20. Ophelia
OPHELIA
Three people have died, and I’m dressed like I’m going to celebrate their death, not honor it.
The black sequin dress might hug my curves in all the right places, but it doesn’t feel appropriate.
Fundraisers are meant to be small, modest events, where you play bingo in the community hall to raise money for charitable causes.
While this event might be for a good cause, the intention doesn’t feel great as I watch politicians step out of luxury cars, heading inside, adjusting their bowties.
“I don’t understand why everyone’s making such a fuss.”
“I know,” grumbles Salvatore, sitting beside me in the backseats. “But Robert is in charge of damage control and insisted we show our faces.”
“Ours?” I glance at him. “He wanted me here?”
“No, I wanted you here,” he says. “As my executive assistant.”
“Of course,” I say. “I wonder what the company will think about that.”
“The company should have bigger fucking fish to fry,” grumbles Salvatore.
Robert Moretti is Salvatore’s younger cousin. He’s meant to be COO of the company, but Salvatore seems to have missed out a few details about him being the right-hand-man for the mafia.
I glance out of the window anxiously. My head doesn’t feel like it’s screwed on properly. Things make more sense than before, but the more I find out about Salvatore, the more I hate myself.
He’s the leader of an organized crime family. He has murdered god knows how many people. Knowing this information, I feel like I’m carrying twice the amount of guilt.
It makes me want to distance myself, but as soon as Salvatore reaches for my arm, the thought disappears into oblivion. He’s right. All I want is to be by his side, to know how it feels to be special.
On top of all this craziness, Salvatore is risking everything by telling me about the mafia. That has to count for something.
“You look beautiful in that dress,” Salvatore whispers in my ear as we enter the venue. “But I prefer it when you’re wearing nothing.”
“Not an appropriate thing to say when we’re entering a fundraiser.”
“We could be walking through a graveyard,” says Salvatore. “And I would still want to fuck you.”
My breath catches in my throat, pulse increasing as we enter.
This is an aristocratic nightmare, and I feel totally out of place. The dress makes me fit in, but I have no idea what to say or do. Salvatore, on the other hand, jumps straight into a conversation with someone from the stock exchange.
I flash the man a polite smile, refraining from saying too much, from speaking out of term.
I know where I stand in Moretti Global. The place might be upscale, and the men Salvatore meets with make double my salary in a month, but I know my role. I write notes. I stay silent.
I’m not supposed to be here, especially when I catch the governor of New York taking a seat at one of the rounded tables.
Grand chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, the diamonds winking when they catch the light. Huge floral arrangements have also been prepared. Orchards. Juliet roses. Only the best for the affected families… if this event is even about honoring their loved ones.
I can barely smell the flowers. In fact, I feel like I’m walking through duty-free at the airport, inhaling hundreds of different fragrances all at once.
Smelling the notes for Baccarat Rouge 540, I know once again that I am in the wrong fucking place.
“This is a huge deal,” I murmur to Salvatore as we move through the room, finding our table.
“Fundraisers are huge events, and a lot of people are here to pay their respects after the tragedy. Here. It looks like we’re sitting right at the front.” Salvatore squeezes my hand, guiding me to the front table, where David and four other important government members are sitting.
“Um,” I choke, looking around, sweating like a sinner in church. I know too much information. It feels illegal to be in public, to know this much information. “Nice to meet you.”
I shake hands with David Hale, feeling a little better about myself, knowing he was part of the Crows, and therefore has secrets of his own.
He seems better at handling them than me, holding his composure in front of the literal governor of New York. He must be a seasoned liar, quite like Salvatore.
“You must be Ophelia Bennett,” says David. “Salvatore told me you were going to be attending tonight.”
“It’s just Phee.”
“Well, Phee,” says David, straightening his tie. “Thank you for being here. You must be pretty shaken up after what happened yesterday evening. Did you know Wilson?”
“I’m sorry?” I choke, too caught up in my own thoughts to know what is safe to answer.
“Wilson Peterson, the man with the heart attack?”
“Oh, yes, uh… sort of,” I stutter, reaching for the glass of prosecco in front of me. “I heard of him, of course, but we never met. I was at the memorial last night paying my respects.”
