Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Which isn’t technically true.
“Fine, I’ll pass it on. But you and I need to talk about what women expect on a date. What do you mean it’s not a date? She’s wearing a ten-thousand-dollar Bianchon gown and Betty Saville heels. Fine. Seven o’clock. She’ll be ready.”
She hangs up and sighs. “Prince Charming is going to meet you there.”
I look at her through the mirror. “See, it’s not a date. He said it himself.”
“Yes, but that’s going to change the moment Cinderella arrives at the ball. Trust me. It might not be a date now, but by the end of the night, it will be.”
31
MASSIMO
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
My brother does his best to keep his voice even on the other end of the line. But he’s failing.
“It’s under control,” I assure him.
I’ve just told him I’m attending the Balboa Ball tonight with Bianca as my date.
“No, it’s not under control. You lost control the moment you hired her. Now you’re taking her on a date?”
“You’re reading too much into it,” I say calmly. “It’s not a date.”
A fleeting memory of Bianca’s warm body pressed against mine fans the flame that hasn’t diminished since I woke up with her in my arms on Sunday morning.
It’s a flame I’ve tried to dampen over the past week. I’ve pulled back because there are things I need to make right. Things she needs to know.
But you still watched her dance, that nagging voice in my head reminds me. Because there’s that part of you that can’t pull back completely.
“If it’s not a date then what is it?” Nico asks.
“Let the Vinocelli see Bianca is with me. I want to show them she is under the protection of the De Kysa.”
My brother grunts, still not convinced I’m doing the right thing but satisfied enough to know that attending a highly publicized event with Bianca on my arm will let the Vinocelli know they fucked with the wrong person.
“And if it isn’t the Vinocelli who are behind the accountant’s death?”
“Then this will help smoke out who is behind it.” They will start their scrambling. Make mistakes. Try to launder the money through the wrong channels or open their mouths to the wrong person. Either way, they will react, and I will find them.
“And what happens when you find her money?”
“I give it back and move on.”
“That’s it? Just like that you’ll be done with her?”
“There won’t be a reason for us to work together anymore.”
I think about her dancing behind the peep glass and how I’ll miss watching her. I know the standing date for two days a week in the peep room is wrong. But it’s the only secret I plan to keep from her.
All the others will come out in due course.
And then I won’t have a choice about seeing Bianca again. Because she will be done with me for good.
The afternoon vanishes, and it’s time to leave for the Balboa Ball. I change into the spare suit I keep in my office and meet Dante at the back entrance.
By the time we arrive at The Met, there is a line of cars pulling up to the entrance. When I climb out, flashes of light from the paparazzi ignite in the twilight, and I realize I made a mistake by not picking Bianca up. I should be arriving with her so the paparazzi capture us together, and I make a mental note to stick close to her tonight so we don’t miss out on any other opportunities to be seen together. I want to make sure the Vinocelli see us. Let them know she is with me. Let them squirm knowing that I will be coming for them the moment I get confirmation it was Fausto who murdered Harrison.
But I’ve already overstepped the line with Bianca. I need to pull back and establish clearer lines in the sand. This is not a date.
Inside, I’m met by a waiter with a glass of champagne, which I accept, then move into the main ballroom. The ball is well underway. Music plays. People in gowns and tuxedoes dance arm in arm. Chandeliers glitter, and the din of conversation hangs in the air. I barely get inside before I’m met by an elderly socialite who is dripping in jewels and won’t let me pass until I say hello to her homely looking daughter, who looks like she’d rather be eating a plate full of razorblades than be here.
Further along, I meet two actors I know well, one whose pool house was the location of a very satisfying encounter I had with three models one night—long before I became the don. And long before I started to feel dissatisfied by such encounters.
We make small talk before I excuse myself to find the bar. I’ve finished my champagne but need a scotch to numb the strange sensation in my chest.