31. Valentina
Chapter 31
Valentina
“W here’s your mask?”
Curse stares blankly at me from the foyer as I come down the stairs towards him. I shake my own mask at him – creamy satin and edged with gold lace – to show him what I mean.
“It’s a masquerade ball,” I remind him. “You’re supposed to be wearing a mask. It’s a whole theme.”
Curse is in his usual simple black shirt and black pants. I roll my eyes and give up, knowing I won’t get anywhere with him. He, Elio, and I are all stubborn in our own ways. Curse is the quietly implacable one. He’d probably let me go on and on about the event’s dress code until I was blue in the face, and then he’d just open the door for me and expect me to go get in the car.
“Fine. I guess you’re not technically a guest, anyway.” Unlike Mamma and Giulia and Lucia and me, Curse isn’t attending to smile for the cameras and wave around a bunch of cash. He’s there as security.
“Ready?” he asks, watching me put on my mask.
“Yes – shit! No. Hold on. I forgot my phone.”
I hike up my skirt. It matches my mask, with the same colour scheme of cream and gold, along with a tight-fitting bodice and an ankle-length skirt with a slit up the side.
It looks fucking fantastic. But it’s not so easy to run up the stairs in it. Especially when you add in the sky-high gold heels.
By the time I reach my room, I’m kind of sweaty. I take my mask back off and use it to fan my face as I hustle across the room to my vanity table where my phone is. I pick it up and take one last look at myself in the mirror.
I’ve kept my makeup simple, considering the mask is the main event when it comes to my face. A sweep of glittering, gold-hued bronzer on my cheeks and a clear gloss on my lips. My hair is where I put the real effort in. Hours spent curling, twisting, and braiding it has resulted in a complex, voluminous, vaguely-Grecian look that even I’m slightly in awe of, and I’m the one who freaking did it. My dark hair is held in place with gold pins with pearls studded on the ends.
After adjusting a couple of the pins, I nod at my reflection and snatch up my phone. Opening my gold clutch, I go to put it in, then freeze.
The square shape of a solitary silver wrapper is nestled at one end of the clutch. The ring-like shape of the condom inside it stares at me like an eye.
I hesitate, my blood turning to lava and scalding me from the inside out.
I shouldn’t have this. Papà would lose his mind if he knew.
He’d probably have a stroke if he knew this wasn’t even the only one. I’ve got a few more hidden in my bedside drawer, as well as sprinkled in other various purses I use with different outfits. A week ago, I asked Lucia to get them for me. She’s a nurse, and she has reasons to be in pharmacies and handling medical and health-stuff like this all the time. And, unlike her sister, Giulia, I know that I can trust her not to be a lovable but unstoppable loudmouth about it. She didn’t give me a hard time about it at all.
She didn’t even ask me who I’d use them with.
My mouth is sandpaper dry when I remember my hairbrained scheme.
The crazy idea about letting Darragh take my virginity. So that I can save myself from something worse.
I don’t even know if I’d have the guts to go through with it at this point.
But I want to be prepared. I haven’t seen Darragh since that day in my kitchen, but he has a habit of popping up when I least expect him. The next time I’m alone with him, I don’t want to be caught out.
Getting on birth control without my papà finding out would have been absolutely impossible. Dr. Morelli, Giulia and Lucia’s papà, cares for our whole family. The treatment for everything from migraines to bullet wounds goes through him. He’s an excellent physician, but he’s loyal to my papà and Elio above all others. He never would have prescribed the medication for me.
So condoms were the next best option. The easiest to access, and the most anonymous. Plus, who the hell knows how many women Darragh has been with? Pregnancy isn’t necessarily the only thing to worry about.
I grimace, hating the fact that my first reaction when thinking about Darragh’s previous partners isn’t actually a worry about sexual health.
It’s a sickening stab of jealousy.
That jealousy makes me feel stupid and small. It pisses me off so much I almost take the condom out entirely.
