Chapter 23
GINA
“You look lovely, Mrs. Ricci,” Ciro says as I come into the living room. “Mr. Ricci said he’ll wait for you in the car.”
“Oh. Thanks,” I say, taking a resigned deep breath as I take the elevator down to the lobby.
It’s busy as usual, but in that quiet, elegant way you find in luxury hotels where guests sit with a glass of Champagne as they wait to check in.
Thomas, my driver bodyguard, spots me exiting the hotel and is quick to open the rear door of the limo for me.
“Good evening,” I say to my husband. But he’s too busy scrolling his phone and answering messages than to give me an affectionate tap on my thigh.
As usual, there are no pleasantries about how I spent my day.
Not that I have anything to report.
Today was just another day in so-called paradise, lounging around the ten-million-dollar penthouse.
My only activity was chatting on the phone with Alice while I took Biscotti for a walk in Central Park.
Will this be the pattern for the rest of my life?
So far, I seem to be an accessory for Dante more than anything else.
I remind myself to take Angie’s advice and shrug off Dante’s cold behavior.
Instead I remind myself of all the good things about our marriage and my new life.
Like riding in this fancy limousine and my designer outfit.
Antoine even selected a black pillbox hat with netting like you see in the old movies. I love it. It makes me look sophisticated and mysterious.
Another thing to be grateful for is having a husband whose ancestor is being honored as one of New York’s founding dynasties.
A crime dynasty, but a dynasty nonetheless.
I should be content.
I’m living a life of affluence and luxury millions of women only experience in romance novels.
So far, the only things missing are a husband who can verbally communicate his affection, and the ability to put my artistic talent to work.
When I see Lorenzo and Luca tonight, I’ll ask if Dante’s made a decision about the restaurant yet. So far, he’s avoided speaking to me about it.
As we approach the vintage building that houses the museum, spotlights illuminate its 1880s Beaux-Arts facade. A giant billboard showcases Salvatore’s black-and-white portrait and the exhibition name: From Docks To Dynasty.
A red carpet has been rolled down the stone staircase to welcome guests. Photographers line both sides.
“Make sure you smile,” Dante says, nodding at the photographers.
I glance at him, startled. “Oh. Yes, of course. Lorenzo texted me instructions on how to handle myself tonight.”
“Good. Little brother’s earning his keep.”
“Lorenzo’s a great guy. Both him and Luca. You’re lucky to have siblings.”
Thomas stops the car. And when he comes around to open my door, he flashes me a keep-your-chin-up smile of encouragement.
Though we’ve only shared general pleasantries, I sense Thomas realizes Dante can be a stern taskmaster.
I step out of the limousine wearing a practiced smile as cameras snap my picture.
Instead of smiling, Dante scowls, an expression keeping with his dark suit and don’t-fuck-with-me manner.
He radiates the kind of energy his great-great-grandfather would recognize. Salvatore would be proud.
Reporters shout questions, but as Lorenzo instructed, I ignore them and climb the stairs.
At the top, a tall man with silver hair and an expensive suit greets Dante first, then turns to me.
“Ah, so you’re the new Mrs. Ricci.”
I smile politely. “I am.”
“Gina, this is Robert Smith, the museum’s director,” Dante explains. “As soon as Silvio presented him with the idea for the exhibition, he worked tirelessly to put it together.”
“Tirelessly is the word,” Robert Smith says with a laugh. “It took forever to push it through with the board. But in the end, we won.”
“Congratulations. How did you do it?” I ask, still wondering how a museum like this agreed to mount an exhibition featuring a notorious crime family.
But I instantly regret asking the question when Dante’s hand tightens around my wrist.
“Ah, well, it wasn’t easy,” says Smith. “For years, I’ve wanted to feature the real salt of the earth in this institution. Salvatore Ricci was a bootlegger, it’s true. But as I told the board, without him and hundreds of others like him, this city wouldn’t be the powerhouse it is today.”
“True enough,” I agree.
Robert Smith smiles. “A warm welcome, Mrs. Ricci,” he says, holding my hand a moment longer than necessary. His eyes search mine in a strange way, as if he’s keeping a secret. “I hope you’ll enjoy tonight.”
“I’m sure I will,” I tell him. He finally releases my hand, and I step into the crowd.
Dante hangs back to speak with Smith further. It could be my imagination, but I’m almost certain they’re talking about me.
