Chapter 26 Annetta #2
Carlo doesn’t make a single sound of disgust at Dom’s kiss, which worries me further. He guides me to the edge of the crowd, near the windows that overlook the dark lake.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Is everyone okay? You’re freaking me out.”
“Everyone’s okay,” he whispers. His eyes dart back to the crowd several times. “Have you talked to Russell?”
“Not since Dom beat him up, no.”
“He came to see me after that.”
I cross my arms. “I’m not going to apologize for what Dom did.”
“Geez.” Carlo exhales. “He—”
“Champagne?” a sandy-haired server offers. His tattoos peek out from under his shirt sleeve as he extends the tray toward us.
Carlo throws an arm out in front of me and laughs. “No thanks, this one’s already had plenty!” he says, making an exaggerated drinking motion.
The server gives him a stiff smile and drifts away.
I shove Carlo. “I haven’t had anything to drink. You could’ve just told him no.”
“Okay, whatever. Anyway, Russell comes and finds me at the Velvet Kitty—”
“Gross.”
“—and he says he’s been in love with Serafina for years. He said he’s leaving Chicago because…” Carlo rubs his neck. “Well, he says it’s tough for him to see you.”
The feeling’s mutual.
I guess I hoped Russell would’ve stayed, and maybe after a few years, we could’ve spoken about Serafina, but I’m relieved he’s leaving. I hope he finds peace wherever he goes.
Carlo leans in. “He said he had to stop by so he could tell you he’d caught wind of Aceto planning something tonight. Something big, but he didn’t know what. And I didn’t know if he was going crazy from the grief or what, but then I started paying attention. Look at the waiters.”
I swivel my head as discreetly as I can to take in the staff snaking through the crowd.
Now that he mentions it, most of them are men, and they do have a harsh quality to them.
A few have cauliflower ears or facial scars.
Most have tattoos. All of them walk with a swaggering confidence that reminds me of many of the men I’ve grown up with.
I turn back to Carlo, who gives me a knowing look.
“Who are they?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’m guessing Russians. Maybe Belarusians. Whatever they are, I’m not planning to stick around and find out, and neither should you.”
I look back at the party. Dom’s still speaking with the council member, but like the connection between us has been tugged, he glances in my direction and flashes me a subtle smile.
Neil’s playing the piano in the background, and the rest of my family’s here, laughing and chatting. Valeria’s here, somewhere. I can’t leave all these people to whatever Aceto has planned.
I turn to Carlo. “You go. I’m going to tell Dom, and we’ll figure something out.”
“If anyone needs to leave, it should be you.”
“Me?”
“Aceto, the rest. They all want you. You wanna protect everyone, then you go.”
His comment stings, but I see the truth in it. We already know Aceto’s in bed with the Chiarellis, and that his son thought it would be smart to attack me. If the best thing I can do is go back to the penthouse with Dom and let Don Salvatore handle this, then I can do that.
I nod. “Okay. I’m going to tell Valeria, I’ll grab Dom, and we’ll go.”
Carlo shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “You didn’t hear? She already left before you arrived.”
“It’s her dad’s party, how could she leave early?”
He glances around before dropping his head near mine and murmuring, “She’s probably scared. A little birdie told me her family got a late-night delivery the night you came by for a visit. You know Lasso?”
My stomach drops. I already know where this is headed.
“I heard they opened a box on their front porch, and inside was Lasso’s face.”
My stomach twists with horror. “What? You mean his head?”
Carlo leans in closer. “No. I mean, the skin peeled from his face, like a mask. They found the rest of him dead at some club.”
My blood chills. “Who would do that?”
But I know the answer.
I startle as Dom slides his arm around my waist. “Barbaras! Am I interrupting anything?”
Carlo jerks his head toward Dom as if to say, your culprit’s right there. “Not at all! We were just talking about you.”
“All bad things, I hope.”
Carlo laughs. “You know it. You two have fun. I’m gonna go find Mom and take her home. I saw her talking with Nonna earlier, and she usually dips into the hard liquor after that.”
As Carlo vanishes into the crowd, I level a severe look at Dom.
His eyes light up, and he leans in to whisper huskily, “You keep looking at me like that, we might have to go find a private corner for ourselves.”
“Carlo told me about Lasso.” I study his face, waiting for him to lie or deny it, but he doesn’t hesitate.
Dom barks out a laugh. “Good. I want every bastard here to know what happens if they touch you.”
I should get mad at him, tell him he didn’t have to do that.
But I already had an idea of what he was going to do to Lasso, and I didn’t stop him, even though I could have.
The fear of what’s going to happen tonight, of Carlo’s warning, fades away under the harsh, bright light of my husband’s brilliant smile. I don’t have to be afraid of anything. Dom’s here, and he’s mine.
I cup my hands along his beard and graze my fingertips into his cheeks. “You’re a good husband.”
Dom’s smile widens. “Only for you, angel.” He sneaks a kiss against my fingertips. “We’d better head to the upper deck. Salvatore’s waiting for us.”
“Carlo said we should leave. He said Aceto’s planning something tonight.”
Dom laughs. “Don’t worry. We know, and we got a little something planned for him, too.”
He leads me outside where Dad’s waiting for us, puffing at a cigar at the foot of the stairs in the half-light from the windows. He pushes himself up to standing as we approach and follows us to the upper deck.
It’s quieter up here, the flooring muffling the party underneath us. I can barely make out the distant waves breaking against the pier, and I’m unafraid as we pass into the enclosed salon.
In the next hour, the rest of the party will migrate here to eat, but for now, only Salvatore, Marisol, and Nico sit in the center of a sea of white tables, each headed by one of my floral arrangements—a perfectly balanced mixture of dusty green cedar branches supporting pinecones and white roses as they build to a crescendo of show-stopping dark burgundy dahlias.
