Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Making New York Moves
Chiara
“Follow me,” says Arabella, who looks the picture of elegance in a long-sleeved, black silk dress that hangs off her model-esque figure. She instructed us to meet her at the secret side entrance so we could avoid the red carpet and paparazzi at the main doors.
I’ve already had my fair share of coverage online in recent weeks, so I was right on board with Sophia’s call to make a stealthy arrival.
When we’re on the other side of the door, Arabella spins and grips my arms.
“You wait until you see your photos curated in the space,” she says, squeezing gently. Excitement dances in her eyes, and a proud smile stretches across her face. “They look absolutely breathtaking. I know I’ve said it before, but you have a brilliant eye. I’m so proud of you.”
As I let Arabella’s words sink in, for a moment I imagine it’s my mama’s voice telling me how proud she is. How she always believed I could do it.
The last letter she wrote me is the reason I’m standing here, but the cost was to pay the ultimate sacrifice. I blink back the tears burning my eyes and give my friend a grateful smile. It’s bittersweet and terrifying to be standing on the cusp of having it all within reach.
She holds my gaze a second longer and lowers her voice. “You deserve this, Chiara,” she says with conviction before gesturing for me to walk into the exhibition space first, the rest of the group filing in behind me.
My breath hitches when the room comes into view.
It’s art, but it’s also poetry in motion.
Tall, black, grid-like structures are strategically set around the room.
Framed photographs of varying sizes are mounted at different points.
I let my eyes roam slowly over the warehouse style space with high ceilings, white walls, and concrete floors.
It’s minimal aesthetic allows for all attention to be on the photography.
The style of lighting for each installation is deliberate to highlight the style of photography.
Some are lit with LED lights and others spotlit.
I walk deeper into the space, taking in every detail of Natalia’s lauded work.
She’s showing two of her newest photo series tonight.
The A-List After Hours, a black and white portrait style series, contrasts beautifully with the vivid, colorful scenes of her second series, A Taste Of Sicily, the shoot I assisted her on, which planted the seed for my new life plan.
To the other side of that, lit from above, is my photo series: New York.
My Heart. My Home. Each shot is black and white with one element in vivid color, a beautiful marriage of the techniques in Natalia’s work.
My heart beats wildly. My work is sitting alongside my idol’s.
I look up to see the words, One To Watch: Chiara Gigioliotti beamed onto the ceiling.
The faint buzzing under my skin starts up again. Exhilaration and trepidation.
This is the freedom I’ve been working towards.
Tonight is the start of all the cards falling into place.
The sign I’ve been asking my mama and papa to send me from heaven to prove that maybe I’m worthy of having one good thing in my life.
When they left me, all I wished for was the relief that following to the afterlife would bring.
But this moment, seeing my work next to Natalia’s, feels like a heaven-sent message.
Once I accept this job, I’ll be given the golden ticket to relocate to New York and travel with Natalia for work, securing me an escape from the growing threat of being bartered and used as a bargaining chip for the family business.
“Is this the reason you had me driving all over town freezing my balls off?” comes Marco’s deep voice from close behind me.
I nod but remain transfixed on my photographs.
“Wow. These are incredible. Like you can almost feel what you don’t see.”
Besides Arabella, until today I hadn’t told a soul about being offered the job or that my work would be displayed as part of the exhibition tonight. I didn’t want to tempt fate; it has a way of biting me in the ass.
“That’s the whole point,” I say, “It’s meant to be a window into the soul. Make you feel their inner desires and struggles.”
Right now, I see the possibility of a life where I control my destiny. Still parentless, but no longer shackled to my uncle’s home like a prisoner for my own safety. In this new world I’m building for myself, I’m the dealer.
“Does AJ know how crazy talented you are?”
At the mention of his name, I’m reminded that while Marco hasn’t been obtrusive or overbearing as my babysitter-come-driver, his loyalty lies with my cousin and whatever secret arrangement they have.
I don’t have a chance to overthink any of it because a light touch on my shoulder draws my attention.
I turn to see Natalia, who genuinely looks in awe…of my work? Of little old me?
“Chiara, your photos are absolutely phenomenal,” she says, giving me a kiss on the cheek in greeting. “I love the way you’ve added that one flair of color. Almost like you’ve given each subject a beacon of light in the darkness.”
I nod. “Yes. It’s their one bright spot,” I confirm. What I don’t add is how that’s exactly what this opportunity is for me. The small flickering flame of hope where there was once none. All I pray is that the many meddling men in my life don’t find a way to extinguish it.
As though my thoughts conjure my worst nightmare, a familiar gravelly voice slices through my joy like a wrecking ball.
“What did I miss?”
A crushing weight settles on my chest. How stupid I was to think the blood that pumps thorough my veins will not always and forever fuck up every best-laid plan.
“AJ, what are you doing here?” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds somewhere between a squeal and a squeak.
I glare at Marco. His sheepish expression conveys exactly what I already suspected; AJ’s jack-in-the-box appearance is no surprise to him.
But before he can answer and I can try and send him on his merry way, Natalia answers.
