Chapter 1
Chapter One
Sienna
The present
Over the rim of my cocktail glass, I watch as party guests lick boot according to the Calvani family hierarchy.
My husband says something animatedly with a cigar hanging from his mouth, his crew surrounding him. Holding court like the king Michele wishes he could be. He cracks an idiotic joke, and everyone laughs.
Years of practice is the only thing keeping my eyes from rolling. Instead, I cast my gaze in the opposite direction. The only other person at this party who looks as miserable as I feel is, ironically enough, the boss. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen Angelo Calvani smile.
“Angelo!” My husband crosses the courtyard and greets the don with a kiss on each cheek. “Let your hair down and have a good time.” He slaps Angelo on his shoulders. “This is a party, not a funeral.”
My imagination takes over, and I envision the boss pulling out his gun and blowing off my darling husband’s head. Sadly, the birthday party doesn’t morph into a wake; Angelo excuses himself to the other side of the courtyard, his Ukrainian bodyguard trailing along.
Never count on a Calvani to save the day. Take that one to the fucking bank.
“Sienna, there you are!” A fellow capo’s wife greets me with a double cheek kiss.
I’d like to say we’re kindred souls, but I’d just as soon jab my drink stirrer through my tongue than converse with this woman.
“Still no baby announcement after all these years? You poor thing!” With an exaggerated pout, she cradles her pregnant belly.
“And look at you. You’re what, eight months pregnant? Don’t tell me you’re having twins? How fabulous!” This bitch goes low, I’ll take it to hell.
“I’m three months pregnant,” she says tightly. “With one baby.”
“Ohhhh. My mistake.” I glance over her shoulder as the chef wheels out the cake.
Uh-oh.
“Excuse me.” With a tight smile, I hustle to the chef, corralling him back inside the house. “Take those candles off right now.”
“I’m sorry?”
With the toss of my drink, I begin ripping them out with both hands; fifty in total. “No birthday candles.” Because heaven forbid anyone suggest my husband is getting old. “Smooth the frosting with a knife.”
“Yes, Mrs. D’Amico.”
Crisis averted, I wipe frosting off my fingers and plaster on a fake smile before rejoining the party. My eyes lock with Michele’s, and he jerks his head.
Ever the dutiful wife—suppressed eye roll—I breeze around the pool to join him. “Darling, do you want the cake served to our guests now or later?”
“What I fucking want, Sienna, are the girls I requested.” He blows a trail of smoke in my face, and I suppress my anger, along with the urge to cough. “Where are they?”
“They’re not coming to our house,” I say firmly. “I refuse to be disrespected in front of the entire family.” There are certain unwritten rules for made men; the biggest one is that you don’t flaunt other women in front of your wife.
“A dirty whore of a madam refuses to be disrespected?” His eyes flash with rage, and before I know what’s happening, I’m being shoved into the pool.
Unprepared for the impact, my nose burns as I sink to the bottom. With my dress and heels weighing me down, it takes all my effort to make it to the surface.
I gasp, coughing up a mouthful of chlorine as I fling my hair out of my face.
My arms slice through the water, anger propelling me across the pool like an Olympian.
Grabbing the ladder awkwardly with one hand, I remove my right heel, and switching hands, remove my left heel before hoisting myself out of the water.
“Seems my wife can’t hold her liquor,” Michele booms for all to hear. “Why don’t you go inside, my dear, and compose yourself. And do your fucking job,” he says the last part for my ears only.
“Of course, darling,” I say through wet teeth. All eyes are on me as I march across the courtyard, leaving a trail of humiliation and chlorine in my wake.
Inside the safety of my kitchen, I silently scream as my waterlogged heels get flung against the wall; they bounce off, skittering across the marble floor.
Something pricks my ears, and I spin around. “Oh. Alessandra. I didn’t realize you were inside.”
“I was pretending to go to the bathroom so I didn’t have to socialize,” she burts out.
That’s what I like most about the youngest Calvani. Her brutal honesty. It won’t get her far in this cutthroat world, but I hope she holds onto the trait for as long as possible.
“I saw the whole thing from the window,” she continues. “You didn’t trip; your husband shoved you in the pool.”
“And they say romance is dead.” With a practiced smile, I grab a kitchen towel, dabbing the water from my eyes before wringing out my hair. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to change.” And get Michele his call girls before he throws another tantrum.
“Wait, I remember you. From before,” she calls.
My spine goes ramrod straight as I turn around. “I’m sorry?”
“When I was seven, Fabien brought you to dinner at our house. You were his girl.”
Over the years that I’ve crossed paths with Alessandra, she’s never once mentioned that dinner; I assumed she was too young to remember. Considering how best to respond, I decide on brutal honesty in kind. “I was never good enough to be Fabien’s girl.”
She goes to argue, and I hold up my hand. “Not my opinion, but your family’s.”
“I’m sorry,” Alessandra says earnestly.
I wave away her apology, like it wasn’t a pivotal moment in my little tragedy of a life. “It’s all water under the bridge. Or the pool.” I wink at her, paddling out with wet feet.
Thankfully, I’m able to hold it together until I reach my study.
My hands tremble as I grab a box of pads from the bottom drawer of my desk.
If there’s one thing Michele won’t touch with a ten-foot pole, it’s a menstruating woman or her products.
Removing the pad, I unwrap it and clutch the photo hidden inside.
Despite having every detail memorized, I examine the picture as the floodgates open wide. My silent tears turn into wailing sobs as I bring my fist to my mouth.
I allow myself exactly five minutes to fall apart before I begin the arduous task of putting myself back together. The photo is returned to its hiding spot, and I get on the phone, calling in prostitutes for my husband.
Had I known this was the direction my life was going to take, I would’ve never set foot in New Orleans.
But just like hope, hindsight is a real bitch.