At the penthouse, I’d been so concerned with making each individual display perfect, that I’d lost sight of the effect as a whole.
Now, looking across all arrangements, and tasting the faintest floral aroma on my tongue?
It’s striking and dramatic and uniquely me, and it floods me with pride and the smallest measure of bittersweetness.
For all the hard work I did to realize this vision, my sister’s artistic influence quietly and undeniably shines through.
It feels, impossibly, like a collaboration.
Dad pats my shoulder. “You did good, kid,” he says gruffly and takes a swig of his whiskey. “She’d be proud.”
For Dad and me, this is more than just flowers.
I swallow past the lump of emotion in my throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
Together, we make our way to the main table.
Once Dom drags my chair next to his and we’re seated, the salon doors swing open.
Aceto and a flank of five tall, strong waiters enter the room, all bearing trays of entrees and drinks. The far-off sound of the party below mutes to complete silence as the doors click closed behind him.
“I’m so glad you all could make it,” Aceto shouts jovially, excess champagne spilling over the side of his flute.
He’s the spitting image of his son, with his perfectly pressed suit and coiffed hair.
Only his mustache and the greys at his temples set him apart.
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t scowl at him.
Was he the one who gave Valeria her black eye?
The waiters circle our table, placing steaming dishes of lobster and pasta in front of each person.
I move my heavy purse to my lap when one of the waiters sets my plate down. Dom squeezes my knee.
I don’t understand how everyone at the table can be so completely at ease.
Dad watches Aceto through half-lidded eyes and his hands propped on his belly like he might doze off.
Nico’s cleaning under his fingernails with one of the steak knives.
Marisol giggles softly as Don Salvatore whispers something into her ear.
The waiters step back, and in perfect unison, pull out guns and point them at us.
My breath catches in my throat.
No one at the table reacts. Nico flashes one of the waiters a smirk. Dad’s gaze rolls to me, completely calm. Is their plan to shoot at the waiters? Is there another group on standby? Or are they bluffing?
I slip my fingertips into my purse, grazing the warm metal of my gun, until Dom slides his hand over mine and squeezes it.
Okay. I have to trust him now.
My heart’s beating like a snare drum. I squeeze his hand back and force myself to lean into my chair.
“What’s going on?” Aceto asks, and even to my ear, it sounds fake.
In the corner of my eye, Salvatore gives the barest, most imperceptible nod, and the waiters swivel their guns at Aceto.
Aceto’s face pales. He reaches behind him, but one of the waiters shouts, “Nyet.”
Aceto’s hand freezes, his jaw tightening as he scans the waiters’ faces. “What the fuck is this?”
“Business,” the same waiter answers.
Salvatore picks up one of the steak knives and rises from the table in a smooth movement.
“On your knees,” he says in a low voice as he approaches Aceto.
In a silent battle of wills that lasts seconds, Aceto drops to his knees with a heavy thud. “I’ve been nothing but loyal to you, Don Salvatore. I don’t—”
Salvatore cuts in quietly. “You’ve been trying to undermine me.” Everyone is completely silent, and I get the feeling we’re all holding our collective breaths. I glance over at Marisol, expecting a solemn expression. Instead, she’s smiling hungrily at her husband.
A shiver rolls through me.
Salvatore lifts the knife.
Instead of bringing it down on Aceto‘s neck, he lets it drop to the carpet and walks back to the table, where he sits and waits expectantly. His arm rests over the back of Marisol’s chair, his fingertips skating along her shoulder.
Aceto whips his head around like a desperate animal. His gaze falls on me, and Dom scrapes his chair back to protect me from Aceto’s view.
“Don Salvatore, you have a rat,” he shouts. It feels like a stab to the chest when he points a finger in my direction. “That girl isn’t Serafina—that’s Annetta, the Chiarelli widow. She’s going to get us all killed!”
Salvatore taps against the back of Marisol’s chair impatiently. “Don’t waste my time.”
Aceto bows forward, fists and jaw clenched, and screams through gritted teeth. Inches away, the knife waits for him.
He turns his head toward it and, with a tremor I can see from here, takes it into his hand. His face is a mottled red, and he doesn’t make a sound as he raises it.
I realize with a choked gasp—Salvatore is making Aceto kill himself.
Dom turns toward me and presses my face to his chest. “Don’t look.”
“Stop.”
At first, I don’t recognize who’s talking. I’ve never heard his voice before, but I place the speaker—Nico.
I peek around Dom to see Aceto watching Nico with hope glimmering in his eyes.
Salvatore raises an eyebrow at his half-brother.
Nico rises from his chair with an easy athletic grace and makes his way to Salvatore’s side, where he leans forward and whispers in his ear.
Even though we’re at the same table, I can’t hear what he says.
It must be shocking because both of Salvatore‘s eyebrows lift and then come crashing down.
“Are you sure?” Salvatore asks.
Nico stands and places a hand over his heart, but his loose posture makes it clear he’s being unserious. “With every fiber of my being.”
Salvatore sighs. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, Aceto. You’re going to come with me instead. Stand up.”
Aceto’s eyes widen, and he scrambles for the steak knife he’d just dropped. Nico’s faster, striking out with almost inhuman speed to knock the knife from his hand. With a cruel smile on his lips, he grabs Aceto by the back of his neck and drags him kicking and screaming toward Salvatore.
Marisol casually reaches into her purse like there isn’t a man fighting for his life within arm’s reach and pulls out her phone. When she reads the message, the relaxed smile falls from her face. She shows the phone to Salvatore, and his eyes flick to Dom.
“Dom, take Barbara and Annetta to Knossos hospital,” he says. “Rafa’s been shot.”