“Just admiring how talented my newest team member is.”
AJ looks from her to me, trying to figure out what’s going on, before taking Natalia’s hand.
“Hi, I’m AJ,” he says, kissing her hand, green eyes glinting shrewdly. “How do you two know each other?”
Natalia’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. She glances at me. I give her a tight smile.
No, no, no. Please don’t let him fuck this up for me.
A hushed silence has fallen over the rest of the group who are now all watching on, slightly amused at my cousin’s charming antics.
Motherfucking AJ. Breathe, Chiara. I fix my face into a beatific smile so it doesn't betray me. I don’t want my mafia connections to scare Natalia out of giving me the job. I let my pain-in-the-ass cousin have his moment before making introductions to the rest of the group.
“Everyone, this is my cousin, AJ,” I say waving a hand towards him.
Dressed in all-black, hair styled back and knuckles covered in tattoos, he’s danger incarnate.
Women fall for the bad boy. Men fear him.
Me? I want to hate him for being overbearing, mouthy, and robbing me of basking in the glory of getting my dream job in peace.
But, ultimately, I owe a lot of it to him.
If it wasn’t for him vouching for me, I wouldn’t be here at all. I just hope Natalia doesn’t say—
“You just let me know your start date, Chiara, and I’ll have my EA sort out all the paperwork you’ll need to complete. Then we can get your sponsorship sorted so you can stay in New York,” Natalia says with a warm smile. “It would be great to have you on board for a major shoot we have coming up.”
Oh god. One, two—here we go.
“Excuse me, what?” hisses AJ. “What the fuck is she talking about, sponsorship and staying in New York?”
“Natalia, please excuse my cousin’s antics.
He doesn’t like to feel left out,” I say, trying to use humor to deflect from his outburst. The match has been lit now, so I might as well stand in its flame.
“You have all my details. Send over everything you require me to complete and I’ll get it done. I’d love to start as soon as possible.”
“Excellent,” she says, grabbing my hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I better keep mingling. But it was lovely to see you all here,” she says looking out at the rest of my friends.
“Do you always need to be so fucking uncouth?” I hiss at my cousin. I’m trying to remain strong, but I can feel it. The vibration of panic under my skin. The slow creep of the melancholy that’s always just in the periphery. Seeping like spilled red wine on your favorite white rug.
“You think you’re moving to New York? Over my dead body,” he huffs.
“Guess I’m just gonna have to kill you then,” I snip venomously even as my automatic traumatic response threatens to poison this moment.
I’ve managed to stave off the inevitable sweats and racing heart that follows when this panicked feeling sets in, but right now, I’m dangerously close to giving into my distressed response.
I lift my hand to signal a server for Champagne.
I need alcohol. All the alcohol. I expect my cousin to be the next person to speak; instead it’s Raf’s stern and authoritative voice pulling me back from the edge of my doom spiral.
“If you’re moving to New York, you need to make sure you have all your sponsorship and immigration papers filled correctly, or you could risk deportation.”
The imposing melancholy morphs into murderous rage. Oh, now you want to insert yourself and deign to acknowledge my existence?!
“Thanks, Daaaad,” I clap back. “For your information, I’m working on it. But I’ll let you know if I require your legal services.”
“As you wish,” he says, unaffected, like he hasn’t just witnessed a car crash.
Then if that’s not enough, he gives me whiplash for good measure.
“For what it’s worth, your photography is captivating. You have natural talent.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t give two shits about your opinion.”
I’m done playing nice. I’ve reached my limits. We continue our stare-off. But as usual, like all the men in my god-forsaken family, AJ must have the last word.
“We’ll be having a fucking conversation about this, Chi,” he commands. “When my dad hears about this, you won’t need a lawyer; you’ll need Jesus.”
Then all eyes are on us for all the wrong reasons.
A Ken-doll-looking guy who appears to have seen the other side of someone’s fist offers his unsolicited advice.
At the sound of his snively voice, the waitress delivering my drink drops the flute with my liquid gold, and it shatters with a high-pitched crash.
AJ chases after the runaway waitress, only to return not too long after to snarl in Ken doll’s face.
If I had to hazard a guess, looking at the rage vibrating off Marco and AJ and this Arty guy’s busted lip and the purplish-blue bruises that mar his face, I’d say he’s had the not-so-pleasure of meeting the fist of someone in the family, if you know what I mean.
He doesn’t seem to have much favor with any of the Princi men, either, considering their mirrored defensive stances and hardened stares.
Just. Fucking. Wonderful. Not for the first time tonight or in my entire life have I wished I could buy an entirely new identity.
Maybe use prosthetics to alter my appearance—The Day Of The Jackal type shit.
But alas, all I have is a once-in-a-lifetime job offer in my dream city, a family name that puts it all at jeopardy, and unsolicited legal advice from the grumpy lawyer, who, for whatever reason, has burrowed his way so far under my skin and too close to my heart for comfort.
I’ve had far too little alcohol to deal with this.
So my only mission from here on out tonight is to find enough to make these damn problems disappear. Even if for a few hours of bliss.