Page 40 of Damiano De Luca (The Five Syndicates)
I opened my mouth to tell him he wouldn’t, but he’d already walked away, and I didn’t want to raise my voice and draw attention to us. Instead, I settled into my assigned seat at the head table in the ballroom.
Damian took the seat across from me as Lucy settled to my right and Bastiano Romano sat on my left. The way Damian stared at me had me sending discreet looks up and down the table to see if anyone else noticed. They were trained upper-level mafia members. Of course, most of them noticed.
Something had switched in Damian. That look in his eyes. The way they followed my every movement. He wanted me again.
But I had left this world, and he couldn’t have me.
Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect, he ceases to love.
Fyodor Dostoevsky
Lucy shifted her eyes from me to Damian, her smile not at all sly. I ignored her and focused on my dinner plate. When I chanced another glance at Damian, he finally stopped looking at me. Only, he was talking to the daughter of one of the Romano leaders, which might have been worse than looking at me.
I wished he had taken a seat further down the table, so I could have avoided the agony of wanting Damian to stop looking at me and any other woman. I spent the dinner concentrating on not looking at Damian, and he knew it because his leg brushed against my leg beneath the table every time I thought I’d been subtle in taking a peek out of my peripheral.
I was thankful when speakers started gathering on the makeshift stage. The lights dimmed, and the first speaker rose to the podium. He told a tale of the death of his sister. Vince had set his mom up at a hotel until she could care for herself, made and paid for the funeral arrangements, and listened to him as he talked about his sister for nearly eighteen hours straight.
Remorse speared my heart. When I’d distanced myself from the family, I’d also distanced myself from Maman. I hadn’t seen Vince in eight years, and not a second went by where I didn’t miss him. Listening to how great of a man Vincent was stabbed me. I missed out on eight years of memories, and it was my decision. One of many poor decisions I’d made in a lifetime of poor decisions.
I swallowed my emotions and pushed my chair back. Damian cocked a brow, but I ignored him as I made my way to the stage. The line of men and women allowed me to pass to the front of the stage, thanks to my last name. I was grateful, because I needed to speak before I couldn’t bring myself to.
The memorial banquet was a celebration of the life of the deceased. The mic remained open, and anyone could share good memories they had of Vincent. I couldn’t speak of the memories I had connected to my mom’s relationship with Vincent, but I would give what I could.
Wild blinks shuttered my eyes as they adjusted to the spotlight. I cleared my throat and allowed myself a few minutes of vulnerability in Vince’s name. “I was eight when I met Vincent Romano. My English was awful at best, I hadn’t dropped my Italian accent, and conjugations kicked my ass.
“I came home with an F on an English spelling test, so afraid to tell my parents.” Gosh, I’d thought my problems were the end of the world back then. “I hid in the library, my chubby cheeks blotchy, tears streaming down my face, just a giant, blubbering mess.
“Vince came into the library and browsed the selection. I thought I was so sly, hiding quietly in my corner. Back pressed against the wall. Knees drawn to my chest. Of course, he had clocked me as soon as he came in, but it wasn’t until he had a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby in his hand that he approached me.
“‘Why are you crying?’ he pressed me. I showed him my test, and still, he asked, ‘So? Plenty of people fail all the time.’
“I glared at him, and with the attitude of an eight-year-old, I said, ‘Not me! I’m a Vitali. I’m powerful!’” I let loose a soft laugh. “Obviously, nothing’s changed.”
When the room’s laughter subsided, I continued, “Vince laughed. It wasn’t mocking. It was patient. And then, he asked, ‘Powerful?’ When I nodded, he held up the Gatsby book and said, ‘Do you know what this is?’
“I shrugged, my hand still clutching that damned test. ‘A book?’”
I suppressed the sudden surge of sadness, which gripped my throat.
“Vince shook his head. ‘Not just any book. The best book. Do you know who wrote it?’ When I said no, he smiled at me and told me, ‘F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of the greatest writers of all time. You want to know what else he is?’
“I shook my head again. Vince reached out, tapped the giant red ‘F’ on my test, and said, ‘An awful speller. One of the world’s greatest writers, and he was an awful speller. People aren’t born perfect, Little Miss Renata. They don’t live perfectly either. But the people who are perfectly happy are the ones who don’t chase perfection, especially for power. Instead of learning to conquer others, they learn to be happy with themselves.’
“Being the brat that I was, I asked him why anyone would try to be better if they were already happy with themselves. And he told me, and I’ll never forget this, ‘If you want to be better, do it because it makes you happy. Not because you think it will make someone else happy or because you feel like you have to.’”
My eyes met Damian’s, and my words battered me harder. I’d thought moving to Connecticut and living a quiet life was me doing things that made me happy. But if I were really happy, would I be second guessing my choice to leave Damian? Would I be trying so hard to rebuild the walls between us because I was scared of getting hurt again?
I faked a smile to the crowd. “The Great Gatsby is still one of my favorite books. Just like Vincent Romano will always be one of my favorite people.”
Fake smiles and hollow greetings filled my path back to the table. Emotions packed themselves so tightly in my throat, breathing was a struggle. When I sat back on my seat, my phone buzzed. Even though it was rude, I turned the brightness down and read the message, needing the distraction.
Damian: I like it better when you smile for real.
He must have gotten my number when he had my phone earlier. He’d programmed his in, too. My head shot up, and I stared at him. He was talking to that girl again, but I knew some part of him was aware of my attention. How had this happened? He was supposed to hate me. I should have fought the urge to back him up in the alley and at the roundtable meeting.
Renata: You don’t fool me.
Distracting me. And, admittedly, doing a good job of it. When my phone didn’t vibrate again after ten minutes, I sent a follow-up text.
