Chapter 18
EMILY
The multi-million-dollar view of Manhattan sparkling up at me from the terrace feels empty now that Lorenzo is gone.
I’d never admit it to Lorenzo’s face. Yet sipping crisp martinis and exchanging banter with such a handsome, witty man had always been my fantasy of romance.
And now, the full moon rises, almost as a taunt, to sharpen the effect of Lorenzo’s absence.
Rising, I bring the dinner dishes to the elegant open kitchen and load the dishwasher. While I could leave them for Ciro in the morning, I’m too much of a neat freak to leave a mess behind.
Ah, Ciro. I like him as a person, but prefer being alone here in the apartment. I relish my privacy.
With the kitchen freshly cleaned, I plop onto the sofa and scan my e-reader for books that excite me.
Then I realize I’m in Manhattan. The Big Apple. Why should I lie here and wait for a book to excite me?
The doorbell rings. It must be Ciro who’s come to clear the dishes.
Maybe he forgot his key or wanted to ask permission to enter first.
But it’s Angie.
“What’s up?”
“I was visiting Gina. And I thought I’d come down and visit you too.”
“Please come in. Glad you did. I was just thinking how I’m alone in this apartment and the entire city is buzzing below me.”
“Why don’t you go check out Lorenzo’s Club? Maybe you’ll catch him in the act of kissing another celebrity in front of her PR entourage, hahaha.”
“Ah, so you’ve seen yesterday’s headline in Manhattan Social with that Star Wars girl,” I say, remembering my conversation with Anna.
“Don’t be jealous,” she says, plonking herself down on the sofa. “You know it’s just business. But I’m serious. You should visit the club.”
“He’d kill me if he caught me there,” I say. “It turns out, he hadn’t expected me at the Koko lunch club. And you should have seen the way he cringed in embarrassment at my aunt’s old suit. Hooked me up with his ‘wardrobe consultant’ immediately.”
“Yep, that’s my cousin,” says Angie. “But you should go to the club anyway. Disguise yourself.”
“How? Disguise myself with what?”
Angie bites her lip in concentration. “When Gina first married Dante, we went shopping in SoHo. She took it into her head that she had to look like his first wife, so she went and bought a black wig –”
“A black wig? Dante’s first wife? What’s all this?”
“Forget it,” says Angie, waving away any further questions like a bad odor. “The important thing is that I bet you anything she still has that black wig in her closet. And the sexy dress I insisted she buy with it. Why don’t I go upstairs and grab them for you?”
“Fun idea,” I say, “but now that I think about going through with it …”
“Nonsense. You want to see Lorenzo in the wild, and so you shall. Stay put and I’ll be right back. I’ll grab some makeup, too.”
I arrive at the club a half-hour later, wearing my long black wig and sexy, body-hugging dress.
I stand in line with a group of other girls my age who look exactly like me in my disguise.
We’re all eye-candy tarts.
My hand instinctively goes to check my hair out of habit. Then I freeze, remembering my bright red curls are tucked tightly under the heavy black synthetic wig.
If even a single strand slips out, my cover is completely blown.
The bouncer takes a look at us and waves us in with a flirtatious wink.
Once I’m inside, I’m faced with a sea of music, color, and welcome fresh oxygenated air.
On the dance floor, men in suits dance with gorgeous women.
I run my eyes over the gorgeous black lacquered tables filled with prosperous-looking men. I had read these tables cost several thousand dollars a night.
The men look like they can afford it.
Standing at the fringes of these tables are seductive-looking women, looking like they’d like to be welcomed inside.
I continue to wind my way through the club.
At the end of the hallway, I see a door.
In front sits a host in a suit, checking in guests.
Once he finds them on the list, he gives them intricate, expensive-looking half-masks.
They are the sparkly kinds I’ve seen people wear at masquerade parties.
I realize that within Inferno, there is a secret club within the main club.
A waiter passes close enough that I hear the clink of glasses on his silver tray.
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping into his path.
He stops, his white-gloved hand steadying the tray. “Can I help you?”
“What’s behind that door?”
“The VIP Lounge.”
“Why the masks?”
He tilts his head toward the door and winks. “Walk in and see for yourself.”
Then he steps around me and disappears into the crowd.
Curious, I walk toward the VIP entrance, but the host stops me.
“Wait, please, miss. Are you on the list?”
I consider whether I should mention Lorenzo’s name or not.
Just then another suited man wearing a discreet headset rushes over and whispers something in the host’s ear.
“Oh, yes, of course,” he says, reaching into a velvet-lined box. He chooses a distinctive white half-mask, with small pink and blue crystals along the brow.
“Enjoy,” he says, handing it to me.
I take the mask, wondering what was being whispered.
Something in my gut makes me wonder if someone in the club found out I was Lorenzo’s wife.
Well, if that’s the case, I’ll find out soon enough.
Inside the room, the darkness is broken only by a deep ultraviolet light. It makes everything look luminous and strange.
Masked figures lean into each other on low velvet sofas, their voices swallowed by the music.
Beyond the sofas, I see odd-looking equipment that resembles the machines you might see in a Pilates studio. The kind that looks more like medieval torture devices than exercise equipment.
Beneath the ultraviolet light, everything glows purple. The masks, gloves, and even the pale skin of a woman arching her back take on a dreamlike quality.
The longer I stand awestruck, the more the room fills in around me.
Couples move together in the darkness.
Only now that my eyes have adjusted can I see how the couples touch one another.
My jaw drops when one man boldly lowers the top of a woman’s dress to caress her breasts and she does nothing to stop him.
My puritanical New England upbringing and the ‘Aunt Jane’ buried deep within tell me to turn on my heel and walk out.
But why? What prevents me from staying and discovering more?
It’s then that I see him.
Lorenzo.
He leans toward a staff member and says something close to the man’s ear.
Then he straightens and extends a hand to someone I don’t recognize.
Now it’s my chance to leave before he sees me.
But so what if he does?
Too late.
He looks in my direction.
It’s hard to see his expression. Surprise, for certain.
Rage?
Yes. Rage. I see it in his eyes.
A minute later, he’s by my side, grabbing my arm tightly.
“What are you doing here?” he demands, his nostrils flaring in anger.
“What kind of a club is this, Lorenzo? What are these machines?”
“Answer my question.”
I yank myself free of his grasp.
“Is Mrs. Ricci forbidden from visiting her husband’s club?”
My sarcasm only inflames his fury.
“You are leaving now,” he says, taking my hand and leading me away with a strong pull.
“No. Tell me,” I say, once again breaking out of his grasp.
“It’s a club. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen one before.”
“But this part isn’t a normal club.”
“It’s the ‘inferno’ part of our club. VIP access only. Specialized activities, too.”
When I dart away, he snatches me back.
“You arrived uninvited to my lunch club. And now you barge into my place of business. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. But now I’m going to have one of my men take you home. You are never to surprise me again, do you understand?”
Lorenzo half drags me outside the club. Then practically shoves me into the limousine.
The driver is Ernesto, of course.
He sets off into traffic without speaking a word.
Never was much of a talker.
When we reach The Circle Hotel, Ernesto opens the door for me and gruffly bids me a good night.
As I make my way to the apartment, I can’t decide if I made the right move tonight or not.