“You look so much like your mother. She’d be so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled, not wanting to talk about my mother. She wouldn’t be proud of my father or me tonight. While she may have been preoccupied with her love of music, she always stressed the idea of finding the right person to marry. According to her, life was so much easier when you married a partner, not an adversary. Despite our letters, I didn’t have any illusions that Marcello would be anything other than an adversary. We wanted different things, different lives. Sal, on the other hand, had shown me time and time again that we were on the same wavelength, and most importantly, he didn’t want anything to do with the mafia.
“I have something for you.” My dad pulled a rectangular box from inside his jacket and opened it. Inside was a long strand of gray pearls with a diamond-encrusted clasp. Even though I hadn’t seen this piece for years, I recognized it immediately. “I gave them to your mother as an engagement gift. She would want you to have them.”
Tears threatened to leak down my face, and I blinked them back, stifling the emotion. “They’re beautiful. She used to wear them all the time when I was little.” I couldn’t count the number of times I watched her rotate her fingers over the pearls absentmindedly. She wore them nearly every day until the fighting with my dad started.
“May I?” He dangled the strand from two fingertips. Nodding, I turned my back to him and lifted my hair. He fiddled with the clasp, then the cold strand hit the back of my neck, and I shuddered.
“I bought them for your mom because they matched her eyes.”
I turned to face him. “She never told me that.”
“I don’t think she knew.” He slid his arm through mine. “We should go. I wanted to give you a few moments with Marcello before everyone gets here.”
“Okay. That’s probably a good idea.” I trod down the stairs on my dad’s arm, my mouth dry and my legs like jelly.
This is irrelevant.
None of this matters.
I’ll be gone in less than a month.
My dad pushed open the heavy walnut and glass door to his study, and the sound of the door latch boomed like a gunshot in my ears. Unable to move, I froze in my tracks.
“It’ll be okay. You have nothing to worry about. You’ll see.”
My father guided me forward, and I fixed my eyes on the profile of a man dressed in a crisp navy suit with a pale lavender tie and a starched white shirt. Apparently, my dad told him the color of my dress so we could match. On any other man the lavender tie might look effeminate, but somehow he succeeded in looking even more masculine.
He had one elbow propped on the precast mantle and a lowball of amber liquid in one hand. He had a Roman nose, long with a high bridge. His inky hair contrasted with his olive skin, and even years later I recognized him as the man arguing with my dad in the study a lifetime ago.
“Marcello, I would like to present my daughter, Emilia Trassato.” He released my arm and nudged me forward.
His head whipped toward me, his stare wintry and implacable. His face was lean and harsh with dimple-like grooves framing his mouth. He looked dangerous in a way that both drew me to him and repelled me. I searched for traces of the man who wrote those letters to me, and I didn’t see anything except ruthlessness and determination. A chill raced between my shoulder blades, and for a fraction of a second I contemplated turning around and running away from him, this party, and my life.
Without him even opening his mouth, I already gathered that he wasn’t someone you screwed over, and I’d been actively plotting to do that for years. There’d be hell to pay when I left in a month’s time. I almost felt bad that my father would have to deal with the consequences alone. Then I remembered this quagmire was his own creation, and I felt a considerably better.
“Miss Trassato, it’s a pleasure to see you.” His voice was smoky, and his lips verged on mocking as they curved into a partial grin. He crossed the room with quick, deliberate strides and pressed an impersonal kiss to each of my cheeks. My heart sped up both from the brief contact and from the trepidation coiling around my lungs.
“Hello, Mr. Masciantonio.” I sounded as if I ate sandpaper for breakfast.
My father glanced at his watch. “Everyone will start arriving in fifteen minutes. I’ll come in and get you both then, and we’ll make the announcement.”
“Give us closer to a half an hour,” Marcello said, his voice brooking no argument. “We have a lot of things to discuss before we make an announcement.”
“Everything is already settled,” my father shot back.