Page 88 of Rosetti Family New York
“Bullshit.” I don’t care if my voice is rough. “What was that?”
She looks away, a tremor still in her fingers. “That song.”
“Keep going.”
“I haven’t heard it since I was a child.” Her voice cracks a little, and the sound is worse than anything. “It was my mother’s favorite.”
The words hit me, and I understand. “Your mother died when you were young.”
Her face crumples, and I pull her tight against me, nestled into my chest where she belongs, and I wrap my jacket around her bare shoulders, cocooning us both. My jaw is clenched so hard it aches. I can still hear the music inside, the muffled sound wrapping around me. I should care more about the deal, the drugs, about my brothers who are still inside. But all I care about is the woman in front of me, the way her composure crumbles, the way she pulls herself back together.
I hold her until her shivering stops, feeling my heart clench. Maybe there’s more than just fire beneath her mask. My ice-cold wife holds a gamut of secret emotions, and I want to understand every one of them.
8
Besiana
The sheets are silk and smooth, and they would be a dream if my mind would just shut off. But I lie here, eyes closed, remembering my mother’s face, her soft eyes and the song that reminded me. Even with him inches away, maybe because he’s inches away, I’m too wired to sleep. I’m in a web I can’t untangle, trapped and a little drunk on the feeling. I need to breathe. To think. To be alone.
I slide out of bed, the marble cold under my feet. Dom shifts but doesn’t wake, his breath steady and calm. I envy him for that, for being so controlled even in sleep. But it’s not just sleep I’m envious of. I envy him for being so sure of what he wants.
As I tiptoe out, I glance back at his silhouette, broad and unmoving against the pillows. My chest tightens, a pressure that won’t go away, and I shut the door with barely a sound. Down the hall to my own room, where I strip out of the red silk dress and drop it to the floor. A rebellion, this late-night escape and the carelessness of the dress lying there like something dead. I pull on Armani jeans and a blouse, slipping into the comfort of someone I recognize.
The air outside is crisp, a sharp contrast to the stagnant heat of the mansion. Security lights flicker on as I pass, and I slide into a car, forcing a smile for the guards, and giving a flippant excuse for popping out. They nod back, not questioning. I’m the lady of the house now, even if the title sits on me like a weight. They know better than to question.
I glide through the gate, past the tall fences, the surveillance, the guards in black. The car’s quiet purr is almost too soft for my frantic mind. My father’s words loop in my head like a broken record: broken bones mend more easily than broken loyalty. I grit my teeth.
The roads are dark and empty. I love the city at night. The illusion of space in a place that feels so crowded during the day. The lights blur past as I head toward Brooklyn, toward an old haunt where no one cares about bloodlines or rings or loyalty. The Dushku princess playing dress-up, letting her hair down. I laugh out loud, the sound sharp and hollow in the car’s cocoon. I haven’t been to the bar in months. Will the bartender will recognize me?
The bar’s dim lights are like a warm hug as I walk in, the heavy door creaking in welcome. Smoke lingers in the air, mixing with sweat and the tang of cheap whiskey. It’s not packed, but there’s enough of a crowd for me to lose myself in. I find a seat at the bar, ignoring the curious glances, and order a drink. Bourbon. Neat. There are no eyes on me, so I can drink whatever the hell I want.
The first sip burns, and I savor it. I let it sting as it goes down. It makes me think of her, of my mother, of Valmira and her simple dresses and gentle eyes. Mami, I called her, but she was never just a mom. She was a woman with a knife and a life she never got to live. Just like me, only softer. Kinder. I wonder if I would have ended up like this if she’d been around to help me.
Another sip, and I let the warmth chase away the ghost of Dom’s breath on my neck. I let it numb the tight coil of anger and longing that’s been twisted inside me since the gala this evening. Since that song played. Since always.
I should have come without this jewelry that screams Rosetti money. I take off the huge engagement ring, the wedding band, too, and shove them in my pocket. A challenge to anyone who dares to call me owned.
My glass is empty, and I’m halfway to drunk when the bartender sets another in front of me. “On the house,” he says, his eyes lingering on my face, searching for a name to match it.
“Is this the part where you pretend you don’t remember me?” I ask, lifting the glass. “Or the part where you cut me off because I’m making a scene?”
“Cutting you off means more work for me,” he says, turning away to help another customer.
It feels good to be here, to be anonymous and just a little bit wild. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s life for the night. But no one knows better than I do that borrowed things always have to be returned.
I stare at the drink, and my mind flashes to Dom. To how furious he would be if he saw me like this. He wants me to be something I can’t. Tame. Obedient. Like one of his sleek cars or that fucking house, all steel and glass and nowhere to hide. He’s so fucking sure of himself, and I can’t stand it. I take a long sip, defiantly, and push him out of my mind.
He’s got no idea what it’s like to be part of my family, how failure isn’t an option and survival’s a miracle. How my father will make sure I pay if I don’t get him information on Iride, and fast. Broken bones, broken loyalty. The words echo again, and I push them out with another drink.
The door swings open, and a rush of cold air cuts through the bar. A couple of guys look my way, sizing up whether to take ashot. I make eye contact with one, and he wanders over. Blond hair, clean-shaven. Probably twenty-one if he’s lucky. He looks out of place in a college-kid way, and I think he might be fun to toy with. I brace for a line that’s more eager than smooth.
“Buy you a drink?” he asks, leaning casually on the bar. His confidence amuses me.
“I never say no to free booze,” I reply, and he signals to the bartender.
“Double shots, whatever you’re having,” he says, settling onto the stool beside me. I expect more of a push, a flirt, but he’s just a quiet guy, earnest and trying.
The drinks arrive, and I hold up my glass.
