Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
LUCY
The doorman at my parents’ building on Park opens the glass door, his expression caught between pity and amusement. “Nice to see you again, Miss Stuyvesant,” he says, using the same voice he might use to warn someone about falling scaffolding.
“Thank you, Myron,” I say, and mean it. He’s the only person in this building who greets me by name rather than by whatever title my father’s foundation has appended to him this quarter.
The elevator is freezing, as usual, like a steel box meant to keep expensive guests from melting.
I check my reflection in the shiny panel, wipe away mascara flakes from under my eyes, and look at the faint bruises on my collarbone.
I tried to cover them with concealer, but they’re still there, following me.
I pull my neckline up and wrap my coat tightly around my shoulders.
My childhood home feels like a tomb built from the bones of a Roman senator: marble floors, expensive rugs, and a grandfather clock that chimes every quarter hour with strict precision.
I let myself in, and the ticking begins.
The foyer smells of scotch and orange peel, and I can already hear the clink of glasses and the low, harsh laughter of my father and brother, Lionel, in the den.
If I could map out my survival plan, it would be a straight line to the kitchen and then out the fire escape, but my mother would have guards posted.
I’m right. She’s in the living room, with my grandmother on her left and Aunt Elise on her right. All three sit on the velvet settee, like a Greek chorus waiting for Oedipus to meet his fate.
“Lucinda,” my grandmother says, voice smooth as arsenic, “I barely recognize you. Are you sleeping at all?”
“Hello, Nana,” I say, kissing her thin cheek. “I’m fine. Everyone looks well.” I walk around the coffee table, nodding to each of them. My mother’s lips are tight, her jaw tense. Aunt Elise takes a sip of bourbon, the drink in her glass the color of old pennies.
“We’ll be eating in half an hour,” my mother says, her words delivered with the precision of someone who’s not used to being ignored. “Your father will join us then.”
I drop my bag by the radiator and slip my arms under my coat, remembering all the times I left this room, convinced nothing here could hurt me. I should have known better.
Nana is the first to pounce. “You’ve been causing quite a stir, darling. I had three phone calls from Boca in the last two days alone. Is it true you’re dating a criminal?”
I laugh, but it sounds weak. “I think you’re exaggerating, Nana. He’s not even Sicilian; he’s Calabrian.” I’ve said those words to myself so often that I’m not sure they mean anything anymore, especially to my family.
She draws herself taller. “There’s never been a mobster in our family, not since our Dutch ancestors first came to Manhattan.” Her mouth twists a little, as if she tastes lemon. “You realize what this will do to your father’s work? To the family’s work?”
Aunt Elise interrupts, her bracelets stacked on her wrist. “It isn’t about his reputation, darling. It’s about your safety. These men are, how should I put it, unstable.”
My mother frowns, as if she’s surprised to agree. “I found out his daughter graduated from Trinity Prep,” she says, turning to me. “Do you know what kind of message that sends? We know the headmaster, and everyone there will think we have mob ties.”
I want to tell her I haven’t met Carina, Alessio’s daughter, and I don’t plan to, but it doesn’t matter. The story has already taken on a life of its own.t a friend,” I say, and it’s the first time I realize how little I’ve ever considered him as such.
Nana’s eyes soften, which is always a sign of incoming damage. “Lucinda, men like that, they don’t stop until they own you. I watched it happen to your grandfather’s cousin, the one who married that small-time union fixer? She ended up in a sanitarium in Connecticut, never saw her children again.”
“I can handle myself.”
Elise puts her cold, bony hand on mine, and the chill goes right through me.
“We’re not saying you can’t. But these people aren’t a joke.
There must be federal surveillance on him.
If you get caught up in it, you’ll blame yourself for ruining your life, and then you’ll blame us for not warning you. ”
This is when I’m supposed to thank them for caring, for protecting their fragile but unbreakable name. Instead, I start shaking, and my chin trembles in a way that would have made my mother proud when I was a child, but now she looks worried I’ll mess up my mascara.
