Chapter 12
VAL
All the evil, vile, and most self-serving people in the city filled the State Ballroom at the Palmer House hotel. Mobsters and their sanctimonious, publicly-elected counterparts.
Every man had a beautiful young woman on his arm, and every beautiful young woman drank as much alcohol as she could knock back, pretending not to listen to the men as they whispered about their schemes.
Women either made themselves appear insufferably bored or busied themselves with useless gossip while the men plotted for world domination, wheeling and dealing in lives like human beings were nothing more than Monopoly money.
So fucking disgusting.
Also a good distraction.
How far can I get?
I scanned the massive ivory-and-red ballroom, memorizing the location of each exit. The place dripped with luxurious gold details and had dimmed but sparkling crystal chandeliers.
The perfect darkly elegant setting for a masquerade ball.
It might have been more than a decade since I’d last been inside the room, but it didn’t take long for the memories to slap me in the face. The galas, balls, and charity events Saul had demanded we attend to improve the family image within the community.
Really, though, he didn’t care what anyone thought. Our presence had served as an excuse for him and his thuggish cohorts to rub elbows with elite businessmen and politicians.
Chicago’s politicians might have liked to believe they were above all the corruption, but it ran as deeply through their veins as it did through the city itself.
This masquerade ball marked my first public appearance since faking my death, but I knew the drill. Be seen, not heard. Look pretty. Act like a perfect doll to draw the highest bid when auction time came.
Saul’s maid had delivered a stunning, crystal-and-red-silk evening gown to my room. Pretty sure it set him back about five grand. Didn’t matter. He wanted attention, and my red dress would get it for him. It also made it much more difficult for me to blend in and get away.
And the daggerlike stilettos that were killing my feet? They would definitely impede a quick getaway. At least until I found a dark corner where I could ditch them. Then again, they might come in handy if I needed to defend myself.
The dainty silver mask they’d given me did little to hide my identity, and that was how Saul wanted it. Even if no one recognized me, they would recognize the choker. Three strands of pearls and a huge, dangling ruby, last worn by my mother.
The damn necklace had its own reputation, its own infamy, and it labeled me as a Moscatelli as much as anything else.
But a bad idea still played in the back of my mind.
What if I just walked out ?
What if I made my way to the restroom and slipped between the crowds to hide in one of the coat closets? What if I took off the dress, the pearls, and the shoes, stole someone’s coat, and found my way out of the hotel?
How far could I get?
Would Aris notice I’d gone missing before I even finished ditching my Moscatelli costume? Would he catch me as I hurried down the cold Chicago streets?
Santo appeared out of nowhere, startling me out of my thoughts. He handed me a tall champagne flute, which I absently accepted.
“You have to be here, yeah, but no one said shit about you staying sober. Drink up, sister.”
I preferred cocktails over champagne, but didn’t mind watching the little golden bubbles rise to the top. It kind of completed the full illusion of the grandiose ballroom.
“Thanks, handsome.” I winked. “Having a good time? Any of these lovely ladies catch your eye?”
He shook his head as if he had no time for silly games.
“I’m working tonight. I guess Father thinks a certain asset might be thinking about making a run for it. Again.”
I plastered a fake smile onto my painted lips.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Santo fixed me with a deadpan stare. “Right.”
I sipped on the champagne to stop myself from laughing, enjoying the way the delicate bubbles danced over my tongue. Maybe if I drank until my feet went numb, it would be a little easier to survive the night.
Maybe if I got wasted, the Russians would decide I wasn’t worth the hassle, that I wasn’t enough of a lady for whatever they planned to do with me.
With my luck, my plan would backfire, and they might think I was spirited and entertaining, or some other ridiculous shit. But then I would face retribution at home. The kind that required me to wear long, uncomfortable opera gloves with my dresses to cover the bruises.
Wouldn’t be the first time, certainly not the last.
A woman in her sixties wearing a goth-like black gown and matching mask rushed in my direction, her jewelry clinking with her every hasty step.
“There you are, Valentina, darling. It’s been so long. You must tell us what happened.”
It took a minute before I could place the face behind the mask and caked-on makeup. I smiled politely.
