Chapter 8 #2
Now that Marco has his jacket and shoes on, he looks like something from a magazine. He has gold cufflinks on his shirt and a gold ring on his pinky finger. A shadow of a smile pulls his lips as I come to a stop before him.
“Your ring,” he says, handing it to me. He must have found it on my nightstand.
“Right. We need to keep up appearances, after all,” I say coolly as I slide it on.
He nods, seeming pleased, and then offers me his arm.
Oh, how I enjoy the slide of my arm against his and the opportunity to wrap my fingers around his muscled bicep.
We don’t speak as we make our way across the rolling green lawn to the event area.
People mill about, drinking and laughing, all of them dressed in elegantly casual clothing.
Marco was spot-on with this outfit, and I might owe him one… but I won’t tell him that.
I’m starting to get anxious, suddenly worried I won’t know a single soul here, until I see Frankie and Dante. Frankie looks even more tired than yesterday, and I feel a fresh pang of sympathy for her. And then a ripple of fear goes through me when I wonder if anyone might get in who is not welcome.
Marco must feel the way I tighten my grip on his arm, because he leans toward me and whispers, “Our security personnel don’t hide in the shadows. We have protections in place.”
He’s right. The broad, black-clad men make a deadly and noticeable perimeter around the event area, but even so, I don’t let myself drop my guard for a second. I don’t know exactly what my family is capable of, but I do know that throwing caution to the wind can get a person killed.
“Tell me again why I’m here to watch you unveil your new car?” I say to Marco, striving for a light and teasing tone. I’m desperate to appear as if I’m having a good time.
Or at least like I’m not afraid for my life.
“This is where you pretend to be in love with me. Having a beautiful woman on one’s arm is always a good look for PR.
And I obviously can’t be seen in public with anyone but my new wife,” he says lightly as he smiles at a woman with a press pass pinned to the strap of her floral dress. “I hope you’re a good actress.”
“I’d better be,” I reply, mimicking his light tone and fake smile. “After all, I’m still pissed at you.”
I get no response. Typical.
In no time, we’re bombarded by press and racing people and Marco’s friends and associates, who all wish us well on our marriage, ask us how we met, and offer their congratulations.
Marco’s arm stiffens beneath my touch, but I keep a smile pasted on my face.
With all the photos being taken, I know for a fact that my family will see pictures of me at this event.
I can’t afford to look unhappy, or they’ll use it as an excuse to storm the Bellanti property to “rescue” me, guns a-blazing.
Thanks to the way I was raised, though, I know exactly how to pretend in situations like this.
So I do. Smiles and nods and giggles, soft little sounds of agreement.
I’m an ornament to be admired by all, but every interaction I have is surface level.
Still, the crowd is big enough that I feel my energy waning after the first hour, and I start to feel overwhelmed.
“Marco,” I whisper to my husband as one of his investor buddies tells a story about the last time he was in Vegas (which as far as I can tell is pure bullshit), “I need to get some air.”
“If you’re not back in five, reinforcements will hunt you down,” he whispers back, not taking his eyes off his friend. “And gate security knows you’re not to leave the property.”
“Of course,” I say.
Just to be obnoxious, I give him a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek as I go.
I’m just extracting myself from the circle and looking for a quiet corner when I see a tall redhead with narrowed eyes heading in my direction, a wineglass in one hand. This time, I know for certain that I’ve seen her before. At the tasting room the other day.
Who the hell is she?
“Nice outfit,” she says snappishly as we glide past each other.
If I wasn’t so peaked, I’d follow her—but I wasn’t lying to Marco. I do need air. And space. And just a little bit of peace. Forget the redhead. I’ll try to ask Frankie about her later.
Exactly four and a half minutes later, I start threading my way back through the crowd with a flute of sparkling water in my hand. I’m feeling better. Not completely better, but better enough to dive back into my wifely duties.
But as soon as I’ve tucked myself against Marco’s side again, Frankie’s older sister Charlie appears with a clipboard in hand and a headset on.
She must be involved in the organization of the event.
Amid the raucous conversation of his cronies, Marco gives Charlie the obligatory cheek kiss and then leads us across the event space into a large, open, white tent.
The shape of a sleek car sits in the center, covered in black fabric and surrounded by excited guests, media people, cameras, and video equipment.
Time to meet Marco’s new baby. With a little intake of anticipatory breath, he tugs me over to the car, takes a cordless microphone from Charlie, and starts giving a speech about the success of his racing team, his love of speed, how generous his investors have been, etc.
“But before we get into it,” he says, “I’d like to make a brief announcement. For those who may not have heard the news yet, please allow me to introduce my wife, Karina Bellanti.”
I freeze. He did not warn me of this. Marco gives me a side-hug and I force a smile.
As applause fills the air, he tips my chin up for a kiss.
I kiss him back—because I have to, but also because I want to—but my stomach turns a little knowing the PDA is all part of the charade.
A fact that I try not to dwell on as Marco resumes his speech and then pulls the black fabric from the car. The crowd gasps and cheers.
I’m no expert on racing machines, but the vehicle is spectacular, decked out in dark shades of metallic blue and green and creamy white paint with a golden emblem on the fin that looks like Achilles’ heel.
My lips part as I study the car, then look down at my outfit.
Marco didn’t just match us to each other—he matched us to his race car. Clever. And cute. Damn him.
He finishes speaking and the press approaches.
The redhead is there too, snapping photos with her camera pointed at Marco more than the car.
We pose like a happy couple, excited for this car’s upcoming first race.
Marco’s chest is puffed out with pride, his back straight, a genuine smile on his face.
It makes me happy to see him this way. Entirely in his element.
He pulls slightly away from me, his hand dropping from my lower back now that the crowd is starting to disperse.
The cameras are still snapping away, so I keep my smile in place, but my cheeks are starting to hurt and having Marco back off from me so quickly also kind of hurts. More than I would have expected.
Finally, the press presence thins out enough that Marco and I can mingle with the remaining well-wishers.
He leaves me almost immediately, subjecting me to small talk from people passing by and a few more random snaps of my picture from photogs.
My anxiety should be easing up now, but it suddenly seems like the pressure of the day is closing in on me even worse.
Those stabbing pains in my stomach are starting, my throat going tight, and as mad as I am at Marco, I just want to be beside him.
I need the small comfort of his familiarity. His arm.
I spy him at the edge of the crowd, and I make my way toward him. By the time I duck around the men surrounding Marco with their belly laughs and loud voices and cigar smoke, I realize he’s talking to the redhead. I pull up short, and she turns slightly so I can see her full face.
It is her. I knew it.
She eyes me, smiles big, and throws her head back to laugh at something Marco is saying to her. They turn their backs to me and start to walk away.
Giving me a perfect view of my husband’s hand on her ass.