But at the last second, I stop myself. I leave it there, put my phone inside my clutch, and close it up.
Then, I put my mask back on and leave.
“Sorry,” I call down the stairs. “Where’s Mamma?”
“Uncle Vinny is driving her,” Curse informs me.
“Seriously? Papà’s attending this thing?”
Papà doesn’t usually come to our social functions unless it’s something absolutely necessary for his image, or he has business to attend to at the event itself.
Curse shakes his head.
“He’s just dropping her at the venue and then leaving. He’s got a meeting.”
“Gotcha. So, just you and me, then?”
He indicates I’m correct by opening the door and leading me to the waiting vehicle. All black, just like his outfit.
As he drives us to the venue for tonight, I’m struck with an eerie sort of foreboding. Or maybe it’s déjà vu. A hidden warning built out from a memory of the past.
The two of us were driving together, just like this, the night that Dario died.
The night that I almost died.
The night that Darragh saved me. Set his sights on me. Doomed me.
One thing is different already, though. Last time, the sun was still shining when we were driving to the Fabbris’ brand-new condo tower. Tonight, the sun is already setting, and we’re heading to a huge, old hotel with an exquisite ballroom.
When we arrive at the venue and head through the massive, carved wood doors, I see that Lucia and Giulia are already there. They’re dressed identically in black and white checkered dresses, and with the masks, it takes me much longer than it normally does to decipher who is who. After hugging and greeting them, though, I know that Giulia’s wearing the black mask, and Lucia is wearing the white. They’re both holding clipboards, checking names against the guest list of tonight’s event.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask them, glancing at the clipboards and the long line of immaculately dressed couples waiting to be let through.
“We’re all good out here. The venue gave us some extra staff to help let people in,” Lucia says, gesturing with her clipboard towards two young women dressed in white dress shirts and black pencil skirts. “If you want to go on in and scope out the ballroom, make sure everything is to your standards, that’d be good. Double check all the silent auction items and stuff.”
“On it,” I say. I give them each another hug, and kiss them on their cheeks. We giggle as our masks collide. Then, I push between them and go through another set of doors.
“Holy crap,” I breathe as I take in the space.
I saw this ballroom during the initial planning stages, and it was certainly impressive then, but it was nothing like this.
Shining, dark wood floors and arching windows of stained glass all along the far wall gleam in low lantern light. The ceilings are arching, cathedral-like, and criss-crossed with breathtakingly carved beams. Tables with black silk table cloths are arranged along the sides of the large space, some of them with chairs for sitting and eating, others lined with exorbitantly expensive silent auction items – purses and jewellery and bottles of rare scotch – most of them donated by yours truly.
Curse stations himself near the doors we’ve just come through, and I go to make my rounds. There are probably at least fifty guests already here, drinking sparkling wine or fancy cocktails from the bar discreetly nestled in one corner. If they’re not drinking and chatting, they’re filling out the silent auction forms. I’m pleased to see most of the items already have high bids on them, and the night has only just begun. We’re going to raise a solid amount of money for the kids at Hearts and Notes.
That makes me happy, and it’s probably silly, but I feel like maybe little moments of goodness like these can counteract all the other shit. I don’t feel like Valentina Titone, daughter of a feared mob boss, witness to multiple murders, and Darragh Gowan’s “pet,” when I can find these small spaces to be generous. To try to make the world just a tiny bit better.
I carry that feeling with me as the night progresses. I’m buoyed by it, practically floating on my feet as I greet guests and encourage higher bids. I’m in my element, and it feels so fucking good that I don’t even bother having a drink. I’m flying high all on my own.
The later it gets, the more couples drift into the centre of the room to dance to the music. It’s been a good mix of songs that are lively enough to party to, but smooth enough to slow dance if you want. Deciding I’ve done enough of my hostess duties for now, I step into the throbbing fray of guests with their masks and feathers and satin gloves.