“Mrs. Gallagher, how are you?”
An unbearable gossip like Mrs. Gallagher was only tolerated in these circles because her late husband left her a massive fortune. The running joke was that she’d talked him to death.
I used to think it was an exaggeration until I’d had the misfortune of stepping into the ladies’ room while she rested inside. It had taken me thirty minutes to find an acceptable break in the conversation, so I could make my escape.
She waved off my question, her diamond rings twinkling in the light from the chandeliers overhead.
“My dear, no one cares how I am. I’m fine. I’ve always been fine. The real question is, where have you been for so long?
“We all thought you died in that horrible accident. Imagine my surprise when I opened the paper one day to read about the dead Moscatelli girl’s miraculous return. And she’s not even a zombie or Jesus Christ, or anything of the sort.”
Then she lifted her chin and raised her penciled-on brows.
“So where exactly have you been, dear?”
I fixed her with a tight smile.
I had to think fast about what to say.
“Well, the car accident was unfortunately very real. And afterward, as I’m sure you can understand, I was in no fit state to be married. My face was practically purple with bruises. It took countless hours and several exclusive, expensive surgeons in France to put me back together again.”
She clicked her tongue.
“Oh, how horrible. It must have been a nightmare, but my God, they did a fabulous job. You must tell me who did it.”
The champagne and my lack of fucks to give helped me out.
“In Paris, it was Dr. House,” I lied. “Horrible disposition—grumpiest man you’ve ever met, but his talent makes up for it.”
She nodded like a bobblehead doll.
“Oh, yes, Dr. House in Paris. I’ve heard of him. I had no idea he did such fabulous work. I’ll have to look him up.”
“A simple Google search will do.”
I grinned, enjoying my own made up story.
“I’m sure if you contacted your granddaughter, she would be more than happy to help you, Mrs. Gallagher.”
“Yes, what a lovely idea.”
Then she frowned, scrutinizing my face.
“But really, dear, it’s taken them all these years to put you back together? That seems like a rather long time.”
“Well, you know… the swelling and the infections, one after the other. After that, of course, rehabilitation for the painkiller addiction. Can’t make it through the kind of work I’ve had without them. But finally, here I am…”
I gestured at myself. Well, mostly at my breasts.
“All dressed up for the party and ready for Sau—I mean my father to figure out what the rest of my life will look like.”
She blinked at me and nervously licked her lips. The smile she’d so quickly offered me flickered out.
“Yes, right, well, I’m just going to go check on Mrs. Vander. You understand.”
“Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”
“Fucking hilarious,” Santo whispered as she walked away.
The woman shot me another quick look over her shoulder, clearly unsure what to make of our encounter.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her end a conversation in under an hour. That’s a new record,” my brother added.
“Watch and learn, brother. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
I clocked another meddlesome gossip headed my way, looking desperate to get something straight from the Moscatelli horse’s mouth.
“Mrs. Sanders. How are you?”
She stopped short to look me up and down.
“Very well, dear. We’re all very surprised to hear about your unexpected resurrection.”
“It’s really less of a resurrection and more like an official return to society,” I said.
She leaned forward, as if I were about to serve the most piping-hot tea the world had ever been served.
“Oh? Return to society? What do you mean? From where?”
“Well…”
I leaned in, cupping a hand around the side of my mouth, like I actually cared whether anyone bothered to read my lips.
She met me half way. “Yes?”
“The car accident was tragic, but I didn’t die. Just washed up on the riverbank under a bridge.”
Then I switched to a whisper that Santo could hear.
“And that was when the river trolls took me hostage.”
She clamped her fingers around the pearls dangling from the single strand around her neck.
“I don’t understand?”
“Oh, listen to me complain,” I said, then mustered a deliberately annoying giggle. “I actually miss a few of the nice ones.”
The woman gawked at me in bewilderment.
I tipped back the rest of the champagne into my mouth, savoring the tickle of the bubbles and the one small bit of freedom that couldn’t be taken from me tonight. Just because my life wasn’t my own anymore didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun.
Santo gripped my elbow to lead me away.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sanders. Please excuse us.”
I turned back to wiggle my fingers at her, but he jerked me forward again, biting back laughter.
