my mother’s questions, including a few tall tales about his childhood to paint a perfectly unproblematic past. He’s also extremely complimentary of both me and my mother, and by the time dessert is served, I’m not sure who is blushing harder.
Roman’s compliments to me are earnest, and while his words to my mother are entirely out of politeness, she blushes like a teenager.
Unfortunately, it’s around halfway through ice cream and lemon meringue pie that talk takes an inevitable dip toward the elephant in the room.
Work.
“Perhaps if the Yakuza hadn’t made the unwise decision to try and kill my daughter ,” my father snaps over his glass of bourbon.
“I’d be more willing to lean into their demands.
But given their determination to harm the only thing dear to me, I’m having a hard time finding a reason why I should give a shit what happens to them when I take back my shipping lanes.
I don’t give much of a shit as to how they will continue to do business. ”