Page 58 of Masked Don

STEVIE

Five years ago, I walked into a room just like this in a uniform that wasn’t mine: a too-tight black thing someone poured me into. But tonight, the dress is made for me and me alone. The dress is deep green and cut to fit a body I stopped apologizing for a long, long time ago.

It doesn’t ride up or pull or fight me. It just fits. Enzo said green. Marta found it, and they were both right, which I am not going to tell either of them.

The venue is one of Enzo’s, the top floor of a tower forty stories up, all glass and gold light and an endless view of the city. The room is full of exactly the kind of people I’d spent that night serving, billionaires and politicians and men whose names you only hear whispered.

I’m nervous. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. My heart’s going and my hands want something to hold.

Enzo feels my anxiety, just as he always does. “Look at me,” he says, his voice low as we step into the space. “Not the room.”

His hand settles at the small of my back, warm through the fabric. “You’re not here carrying a tray. You’re not here to be leered at. You’re here on my arm, and every person in this room is going to want to know who you are. So let them wonder.”

He doesn’t leave my side. A man like him in a room like this has a hundred people who want a piece of him. But you’d never know that by the way he walks with me, a hand at my back, introducing me by name. Miss Callahan. My right hand. I love the title.

“If you keep doing that…” I murmur between introductions.

“Doing what.”

“If you keep touching my back and saying my name like that, people are going to talk.”

“That’s the idea. People are always going to talk.” His mouth is very close to my ear. “I’m choosing what they say.”

I take a flute of champagne off a passing tray carried by a girl in a black dress that isn’t hers, and our eyes meet for one second. I give her a small smile I hope says I see you, I was you, you’re going to be fine, and I let myself breathe. It’s working. The whole impossible night is working.

Which is, of course, when Genevieve finds us. She looks beautiful tonight. Every time I see her, I can’t help but wonder what the old Genevieve was like, the one I never knew, the one who hadn’t been hurt in a way that had led to all of her self-destructive behavior.

“There he is,” Genevieve says, too loudly, lifting her glass as she approaches. “The Don and his new assistant. Don’t you two look domestic.” Her gaze moves to me and she snorts.

“Gen.” Enzo’s voice is quiet and even. “You’ve had enough.”

“I’ve had exactly enough. That’s the whole point.” She sways as she says it, and a little champagne spills over the rim of her glass. A couple of people nearby turn their heads and look.

Enzo doesn’t make it a fight. He just lifts one finger and Carmine is there, appearing out of the crowd the way he does, big and calm and gentle.

“Miss Accardi,” he says softly, “let me help you outside for some air.”

“I don’t want air, Carmine.” The words come out in a pout. However, she lets him take her arm, because some part of her knows it’s futile to fight. He turns her toward the doors, and she looks back at me over her shoulder. For one moment, the haughty drunk defiance drops off her face, and what’s left is older and sadder.

“Listen to me,” she says, and I can tell she’s being real.

“Genevieve.” Enzo says her name sternly, in a way that would shut up anyone on this planet except his sister.

“No,” she says, “I need to say something. The women in this family… We don’t get the happy ending. We just don’t. I didn’t. My mother didn’t. The house takes it out of you. Whatever you came in with, it takes it.” She narrows her eyes at me. “He’ll be good to you. He will. Right up to the point that it costs him something, and then you’ll find out what he really is.”

“Enough.”

She stops, takes a deep, slow breath. “Fine. You want me gone? Then I’m gone.”

Still on Carmine’s arm, she strides to the terrace doors and vanishes into the night.

When she’s gone, I just stand there, unsure of what to say.

“Don’t,” Enzo says quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t take what she said personally. She’s not wrong about the house. She’s not wrong about what happened to her or my mother.” His jaw is tight. “But she’s wrong about me.”