“Fucking trolls?”
I snorted so loudly, I had to cover my mouth.
“Well, I had to tell her something. Saying I faked my death and ran away to be a barista in New York wouldn’t have packed the right punch, you know? The Starbucks benefits just aren’t the same in Chicago.”
Santo pressed his lips together.
“Girl, you got problems. And you’re also a light weight.”
“Nothing another flute of champagne won’t solve. Or make me forget for the next several hours… I’m gonna need more than one glass.”
“I think you’ve had enough.”
Santo took the empty flute and set it on a nearby table.
“Correction, I haven’t had anywhere near enough.”
I grabbed a full flute from a server’s passing tray.
“Know what, Santo? I’ve found my mission for tonight.”
He gazed out over the crowd.
“Your mission is to impress the Russians. Whenever the assholes bother to show up.”
“No, that’s Saul’s job. Let’s be honest, this deal has little to do with me. I’m just the cherry on top. Well,”—I snorted again—“maybe not the cherry anymore.”
Santo’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “Gross.”
“Agreed. But back to my point, little brother, my goal for the night is to break you.”
He looked down at me and squinted.
“Break me? What the hell did I ever do to you? Well, other than the obvious.”
I took a gulp of champagne.
“Kidnapping me, you mean? You’re always so stern and grumpy, like you tattooed a permanent scowl on your face with all the other ink. And when something funny happens, you won’t even let yourself laugh. So yes, I’m going to break you tonight. I’m going to make you laugh.”
“Great life goals.” He rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that.”
What the hell else did I have to do anyway?
I smiled as he offered me his arm and led me around the ballroom, stopping here and there to make small talk when someone approached.
God, I’d missed him so much. My childhood might have been horrible, but the moments that had made it bearable, at the very least, included being with Marco and Santo. Time with them more than made up for having none with Aris.
My heart ached. I hated having my brothers back in my life, even by force, because I would only lose them again.
It was almost as cruel as taking me from my son, a reminder that few people in my life genuinely cared about me. It would only hurt that much more when the Russians took me away.
But I pushed the depressing thoughts away and refocused on the evening with Santo, dreading the moment those sick fucks showed up, but refusing to let it destroy the time I had left with my brother.
I’d almost started to enjoy myself, to forget about the reason we were there—until I gazed across the ballroom and saw her.
Benedetta Capaldo.
In Chicago.
Right there in front of me.
And she looked stunning in her floor-length silver gown, her caramel-blonde hair perfectly piled on top of her head to show off the gorgeous diamonds dripping from her ears.
As she lifted her hand to adjust her mask, an even larger diamond flashed brilliantly from her finger.
I squeezed my eyelids shut for a second.
No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
When I opened my eyes, a tall man in a beautifully custom-tailored tuxedo and a black mask moved closer to Benedetta. He rested his hand on her lower back.
Nausea overwhelmed me. Vomit burned my throat.
Even with the mask, I would recognize this man anywhere.
Everything about him was a part of me. I could never forget the darkness in his eyes, the perfect symmetry of his broad shoulders, the fullness of his lips, or his confident swagger.
Stefano.
With her.
Literally with her.
Benedetta wore the kind of dress women chose to announce an engagement—I couldn’t do a goddamn thing about it either.
What had Stefano done?
Had he allowed so much as a drop of blood to dry after my family took me? How long had he waited after the limo drove away with me inside before deciding to marry her again?
And where. The fuck. Was. My. Son?
My eyes filled with hot, angry tears.
My heart thrashed wildly.
No. Hell no. Stefano would not get to see me cry.
In fact, I didn’t want him to see me at all.
I grabbed Santo’s arm to maintain my balance while reaching down to slip off my stilettos beneath my dress. Then I shoved the shoes against my brother’s chest.
“I need to use the ladies’ room.”
“You know I can’t let you out of my sight,” he muttered.
“Take my fucking shoes. How far can I get without them?”
“Yeah, no. Probably a lot farther without them.”
I didn’t wait for Santo to say anything else.
Stefano was getting too close.
He pushed through the crowd, his eyes locked on me.
I let go of the shoes and ran for the closest door.
I had to get out of there.