Chapter 44
DANTE
The night of the Academy’s awards ceremony, Gina sits beside me in the limo with Biscotti in her arms.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m escorting my daughter to her first starring role in a school play.
The analogy is ridiculous.
Gina is my wife and a grown woman.
Yet she’s going through so many “firsts” in her life.
Tonight she’s absolutely stunning in a classic long black dress with a simple strand of pearls.
She fought me on the outfit. “This isn’t the Academy Awards, Dante. The other students won’t dress up like this.”
But I sent Antoine to shop with her anyway.
“Everyone is going to laugh at me,” she’d said.
“I won’t laugh,” I told her. “And you’re going to win. You must look the part.”
In the end, she gave in to please me. That was enough.
“Lorenzo is coming later,” I tell her, scrolling through my phone. “He’ll find us inside during the reception.”
She glances over at me. “Is something happening?”
“Nothing that concerns tonight. Why do you ask? You know my phone is my office.”
“Yes. But there’s a different energy to your scrolling.”
I laugh despite myself. “I wasn’t aware I had a scrolling energy. But if you must know, the call I’ll be taking during the ceremony is key. You promised no sulking, so see that you don’t.”
She falls silent.
Gina looks out the window as the city moves past us, indifferent and lit up.
“Here we are, Mr. Ricci,” says the driver when we arrive, getting out to open Gina’s door.
“You must be new,” says Gina, shaking his hand as she exits. “I’m Gina Ricci.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, doffing his cap. “Marco.”
Once we’re out of earshot, Gina turns to me. “Is he to be my new bodyguard in addition to my driver?”
“I’m trialing him for you.”
“Why?”
“I’m setting up a few tests to see if he can outshoot you,” I say with a smirk. “You’re a pretty good shot, it seems, and it’s important that your driver be too.”
“Big compliment coming from you, mob boss,” she says softly.
I look up at where the Academy building rises against the night sky, Gothic and theatrical. Its stone facade is lined with torches, whose flames flicker in the wind.
The entryway is crowded with students and their families, the air filled with the chatter of people who consider themselves patrons of something important.
A young woman breaks from the crowd with the kind of bouncy energy that parts it naturally. She sports a blonde ponytail, bright eyes, and approaches us slightly breathless.
“Gina!” she calls. Then, catching herself, she adds, “Mr. Ricci, I’m Chelsea Brown. We met at the animal hospital.”
“Of course. Nice to see you.”
She and Gina fall in together immediately, the way girls today do, laughing before a sentence is even finished.
I watch Gina’s face open up in a way it doesn’t always in my world. She looks lighter, easier.
“I’ll let you both get settled,” I say and excuse myself before either can answer.
I find a quiet corner at the back of the ballroom to take my call.
I pace, phone pressed to my ear as my inside man updates me on the fallout from my museum speech.
The other families are getting nervous, exactly as I intended.
I can almost smell the cigar smoke through the phone as I picture the five old men sitting around their respective tables, discussing what to do about me.
To my face, all five families pledged their allegiance.
But my sources reveal that in truth, only three of the families are in alignment. Two are not.
And Silvio is the wild card stirring them all up.
The question of how to move against Silvio without fracturing our infrastructure requires patience and diplomacy.
I watch Gina talking to fellow classmates as they find their seats in anticipation of the awards ceremony.
Every few minutes, she scans the crowd until she finds me. When our eyes meet, her smile changes.
It’s not the bright, eager one she shares with her classmates. Instead it’s more private. A small curve of her lips meant just for me.
The lights lower, so I slip out into the lobby before the ceremony begins.
An hour later, I am still on the call when the applause starts.
I sense the winner has been announced. I quickly end the call and move back into the room.
By the time I reach Gina, she’s surrounded by well-wishers.
She spots me over someone’s shoulder and mouths the words across the noise. “I won.”
I make a small sign of applause. Just for her.
The staff scurry, and soon the chairs have been folded away and the reception begins.
Champagne appears. The room loosens.
Gina finds me at the edge of the crowd, Biscotti trotting beside her on his leash.
“Where were you?” she asks.
“The call ran long. I told you it might.”
“You missed the whole ceremony.”
“I saw what mattered.”
She considers this, likely deciding whether to be annoyed. “I’ll forgive you.”
“Generous,” I say.
She almost laughs. Biscotti nudges her high-heeled foot.
My phone vibrates, and I glance at the screen.
“Dante.” Her voice has an edge now.
“It’s important, Gina.”
“It’s always important.”
She falls quiet. She knows this about me.
“Go,” she says with an edge of resignation. “You know where to find me.”
I hand her a fresh glass of Champagne from a passing tray, kiss her cheek, and return to the call.