David nods, taking a sip of his prosecco the elegant way you’re supposed to at these formal events—two sips at most, pinky finger pointed away from the glass. You must never hold your drink using all five fingers. Noted.
Before I can pick up the glass and try again, I hear the tapping of glass coming from the stage.
Salvatore stands center stage, looking dreamy as ever. The glass tapping was unnecessary. Salvatore breathes and has everyone looking his way. I see now why Robert wanted this to be a public scene. His face alone can buy people’s opinions.
“Firstly, I wanted to give my deepest condolences to any family members here tonight who have been affected by the attack. Behind me—if my huge head is not blocking the monitor, you’ll find a QR code on the screen, which will take you straight to the page where you can donate.
Anything is better than nothing… unless we’re talking about taxes. ”
Like these people even fucking pay them.
The audience laughs, holding their phones up, scanning the code.
I look around the room, glancing at different faces.
Jealousy writhes within me when I see two young females on the table over from me muttering something, giggling, their cheeks turning bright red.
It goes without saying that Salvatore is every female’s fantasy, but nobody in this room knows him like I do, except maybe David, who has now vanished from the table.
Salvatore clicks onto the next slide using a handheld device.
The room illuminates white, a huge number appearing on screen.
“To kick off this evening with a bang, I would like to hand you over to the one and only David Hale. As you can see here, our local superhero has already donated forty-thousand dollars in total to the families. A big round of applause for David, everyone,” announces Salvatore.
“But not for the shirt.” He grimaces performatively.
“The blue silk washes you out, brother.”
“Thank you, David. I’m sure the fashionable people here in the audience tonight will appreciate blue silk.”
Another, smaller round of applause follows.
David laughs with the audience. “On a more serious note, my heart truly goes out to…”
The rest of David’s speech fades away, replaced by my own thumping heart, when I see Salvatore head back to the table.
He blows out a long breath. Deep lines are indented across his brow as he stares ahead.
“It looks like we should add ‘professional actor’ onto the end of your resume. What the hell was that?”
“A performance, which I’ll be murdering Robert for later.” Salvatore crosses his arms, watching David, who seems to be enjoying the stage a lot more than the grumpy man sitting beside me.
I study Salvatore’s side profile when he’s not watching.
I’m already playing a dangerous game tonight, and by staring at my boss, I’m already raising the stakes.
Salvatore is irresistible. Walking into the office in the morning, seeing him dressed the part, is one thing.
But he looks otherworldly tonight in his tux.
His hair is moussed back, which brings more attention to his face than normal.
Chandelier light spills over him, making his cheekbones look extra sculpted, painting him in the most ethereal light. He could model. He could stand under the sun and never get burned, and yet he chooses to keep parts of himself hidden.
If Salvatore stood on this stage and announced he was a mafia leader, I can guarantee people would applaud him for his courage.
Salvatore meets my gaze, his searching eyes roaming over my face.
Not only do I feel massively out of place, I’m falling for a man who is making me question more things about myself…
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” I say, returning to the stage, watching David Hale finish his speech.
The governor of New York joins him on stage, and they shake hands as she thanks him for his donation.
Applause fills the room as David presses a loving hand to his heart. He holds himself well, and as he kisses the audience goodbye, I almost feel myself falling for the act.
Salvatore and David both perform to protect themselves, but one seems to enjoy the attention much more than the other…
I take small sips of prosecco, feeling the tiny bubbles pop on my tongue. I might need something stronger to survive this evening.
“That’s a lot of money,” says Salvatore as David returns to his seat, spreading his napkin across his lap as the meal service begins.
“Well,” says David, “I do try my best.”
I watch David across the table. Salvatore is jaded and moves through the world like he stopped giving a fuck years ago. David, on the other hand, has poise. He makes an effort with people, always stopping to talk to them, always shaking hands with someone.
He sets his silverware down several times during the meal, turning away from the table to shake hands with people. He nods his head, showing people he is an active listener. He asks questions and speaks in a warm, friendly tone, all while remaining composed.
I study his body language. His shoulders are rolled back, and his mouth curls up slightly at the end, like he takes pride in what he does.