The moment I begin to move my body to the beat, it abruptly stops. When it starts up again, the song is dominated by string instruments, the saxophone taking a back seat in the slow, romantic roll of the music. Everyone on the floor with me either pairs up or moves to the sides of the room. I stand in the centre of empty space, surrounded by couples slowly rotating in each other’s arms.
Well. This is fun.
I laugh it off. I’ll be able to dance more when the music picks up later. Or, if it really comes down to it, I’m sure I could coax Curse into a slightly awkward cousin dance, like we used to do at weddings when we were kids.
In fact, it seems like he’s anticipated me. From the corner of my eye, I see a figure dressed all in black approach. Even without looking at him full-on, his presence dominates, couples moving out of his way for him even when it isn’t convenient. I turn to face Curse fully, already extending a hand to him.
Except it isn’t Curse. The entire scene falls away on all sides. My hand hovers in the dimly-lit air.
Darragh takes it.
We stand like that for a moment, our hands clasped tightly. Darragh is dressed in a black suit with a black shirt beneath. He’s even wearing a fucking mask. A plain, simple black one that’s moulded to the upper half of his face.
But even with the mask, even in the half-dark, even with the way he’s shown up here when there’s absolutely no reason I should have expected him to, I know it’s him with a certainty that sears my fucking soul. His hand against mine feels so hauntingly familiar, calloused skin and heat that my body recognizes as easily as my own heartbeat. His eyes – one hazel-green, one brown, both shadowed – stare out from behind the mask and swallow me. He’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before.
He's looking at me like he doesn’t ever want to stop. The air thickens in my lungs, in my throat, between us.
“What are you doing here?” I barely manage to whisper.
He blinks slowly, then suddenly inhales, like I’ve woken him from some hazy dream.
“I could make up some shit about wanting to save the little children or whatever all this fundraising is for, but we’d both know that’s not true.”
He gives a tug on my hand, sending me careening forwards against his chest. His other hand goes to my lower back, fingers splaying possessively.
“I came to see you, pet.”
I can’t stop the pathetic rush of pleasure I feel at his words. I sift through the chaotic mixture of guilt and fear and the naked, trembling thrill that overtakes me in his presence.
I don’t know what the hell to say to him.
“You can’t be here,” is what I finally settle on. He doesn’t react at first. Doesn’t let me go. Doesn’t pull away. He just leads me in a languorously slow dance through the room.
“Why not?” he finally murmurs against my hair. My skin pricks. My nipples go taut against his chest. “I paid the thousand dollars for my ticket. Just like everybody else.”
“Ticket or not, you still can’t be here!”
This feels new. Dangerous. Darragh and I have only ever been together in the dark. Reckless snatches of stolen nights. Alone.
Always alone.
But here he is, moving through this group of my family’s allies like he belongs here.
Just like he stood in my kitchen that day, or on the shores of Georgian Bay.
Like he belonged those places, too.
But he doesn’t. He can’t. He can’t be with me like this. Even if he’s got business with papà these days, there’s no way Curse or any of the soldiers are going to let him dance with me like this for long. They wouldn’t even let some harmless fucking nobody dance with me like this, with one hand laying claim to my fingers, the other so low on my back his fingertips are brushing my ass.
“Come on,” I whisper. I pull out of his grip, but he doesn’t let me go. Not all the way, at least.
He keeps his hand on mine.
Not wanting to draw any extra attention to us, I don’t try to extricate my hand from his. I just start walking.
He follows.
As we move to the edge of the room, my clutch purse, which I’ve largely forgotten is hanging from my elbow, bumps my side, reminding me of its existence.
And reminding me of what’s inside.
My heart batters its way up to my throat as I furtively scan the room to see if anyone’s noticed me leave the dance floor with Darragh. No one stops me. No one calls my name.
No one draws a gun.
I reach a single wood door – not one that leads out of the venue, but one that leads further in – and pull it open.