Chapter 2 JENNA #3
Resolutely, I pull a blouse over my head, dressing for war. A pencil skirt comes next. Then high heels that force me to walk with purpose. I slip my wedding ring on last, a ritual I refuse to skip. It's a reminder. A reminder of all the lies my life has become.
In the hallway, I yell, "Purse… keys… I'm forgetting something… phone… what am I forgetting?" In the doorway, I stop, theatrical in my stance, and pretend to slap my forehead. "Oh, right. There should be a kid here somewhere."
Amauri comes around the corner, giggling, clutching his notebook and lunchbox.
The joke is old, repeated almost daily, but he's still young enough to enjoy it, to believe that repetition is proof of love.
He hands me my keys with a flourish, as if he's the only thing keeping this operation afloat. Maybe he is.
He slings his backpack over one shoulder with the easy athleticism of a kid already too big for his own body. "I'm ready."
Of course you are. You always are.
The drive to school is mercifully quiet.
It's just Amauri and me. I try to savor it, every traffic light and crosswalk, every stretch of silence.
He hums along to the radio; the sound is barely audible, more vibration than music, like the way cats purr when they're happy.
I glance over at him; his profile is soft in the morning light.
He looks nothing like me, not really. He looks exactly like an echo of someone else, someone who left a stamp on his DNA and then vanished.
The radio host clears his throat and switches gears, and I hit the brakes. My hands go white on the steering wheel. "—and in other news, casino magnate and philanthropist Massimo Manetti—"
"Mummy!" Amauri yelps, grabbing the door handle, panic in his voice.
"I'm sorry," I gasp, heart thumping so hard I can taste it. "Sorry, honey. I just—traffic. Someone cut me off." I try to laugh the lie off, but my mouth is dry.
Manetti.
Of course.
He's always on the news. Always in the background, a hum of gold and arrogance and something colder.
Casinos, charities, city projects, his name stamped on everything that matters in this town.
There are whispers of organized crime, but no one says it out loud.
Not anymore. He's cleaned up, they say. Legitimate, they say.
The American Dream. How am I supposed to forget him when his name is everywhere?
When Vegas says it like a prayer and a warning all at once?
I force myself to breathe, to unclench my jaw, to keep my eyes on the road. Smile. Drive.
"Are we late?" Amauri asks.
"No," the word is but a hiss of air, before I add more gently, "We're fine. You'll be early, actually."
He nods, reassured, and goes back to his humming.
Oh, to be a kid and be able to forget. I drop him off in the car line, kiss his cheek, and make him promise to text when he gets inside.
I watch until he disappears through the doors, his backpack bobbing with every step.
He's safe. He's out of sight. Only then do I let myself fall apart a little, hands shaking as I grip the wheel.
When a car behind me honks, I take in a deep breath and drive to the office, my mind stuck in a loop.
The radio keeps talking, filling the car with his name, his reach, his power.
It's like there's no air in the city that isn't touched by him.
And all I can think is: Fucking Manetti.
As if forgetting him was ever an option. Even if it weren't for Amauri.
The office is on the twenty-third floor of a glass tower that overlooks the strip.
On the elevator up, I catch my reflection in the gilt trim, lipstick intact, eyes steady, all signs of panic erased.
I step out into the corridor, my heels echoing off the marble, and I make it almost to my office without incident, but at the last second, I see Carter through the glass wall of the conference room, already holding court, his expression filled with the same good old boy charm that made me fall for him.
He spots me instantly and waves. Keeping up appearances.
I take a breath, smooth my skirt, and walk past, head held high, ready to play my part. Because if there is one thing my father and Carter and every man like Manetti has ever taught me, it's how to armor up and walk into the fire like you own the place.
The following meetings are a blur of talking points, media strategies, and not-so-veiled threats.
Carter wants me to draft a press release by noon.
Dad wants a personal statement ready for the evening news cycle.
There's already a rumor that Manetti is hosting a gala in honor of the dead performer, and the optics are brutal.
It's a chessboard of grief and leverage, and who can look the most moral for the cameras.
I nod, take notes, and promise the impossible.
When the meeting adjourns, I slip away to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and give myself my sixty seconds of Massimo.
That's what I allow myself when things go really, really bad.
I think of Massimo and me ten years ago, before he just up and left.
Sometimes I think about that night we met.
The night I killed a man. It helps to remember that I was brought low before and rose.
Granted, I had Massimo then, but I like to think I would have come out on top even if he hadn't shown up when he did.
Sometimes I think of him and me in bed. Of how good his hands felt on me.
His kisses, oh God, his kisses. No man has ever kissed me the way he did.
So deep and full of confidence and possession.
That's where I go now. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let myself fall into his imaginary arms. I love you, he whispers in his deep, dark voice.
I love you too, I reply, meaning it with every part of my soul.
His arms are around me, strong and steady, holding me in a way that lets me know the world around us could fall apart, and nothing would happen to me because I have him.
I breathe in his strength and feel it surrounding me like a heavy coat.
We're at the Shark Reef aquarium, surrounded by filtered, bluish light, walking through an underwater glass tunnel.
Big and small fish swim all around us, but I only have eyes for the man by my side.
The most handsome man I've ever seen. The man who saved me in more ways than one.
I still can't believe he calls me his. It seems as surreal as the under-the-sea illusion in the middle of the desert. And yet, here we are.
I can almost smell the air from ten years ago. Just like I can almost feel Massimos' hand around mine.
The timer beeps. My sixty seconds are up. I fix my makeup, wash my hands, and get back to work.