Page 48 of Nicoletta
“Stop looking like you’re about to break someone’s neck,” Nicoletta murmurs beside me.
Her voice is soft. Polished. Like she belongs here. Because she does. I’m the outsider trying to fit in, and I don’t like the feeling.
I glance at her. Beautiful. She outshines all these other bitches without even trying. Where most of the others had to pay for the Botox, fat freezing, and fake hair, Nicoletta’s beauty is natural.
She’s a different person tonight. Definitely in her element. Powerful, sure of herself. The familiar way she addresses the staff. Always kind, and respectful, but still knowing her station. Her sharp eyes pick up on the little innuendos that pass as conversation for this crowd.
“You look like you own the place,” I mutter.
Eyes forward, she doesn’t look at me. “I was raised to.”
That lands hard, and again I’m convinced, once this night is over, she’ll be taking that rented Mercedes back to Pacific Palisades.
A bell rings, and Nicoletta places her untouched champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray.
“Time to sit for dinner,” she informs me.
When I furrow my brow, she says, “The bell means cocktail hour is over, and it’s time to be seated.”
I’m beginning to think this world has as many fuckin’ rules as the outlaw world. And screwing one of them up is dangerous, and just as deadly.
She effortlessly guides us to her father’s table. Of course, it’s up front and center.
Clark’s eyes follow me the entire time, but I pretend I don’t notice. I’d love to stare the fucker down with my usual death glare, but now isn’t the time.
We’re served a four-course dinner which seems to go on forever. Food’s not bad, but I left my fuckin’ appetite in Tijuana. Nicoletta is making a show of pushing her food around on the plate too.
After numerous boring speeches, Stuart Hinchman takes the stage. The perfect gentleman banker in his classicallytailored tux, of which he probably owns many.
Fit, average height, hair graying at the temples. A man with whom you would willingly invest millions. His even, measured step brings him to the podium. He adjusts the microphone, then smiles at the crowd, comfortable knowing everyone is anxiously awaiting his next words.
“The man we’re honoring tonight needs no introduction. He’s been a tireless worker in and around Los Angeles, always with an eye for what is best for this city. His contributions to the board here at Riviera go unquestioned. His ideas are always innovative, while keeping the needs of the members in mind.”
Stuart smiles at the audience, and they applaud on cue.
“His business, The Property Real Estate Agency, is one of the premier real estate firms in Southern California, serving the community with both excellent standards and charitable donations to our city’s neediest. It’s my pleasure to bestow this year’s Humanitarian Award to a most worthy member of our club. So, without further delay, let me bring up my good friend and golf buddy, Clark Williams.”
NICOLETTA
The crowd erupts in applause as my father heads for the stage, poised and confident, in complete control as he climbs the three stairs, then stands next to Stuart at the podium.
“Thank you, I’m honored, but since my wife was unable to attend,” his eyes zone in on me, “I’d like my daughter, Nicoletta, to join me.”
My gaze flits to Bolt. We weren’t expecting this. I grab up his hand, and he doesn’t resist as we both head to the stage, my father’s narrowed eyes never leaving us.
I’m between my father and Bolt, and if my heart beats any faster, I believe it will explode.
Stuart leans into the mic. “Before we give you the actual award, we have a presentation for the audience showing all yourgood works,” he raises his arm, and a screen descends from behind us, “showing exactly what kind of man you truly are.”
Bolt leans into me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Hinchman was in on it with us.”
We all turn toward the screen. My heart is pounding so hard I fear someone might hear it.
When Stuart gives the signal, the lights dim and the screen flickers to life.
At first—nothing. Then static. The crowd exchanges glances, and my breath catches in my chest. More static, then it hits.
Grainy, dark, a neon bar sign on a deserted street. My father’s Bentley pulling up, then my father, along with Stuart Hinchman, Tom Hansen and George Davenport, step out onto the cracked sidewalk.
