Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Sienna
Eighteen-years-old
“It’s puckered in the back.” I angle the phone so Ms. Gail can see the problem with my lace veil.
“Uneven tension.”
I blow a strand of hair that’s escaped my bun out of my face. “No, I’m evenly tensed about this.”
“Tension control, my dear. It takes practice. You’ll learn,” she promises.
“But I don’t have time for practice; I have less than a month to finish my collection. Why did I choose lace?” I wail.
“Drop the thread and bobbins and walk away. Your lace isn’t the only thing puckered.”
“Ms. Gail.” I choke on a laugh.
After she walks me back from the edge and guides me through an hour of rework, my veil is looking much better. “Come to my apartment tomorrow, and I’ll help you with the finishing touches.”
“Ms. Gail, how can I ever repay you?”
“Invite me to the wedding, and we’ll call it even,” she decides.
“I’m not even engaged,” I protest.
“Why not?”
I giggle. “Ms. Gail, you’re a terrible influence.”
“Pfft. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
The video ends, and I run my fingers over the white lace. On a whim, I gently place it on my head. Admiring myself in the mirror, my eyes lock on Fabien.
“You’re going to wear that for me on our wedding day.” His eyes are soft as he takes me in.
My cheeks flame at being caught. “I don’t recall being asked.”
He crosses the room, draping his arms around me from behind, watching me in the mirror. “Tonight, after dinner with my family, I’m going to tell my old man about our plans.”
“What plans?”
“We’re getting married.” He tilts his head, pressing a soft kiss along my fluttering pulse beneath the veil. “You’ll finish school and open your fashion design studio.”Another kiss. “And in a few years, you’ll give me a son.” He smiles against my neck.
“And if I give you a daughter?” I challenge.
“Then she’ll be the most spoiled princess in all of NOLA,” he declares, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
“What about me?” I playfully pout.
“The most spoiled queen in all of NOLA.”
“That’s more like it.” Not that Fabien doesn’t already spoil me rotten.
The sound of jazz has me tilting my head. “Second line?” The music is different than the procession Fabien and I listened to outside the hotel; this feels more somber. With an uneasy feeling, I remove the veil and gingerly place it on the mannequin’s head.
“Second line to heaven.” Fabien takes my hand, leading me to the terrace. “A funeral procession,” he explains gently.
“Oh,” I say, that uneasy feeling coiling around my heart and squeezing.
“You miss your brother.” Fabien wraps his arms around me, placing his chin on the top of my head.
“Do you think if someone commits suicide, they go to hell?” I whisper.
“I think if someone commits suicide, they’re already in hell. Up here.” Fabien’s finger taps my temple.
“Hum,” I say thoughtfully.
“And if this person felt that was the only way out, I don’t believe a just God would judge them.”
“Is there a just God?” I wonder.
“No clue. That’s why I donate to the Church and let my priest figure out the theology.”
“I’m not sure you can buy your way into heaven,” I inform him.
“Maybe not, but I still made a donation in your brother’s honor.”
I shift in his arms, burrowing my face against his muscular chest. “Thank you.”
“Say the word, piccola volpe, and I’ll take care of everyone involved.”
His offer should terrify me.
Cold. Ruthless. Menacing.
I’m in love with a bad guy, but I know in my heart, Fabien would never be a bad guy to me.
“Don’t make me cry; I’ll have red, puffy eyes when I meet your family.” I sniff.
He sits in a wrought iron chair, pulling me into his lap, and we silently watch as the procession disappears down the street. Whatever god these mourners believe it, that’s the one I say a prayer to for Oliver’s soul.
“Come on. It’s almost time to go,” Fabien says, leading me back inside.
This time, panic is what’s coiling around my heart. “But I still need to do my hair and makeup, and I don’t know what to wear!” I burst through the bedroom to find several dresses with tags laid out on the bed; shoe boxes stacked on the floor.
“Did I do good?”
Raising on my tiptoes, I give Fabien a thank-you peck before eyeing my choices.
“You did good.” I go with the most conservative dress before opening a shoebox with a killer pair of black heels with red soles.
I squeal, jumping up and down. “So good, that I’m going to be a bad girl wearing these heels later tonight.
” Crawling to Fabien should be degrading, but turns out I’m not one for should.
“Damn, I did too good, because now I’ve gotta take a cold shower.” With a swat of my ass, he stalks to the bathroom.
We get ready and are out the door. “Explain Sunday dinner again to me,” I tell him, yanking open the visor and checking my lipstick.
“Sunday dinner is dinner on Sunday.”
“Gee, that’s helpful,” I say dryly.
