Julia #2
“Mmm. I think you might actually be handling it better than I did.”
“Okay, wait,” I say. “I need the rest of that story.”
“I'll tell you the rest of it,” she says, eyes oddly sparkling despite the subject. “Not here, but just know that you're handling it better than you think you are.”
“I hope so.” My stomach jumps with nerves, and I take a breath.
Her eyes soften. “You do not have to prove you belong here. You do.”
The words touch a tender wound.
“I’m not sure everyone agrees.”
“Everyone rarely does. But the ones who matter do— or will.”
And I know she's referring to Dante.
Before I can answer, Mario appears beside us as if by magic.
“Victoria,” he says, his gaze dropping to her for a second, softening in a way that feels almost private even in public. Then he looks at me. “Julia.”
“Mario.”
A man beside him, one of the hospital trustees, turns to him. “Your team has done well tonight. The seating alone must have been a nightmare.”
“Julia is the true hero there,” Mario says.
The trustee looks at me, recalibrating.
Mario continues, calm and effortless. “She is the reason half this room is not engaging in a brawl.”
The trustee laughs, but he looks at me with new attention.
I feel my cheeks heat.
“Then I should thank you,” he says.
“You should,” Victoria says pleasantly. “Repeatedly.”
Mario’s mouth twitches.
I manage to smile without looking like I might cry.
“Happy to prevent civic warfare whenever possible,” I say.
The trustee laughs again and excuses himself when someone near the hospital table waves him over.
Mario’s gaze returns to me.
“Good work,” he says quietly.
It is only two words, but they mean a lot.
Then his attention shifts toward the entrance, and something in his posture changes.
I follow his gaze.
Dante has arrived.
For a moment, all the sound in the ballroom seems to drop away.
He is in a black tuxedo, looking so much like his father that the sight almost hurts. Same dark hair. Same formal ease. Same ability to walk into a room and look as if he belongs there, whether it’s a gala or a casual setting.
But his face is colder than Ricardo’s ever is with me. Colder than I've ever seen it.
He greets Mario first. Mario says something I cannot hear. Dante answers with a nod, formal and precise. Victoria touches his arm. His expression softens for her, just slightly, but it disappears again almost as soon as it arrives.
Then Lorenzo catches him. Matteo and Tomasso are near the bar. Dante greets them, accepts a brief clap on the shoulder from Tomasso, says something to Matteo that makes Matteo’s expression tighten.
Then his gaze finds me.
Finds us.
Ricardo is beside me before I realize he has moved.
He does not touch me this time.
He waits.
Dante crosses the room with polite restraint you wouldn't know he was practicing unless you knew him very well.
My heartbeat feels too loud.
“Papà,” he says.
“Dante.”
The words are even. Formal.
Awful.
Then Dante looks at me.
“Julia.”
No Jules.
No warmth.
Just my name, stripped down to something polite enough to be a basic formality.
It hurts more than I could have imagined.
I make myself hold his gaze.
“I’m glad you came.”
His eyes flicker.
Only once.
“Of course,” he says. “It is a family event.”
The blade is so fine no one else would notice the cut.
It slices me.
Ricardo’s hand moves toward me, then stops before it reaches my back.
He lets me stand there.
He lets me take the hit without trying to step in front of it.
I asked him for that.
I hate how much it costs him.
Dante’s gaze moves to his father, then back to me.
“You look well,” he says.
“So do you.”
Another pause.
It is unbearable.
Then Dante gives a small nod and turns away to greet someone from the port redevelopment board.
I inhale only after he is gone.
Ricardo’s voice is low beside me. “Julia.”
“I’m fine.”
He does not argue.
That may be the kindest thing he could do.
As if the evening wasn't painful enough, a few minutes later, my parents arrive.
I know before I see them because my body reacts first. My spine straightens. My stomach tightens. My face arranges itself into the expression I wore for most of my adult life. Pleasant. Calm.
Judge Patrick O’Brien enters with my mother beside him, both of them dressed impeccably, as they always are in public.
My father is in a dark tuxedo, silver hair perfectly styled, public smile firmly in place.
My mother wears champagne silk and pearls, her eyes already moving over the room, collecting weaknesses.
Then she sees me.
Then she sees Ricardo standing beside me.
Her expression does not change.
That is how I know she understands.
My father spots Mario first. Of course he does. Men like my father always locate power in a room, even before family.
