Page 44 of Veil of Obsession
“Mm,” I murmur. Noncommittal. Perfectly uninterested.
But I’m listening. I’mremembering. Dana was laughing that night. Too loudly. Too freely. The kind of girl who drank too much and touched people’s arms when she talked. But that night, she made a grave error that led to her demise. She tried to take what belongs to me.
She was the kind of girl no one believed could be targeted. The kind of girl who would never see it coming. But you touch what’s mine, and you’re a target.
“More details will be released as the investigation develops,”the newswoman continues.“At this time, authorities have not released a list of suspects, but confirm foul play is strongly suspected.”
Mother frowns faintly. “I imagine it was some desperate man she turned down. Girl like that collect enemies without even trying.”
Father folds his paper with a snap. “Nasty business.”
I keep my posture relaxed, my expression neutral. The teacup doesn’t tremble in my hand. My breathing doesn’t change. But inside, beneath the lace and silence and porcelain, I burn.
Mother rises and crosses to the console beneath the mounted television, adjusting the volume down as the anchor transitions to weather. She leaves the screen on, just dim enough to reflect in the gilt-framed mirror above the hearth.
“Nasty business,” she echoes my father, brushing invisible dust from the hem of her cream blouse. “They should be careful what they release to the public. Girls like Dana attract all the wrong attention, even in death.”
Father snorts behind his paper. “The Hoffmans always were careless. Throwing money at problems and pretending it’s parenting.”
No one looks at me. I exhale slowly through my nose, smoothing my thumb over the rim of my teacup. My jaw aches—tensed without realizing. I shift slightly on the settee, crossing my ankles the other way. Casual. Controlled.
Mother’s voice cuts through again, softer this time. “We were there, weren’t we? The Astoria Gala. You wore that black gown. The one I told made you look like you were going to a funeral.”
“Yes,” I say. “A month ago.”
“That girl was drunk off her face,” Mother says, mostly to herself. “Falling over her heels, arm-in-arm with that vulgar boy. What was his name? Landon? Lucas?”
Father flips the page. “Lucio Folonari.”
“Right,” she nods, clearly pleased with herself. “Always something feral about him.”
I nod vaguely. Not too eagerly. Just enough.
I remember Dana’s laugh echoing off the marble walls. I remember the way she looked at the wrong people for too long. The way she didn’t know when to stop.
I lift my teacup again, if only to give my hands something to do. My fingers have started to twitch. I curl them tighter around the delicate china.
From the hallway, the antique grandfather clock begins to chime. One slow, measured note after another. A soft signal of time marching on, as if nothing has changed. I rise.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, setting the cup down on the silver tray beside the lamp.
Mother glances at me. “Finished already?”
“I have a headache.”
She nods once, satisfied. “Stay away from your screens tonight. Blue light aggravates it.”
“Yes, Mother.”
I turn, leaving the firelit living room behind. The soft thud of my heels against polished wood floors is the only sound as I cross into the hall.
Once out of sight, I let my shoulders drop. Just a fraction. Just enough to breathe.
16
Lucio
Eli’s office is dim, lit mostly by the glow of the TV screen mounted on the wall. No windows. No unnecessary furniture. Just hard edges and cold efficiency. The walls are lined with dark soundproof panels, muting the chaos from the underground fight club outside. A large steel desk sits in the center, littered with papers, cigars, and a half-empty glass of whiskey. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and leather, the remnants of past conversations that ended in either business or blood.