“It’s a whole lot of food and gossip with my family and my cousin, Nic, because he’s a freeloader,” Fabien jokes.
“Will Nic’s parents be there? His mom is your mom’s sister, right?”
Fabien nods. “Right, but his parents are dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. See, this is why I’m asking. So I don’t embarrass myself.”
“Sienna, you’re not going to embarrass yourself.”
“I’ve never cared what people think about me, but I want your family to like me,” I admit.
“They’re gonna like you. Just a heads up: Al says whatever pops into her head,” he warns. “Precocious, my mama calls her.”
“Precocious isn’t a bad thing.”
“You say that now,” Fabien tells me in a bemused tone.
I glance out the window and cry, “Stop!”
Fabien slams on the brakes. “What?”
“Oww.” Lurching forward, my head ricochets against the headrest, and I dramatically rub the back of my neck.
“What’s wrong?”
“Besides the whiplash? I wanted to admire this house.” I point out the window at a dilapidated Greek revival framed by majestic Oak trees.
He pulls over to the curb and hops out, opening my door for me. “This one? Looks condemned.” Fabien eyes it skeptically.
“It could use a little TLC, but it has interesting bones,” I decide.
“You see interesting bones; I see a money pit.”
“Are you telling me you don’t have the money?” I challenge, poking him in the chest.
“Oof. Hitting a man where it hurts most.”
“Wallet?”
“Ego,” he corrects me with a chuckle. “Come on.” He ushers me back inside the car, and we continue on our way through the Garden District, pulling up to the largest mansion on the street.
“I’m still nervous,” I admit as Fabien helps me out of the car.
“I’ve still got you,” he promises, squeezing my hand as we approach the gate. After Fabien punches in the code and the gate swings open, we reach the front door.
But before he can ring the bell, the door opens, with a little girl ready to pounce. “Here’s my little black belt.” Fabien dotes over his baby sister as she hops in his arms, and my heart practically melts.
“Al, this is my girlfriend, Sienna.”
The girl eyes me so long I fight not to squirm. “Sienna, you’re a crayon.”
It takes me a second, but I get it. “Yep, I’m a crayon. I’m also lipstick and a paint color,” I tell her with a smile.
“Lipstick? Does that mean you’re going to smooch with my brother?” Al wrinkles her nose. “Because smooching is gross.”
“No gross smooching,” I promise her.
“Hey, now. I’m not agreeing to that.” Fabien leads us inside, closing the door. “But how about we let you know if gross smooching is about to happen,” he bargains with his sister.
“I guess so,” Al says, but she doesn’t look too sure about it as she hops down from his arms.
“Fabien.” An elegant middle-aged woman appears, and I steel my spine.
“Mama.” They greet with a double cheek kiss. “This is my girlfriend, Sienna.”
“She’s a crayon,” Al helpfully adds.
“Sienna.” Mrs. Calvani turns her attention to me, her mask slipping for the briefest of moments before she flashes a practiced smile. “Welcome.”
This woman doesn’t just dislike me, she downright hates me.
So much for first impressions.
“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Calvani,” I say, fidgeting with my hands.
“Hey, cugino.” Nic appears, and he and Fabien hug it out with the manly back slap thing. “This is your girl?” Nic pretends to have never met me.
Fabien nods. “Nic, this is Sienna.”
“Sienna, nice to meet you.” He goes in for a double cheek kiss, and flustered, I just sort of stand there.
“Come, let’s eat.” Fabien’s mother switches to Italian, and I have no clue what’s being said.
Fabien takes my hand and squeezes it as he leads me to the ornate dining room.
He pulls out my chair for me, and I take a seat. Panic floods my bloodstream as I notice my place setting. Why are there so many forks and spoons and knives on the table?
Fabien’s mother says something animatedly in Italian, and Fabien interjects. “Mama, can we switch to English? Sienna doesn’t speak Italian.”
“Oh,” she says, unfolding her napkin and placing it in her lap. That “oh” is laced with enough condemnation to sentence me to the gallows. “But of course.”
A phone buzzes, and both Nic and Fabien grab theirs. Nic says something to Fabien in Italian before he and his aunt exchange something.
She smiles, waving Nic away.
“Sienna, catch you next time,” Nic tells me as he rises.
“Or not,” Fabien jokes as his cousin exits.
With one less person to buffer me from Fabien’s mother, I try not to squirm.
“Al, what have you been up to?” Fabien tries to start a conversation.
“I saw a severed head. Accidentally.”
My eyes go wide as Al’s mother says something in Italian to the child, and the little girl crosses her arms and falls back in her chair.
