Page 50 of Unholy Union
At fifteen grand a plate, the dinner raises money for local orphanages. Guests are also welcomed to participate in the auction, splurging thousands more dollars on things like a collectible baseball card or a date with some financier’s daughter.
Our driver steps out and opens the rear door for us. I expect Sabrina to shirk my advances, but as I go to take her hand, she simply…lets me.
No fight or push back. Not even a sigh or eye roll.
Her limp hand slides into mine, cold and lifeless, and as we start down the velvet carpet leading into the tall, mirrored building known as the Glasshouse, I’m not sure what to think.
From the moment I married this girl, all I’ve wanted was for her to shut up and behave herself.
Now that she is, there’s something about it that irritates me. It almost feels unearned. Too easy. Maybe even… disappointing.
I’m distracted enough by these thoughts that I don’t recognize we’ve reached the gala floor until the elevator dings and the doors roll open.
The Glasshouse lives up to its name—wall-to-wall glass, sleek steel beams, polished floors to mirror your reflection, and tasteful floral arrangements and sculptures for decoration. All in the name of charity.
There’s a massive screen at the back of the room cycling through sponsor names and glossy footage of the foundation’s supposed impact, all while servers in starched vests pass around flutes of champagne and bite-sized hors d’oeuvres.
The event has already begun, attendees scattered throughout the room socializing. The media makes their presence known, traversing the crowds with their press badges and cameras, snapping photos and filming segments for the puff pieces they’ll write.
Everybody’s on their best behavior tonight, but I can see the real business happening in the corners of the room—handshakes being held a beat too long between a shady businessman and an elected official, or somebody sneaking off with a person who’s half their age and definitely not their wife.
But none of it is any of my business. I’ve got my own affairs to handle tonight.
Sabrina and I go our separate ways. She seems to understand she’s to be on her best behavior as she drifts off to a small crowd of married Italian women. Most of them are either wives of my father’s employees or associated with our family in some way.
Good.
So shedoesknow what’s expected of her at these events.
Papà is on the other side of the room in the middle of talks with Sergio De Rossi. They’re sipping on their dark liquor under the guise of supporting charity while really they’re plotting and scheming their own nefarious plans.
I come up on the tail end of Sergio discussing our sabotage of the Corsini Construction. At this point we’ve approached one Corsini loyalist, putting feelers out for a bribe attempt.
“It’s looking good,” says Sergio. “They’ve been receptive so far.”
Papà nods, sipping from his glass. “Everyone has a price. Find out what theirs is; and if they won’t cooperate, make sure they understand the alternative.”
“I’ve got ’em where I want ’em. Next time, I go in for the kill. No worries, boss.” Sergio winks assuredly, draining the last of his bourbon. His gaze meets mine as he gives a stiff nod. “Cato, how’s married life treating you? Saw those tabloid pics. Just know my Giada would’ve behaved herself.”
He plays his comment off with a laugh that quickly turns into a cough once he realizes he’s alone. Both me and Papà have remained dead silent, unamused by the tasteless remark.
The underboss excuses himself by muttering something about refilling his drink, then disappears into the nearby crowd.
In the second that follows his departure, neither of us say a word. I’m reminded of the tension that’s been brewing over the past few days.
Papà has been dissatisfied by how I’ve handled the situation with Sabrina. I’ve been agitated over how he’s attempted to meddle. The result being tense stretches of silence like this.
I steal a flute of champagne off a tray from a passing waiter and toss back a couple swigs. I’m not expecting him to speak first; his pride and ego normally require that his wife and children—and everybody else in the world—make concessions to him.
But I’m not in the mood at the moment.
Cassian has always been the daredevil son. Even Celeste has rebelled and pushed back against his ironclad grip.
I’vealways been the reliable one. The dutiful heir he shaped in his image and modeled after himself.
As I swallow more champagne and stare across the room at my little wife mingling with the others, I realize I am becoming that man.
I am my father’s son. Right down to the fact that the woman I’ve married wants nothing to do with me. She feels my gaze on her—Iknowshe does. I can see how she peeks out of the corner of her eyes, checking in my direction.