“I don’t care,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Who are we pretending to be? You married a man who cheated on you for twenty years, Nana. Dad runs around with his interns. Elise had that—” I stop, realizing I’ve gone too far, and Aunt Elise’s face freezes as she takes a sip.
She blinks, then sets her glass down. “It’s not about what we did, darling. It’s about what we don’t want you to do. I don’t want you ending up in some courthouse begging a judge for a restraining order.”
My mother clears her throat, trying to redirect. “You’re brilliant, Lucy. You could have anyone you wanted.”
I almost laugh. “I do want him. At least, I want to see what happens.” My voice is so quiet I hardly recognize it.
“When I’m with him, I don’t think about being watched, or what comes next, or what might happen if everything falls apart.
I want to feel something while I’m still young enough to handle it. ”
The room goes very still, like the moment before a glass hits the floor and everyone hopes it won’t break.
Nana’s hand shakes as she lifts her drink. "You remind me of myself," she says, her words hanging between us like an unfinished sentence. Her eyes drift past me to something far away, and I feel the weight of her giving in—not just to me, but to something that happened long before I was born.
My father appears in the doorway as the dining room is being set. He’s tall and tired, his hair slicked back with something strong. He gives me a quick side-hug, the kind meant for daughters who didn’t quite measure up but still showed up at the gala.
“I hear your fashion business is gaining clients,” he says, half-sincere.
“It is,” I reply, and for a moment I let myself believe it.
He slices the roast lamb with the skill of a surgeon. “I want you to think about coming to the Foundation for six months. We’re starting a new project with the Met, and I’d like your input.”
It’s a trap disguised as an offer. “I’ll think about it. I’m not sure I’ll have time,” I say, watching his eyes flick to my mother with a small, satisfied nod.
After dinner, I make my excuses and leave through the service elevator, the one place my mother would never go.
Outside, the night air stings my lungs. I walk half a block before I realize I’m crying, the tears hot and angry, burning inside my cheeks.
I want to call Vittoria, but she’d just joke.
I want to call Alessio, but I can’t, not while their names still linger on my tongue.
I sit on a bench outside the church on Eighty-Seventh, head in my hands, feeling broken. My phone vibrates in my pocket, once, twice, and when I check it, his name appears: ALESSIO, the letters like a black tattoo against the pale light.
I hesitate. I swipe to answer.
His voice is low and calm. “Lucia.”
“Hi,” I whisper, trying to breathe.
Long silence. I can picture him in a dark room with a whiskey, staring out a window at the city. “Is it the family?” he asks.
“It’s just, I can’t,” I say, the words breaking inside me like sea glass. “I can’t see you anymore. This has no future, and we both know it.”
He doesn’t argue, beg, or threaten. There’s only silence, the kind that makes you want to scream to fill it.
“Okay,” he says, at last. “If that’s what you want.”
The thing is, I don’t know if it is.
Before I can say anything else, I hang up. I sit there, watching the city pass by in yellow streams of taxi cabs and lost years. I think about how loneliness can be so loud that it drowns out everything else.
I walk home, counting every step, almost hoping to see him waiting at my door. Maybe he’ll send someone. Maybe I’ll be followed. Maybe he’ll forget me by tomorrow. After seven blocks, I decide I don’t want him to forget.
When I get home, there’s a white rose on my stoop.
No note, no vase. Just the stem, cleanly cut, petals glowing in the streetlight.
I pick it up and carry it inside, pressing my face to the soft petals until the scent, like rain-washed linen with something darker underneath, fills my lungs and clouds my thoughts.
I fall into bed fully dressed, my silk blouse wrinkling against the sheets.
In the space between waking and sleep, I dream of his touch—the heat of his fingertips on my wrists, his platinum cufflinks shining as he pulls me closer, making me give in to him.
"Alessio," I whisper into the darkness, his name the last sound on my lips before sleep takes me.