“Mrs. Calvani, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have a phone call.” A housekeeper appears. “Says it’s urgent.”
“Everyone, excuse me for a moment.” She rises, placing her napkin in her chair. “Best behavior,” she tells Al before walking out.
“Is a severed head grosser than smooching?” Fabien asks his sister.
“Yes,” she says with a dramatic huff. “But I’m not supposed to talk about it. Around her,” she whispers, referring to me.
“It’s alright,” I tell her. “I’m not the sharpest crayon in the box. I don’t even speak Italian.”
Fabien chuckles. “You’re the sharpest crayon I know—”
“How many crayons do you know?” Al wonders.
That elicits a laugh from Fabien and me.
Fabien’s phone buzzes, and he checks the message. “Be back in a minute. Al, keep Sienna company.”
“Okay, but she can’t ask about the severed head,” the little girl protests.
“Promise I won’t ask about it,” I assure her.
Fabien leans over and gives me a peck, eliciting an “Eww” from his sister.
He disappears, and I smile politely. “First family dinner. How am I doing?”
She frowns. “Okay, I guess, even though you don’t speak Italian.”
“Fair enough. Could you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Where is the bathroom?” I try.
“Out that door and down the hallway.” Al points.
“Thanks. Be back in a minute.”
“Make sure to wash your hands for two minutes,” she corrects me.
“Two minutes,” I amend, trying not to laugh.
I follow her directions and enter the hallway, but the sound of Fabien’s voice flittering from a partially open door has me pausing.
“You’re not marrying a whore,” Fabien’s mother says with derision, and angry tears well in my eyes.
“She’s not a whore; where’d you even get that?” Fabien says hotly.
“A little birdie told me—”
“So Michele was the ‘urgent’ call? Since when does he report to you about family business?” Fabien’s words are punctuated with fury.
“You buying a whore isn’t family business; it’s a family embarrassment,” his mother snaps.
“Sienna’s not like that; she’s a student—”
“Did you or did you not pay five thousand dollars for her?”
“It’s not like that—”
“Let me speak to my son alone,” a frail male voice sounds.
“Of course, Vitto, my love.”
The sound of heels click-clacking has me ducking behind the wall.
Her words resound with the beating of my pulse between my ears.
Whore.
Whore.
Whore.
Whore.
A moment passes before I sneak around the corner.
“You heard your mama. But if you want to keep this girl as your goomah, that’s your business.”
“But—”
“What’s this I hear about a fed shaking you down?”
“Michele’s busy pointing a finger, so five don’t point back at him,” Fabien spits. “It wasn’t a shakedown; it was a cost of doing business—”
“A man comes into my city and attempts to extort me? He’s leaving in a pine box,” Vitto says coolly.
“We can’t just go around killing feds,” Fabien argues.
“And this is why I question if you’ll ever be ready to lead this family.” Disapproval wafts down the hallway.
“I’m trying to play it smart; sometimes, money talks more than murder,” Fabien argues.
Vitto snorts. “Fabien, my boy, work with what the good Lord gave you. And it ain’t smarts.”
Anger bubbles in my chest. Fabien is incredibly smart.
“Yes, Papà.” My boyfriend sounds so dejected, it makes my heart ache. “So do you want me to handle Ringer?”
“Too late now,” Vitto says dismissively. “But his monthly payoff and expenses will be coming out of your pocket. It’s not the capos’ fault you’re weak as water.”
“What are you doing?” Al appears beside me, and I startle.
Shhh. With my finger over my mouth, I lead her back to the dining room. “I was looking for the bathroom,” I say, refusing to cry out of sheer willpower.
“If you’re going to eavesdrop, put your ear against the door,” Al suggests. “Don’t push on it; that’s how I saw the you-know-what.”
“Sienna, let’s go.” Fabien appears, his face unreadable.
“Nooo. What about dinner?” Al grumbles.
“Next time, little sis.” Fabien ruffles her hair before taking my hand in his and silently leading me out.
Only when we’re in the safety of his car do I speak. “Fabien, I overheard—”
His glacial eyes pierce mine. “And you shouldn’t have.”
“Well, I did,” I say hotly. “Your parents think I’m a whore, and they’re not exactly on board with a wedding. What does goomah mean?”
“Something you’ll never be,” Fabien promises adamantly. “My old man doesn’t have much time left, and once I’m boss, you and I are going to get married. That I swear to you.”
My poor, inexperienced heart desperately clings to his words as he seals the vow with a kiss, but a deep foreboding plays in the back of the mind, like a haunting second line to heaven.