Mario greets him with a handshake that looks cordial and is probably being assessed by at least twelve people. My father smiles. Mario smiles less. Victoria stands beside Mario, gracious and watchful.
Then my father turns to me.
“Julia.”
“Father.”
My mother kisses the air beside my cheek. “Darling.”
Her perfume wraps around me, expensive and familiar enough to make me feel sixteen for half a second.
Ricardo stands at my side.
He does not move forward.
He does not retreat.
My father’s eyes flick toward him, then to me next to him.
“Ricardo Conti,” he says. “I see Julia has become even more involved with Conti Enterprises than I had been led to believe.”
I suck in a breath in disbelief that he would say something like that, especially in public, though no one else is close enough to hear.
Ricardo simply says, “Julia’s involvement tonight speaks for itself.”
My father’s gaze flicks to me once again. “It certainly does.”
I feel immediately that Ricardo's posture has changed. He was willing to be cordial on my behalf, but my father's comments drew blood.
Before he can answer, I step forward.
“I helped organize the gala,” I say, my voice polite, but filled with steel. “And I’m here with Ricardo.”
My father’s smile stays in place. “I gathered as much.”
“Good,” I say. “Then there won't be any more confusion going forward.”
My mother’s eyes sharpen.
Ricardo’s hand settles at my lower back again, but he says nothing.
My father looks at his hand, then back at my face. “This is quite a public way to make a point.”
“I’m not making a point,” I say. “I’m attending an event.”
My father’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
Before he can say another word, Patrice appears beside me.
“Julia,” she says. “Nora Whitcomb Farley has asked to meet the person who arranged such an exquisite event. Her words.” She laughs.
I almost laugh. Bless you, Patrice.
“Of course,” I say, smiling.
Ricardo offers me his arm.
My father sees it.
My mother sees it.
Half the room sees it.
There is no mistaking the gesture.
I take it.
For the next hour, I become exactly who I need to be in this room, like I have in so many rooms before. But this time, I have a supportive partner next to me.
I talk to Nora Whitcomb Farley, then discreetly redirect her to the hospital foundation chair. I remind Patrice that Sybil Crane’s escort cannot be allowed near Harriet Bloom after the second glass of champagne. I answer questions. I smile. I laugh when it's required of me.
And every once in a while, I feel Dante's gaze on my back. I remind myself to breathe because at least he's here. At least he cares enough to shoot discreet daggers our way.
That has to count for something.
Dinner begins without disaster.
Mario gives his remarks after the first course.
He speaks of two years in Chicago, of investment, jobs, partnerships, permanence.
He thanks the hospital foundation, the literacy initiative, the scholarship fund.
He does not overstate. He does not plead for acceptance.
He speaks like a man describing what already exists.
By dessert, the room has settled into the looser energy of wealthy people who have eaten enough to become generous and drunk enough to become careless with their wallets.
That is when I see Owen near the sponsor wall speaking to a man I do not recognize at first.
The man is in his forties, maybe early fifties, with sandy hair, a narrow face, and a tuxedo that fits well enough to tell me ‘money’ but not well enough to say ‘old money’. He smiles as Owen speaks, one hand resting lightly around a glass of champagne, his posture easy.
Owen looks pale, which makes my attention sharper.
I turn slightly, using Ricardo’s shoulder and a passing server as cover while I look more closely.
I hail a passing Patrice.
“Who is that man?” I ask quietly. “The one talking to Owen.”
“Umm.” She furrows her brow and consults the clipboard. “Evan Rusk. He was a last minute addition. A substitution for Jerry Bradshaw. A development attorney. They work for the same office, I believe.”
She sees my expression and looks at the man.
“Why? Is there a problem?” She sighs exasperatedly. “Did I seat him in the wrong place?”
“Oh, no, no. None at all,” I assure her. “I just didn't recognize him, that's all.”
She looks relieved. “Oh, okay. I'm glad. You had me worried for a second.” She laughs and walks off.
Evan Rusk.
A development attorney, yes. And likely one who does work in the same office as Jerry Bradshaw.
But that's not all.
He also does South Harbor land trust work. Not Frank Calhoun's employee on paper. He would never be that careless.
Careful enough to make sure that he was not on the guest list, but that he got in anyway.
Ricardo says something beside me, but I do not hear it.
Across the room, Evan Rusk laughs softly and hands Owen a card.
Owen takes it.
Frank Calhoun is not here.
But he has found its way into the room anyway.