But what could they possibly be saying?
Looking around the room, I see this is certainly a glamorous event.
I recognize many of the Italian families from my wedding reception. Just as Antoine predicted, the older women wear conservative clothing. Dark colors, elegant cuts, understated but pricey jewelry.
And the younger women push the boundaries with shorter skirts, lower necklines, and higher heels.
But the aesthetic is all black, with the obligatory strand of pearls.
Many of the women wear their hair in a classic updo. Any of them could star in a Coco Chanel advertisement, all restraint and prestige.
And this quaint museum is the perfect backdrop with its crystal chandeliers, velvet sofas, and gleaming marble floors.
Ricci women stare and whisper as I pass, just as I had expected.
Not everyone has met me, and now I’m on full display.
Finally, among the judgmental faces a friendly one appears.
“Gina!” Angie rushes over. “My God, you look beautiful. This outfit is even better than the one you wore last night.”
Before she can say more, Silvio appears beside us. He kisses both Angie and me on the cheek. “Ah, the two lovely flowers of the family.”
“Congratulations, Uncle Silvio,” I say. “This is really a big moment. What would your ancestor say if he saw himself celebrated like this?”
Silvio smiles. “He’d take it in stride. I’m just glad the city recognizes our family for the powerhouse it is. And I’m happy to see you, Gina. Very happy indeed.”
Silvio’s tone is odd. It makes me think there’s something he’s not telling me. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad, but I force a smile.
“I’m happy to be here tonight, Uncle.”
“You’ll be even happier by the end of the evening,” he says, drifting away.
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask Angie as soon as he’s gone.
“No idea. But that’s Silvio for you. Full of mystery. Where’s Biscotti?”
“I left him at home. After Silvio nearly confiscated him last night, figured it was safer for everyone.”
We both laugh. When I spot Lorenzo in the crowd, I excuse myself and walk over to see him.
“Gina,” he says in greeting. “I saw you walk the red carpet from the window. Well done.”
“I had a good teacher,” I tell him. While we have a moment alone, I decide to take a risk. “Has Dante said anything about the restaurant?”
Lorenzo’s lips spread into a mysterious smile. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“I’ve tried,” I say, rolling my eyes. “He doesn’t respond.”
“That’s his way. Don’t be impatient. Good things come to those who wait.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
A moment later, the lights flicker. Robert Smith takes the microphone and delivers a perfunctory greeting.
Then he calls for Dante to take the stage.
The crowd quiets immediately. And soon Dante has them under his spell. He talks about his life as a boy, looking up at the photograph of the man who started the dynasty.
“I’ve often wished that I could meet Salvatore Ricci as a young man,” Dante says. “I want to ask him: What were your failures? And how did you learn from them?”
He pauses. The room is silent. Respectful.
“And you know what? He’s answered me. He said, ‘I would recognize my mistakes for what they were. I would learn from them. And I would change the wrong ways.’”
Dante’s gaze sweeps the room.
“It wasn’t until recently—very recently—that I realized what he meant,” Dante continues.
“We don’t have to follow the old ways. We have the freedom now to move forward in a different path.
Tonight, we are here to honor Salvatore.
And tonight, I hope, will mark the launch of the new direction he recognized but never personally took. I am the torchbearer of that dream.”
The applause is overwhelming, but not universal.
Lorenzo smiles, his expression, proud.
Across the room, I spot Luca nodding in agreement.
Younger members of the family cheer.
But the old guard doesn’t respond that way.
Silvio’s face is like stone, unreadable. His eyes lock on Dante, burning with something I can’t quite name. Fury? Betrayal?
As soon as the applause dies down, Angie rushes over to me and grabs my hand.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “There’s going to be blood on the walls!”
“What do you mean?”
“Your husband just declared war on the old ways.”
I stare at her. “The old ways meaning Silvio-style brutality?”
Angie nods. “Everyone suspected Dante was leading toward a more moderate approach, but he just declared it in black and white.”
“Is Dante in danger?” I ask, my voice tight.
Angie bites her lip. “A mob boss is always in danger. But today, Dante spoke what he’s kept hidden for so long. It’s a declaration of something. I just don’t know exactly what yet.”
“But is the danger from within the outfit or outside?”
Angie meets my eyes. “Maybe both.”