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24
Contessa
There’s a special kind of torture in being able to see the whole world without being able to reach it. When I was with Salvatore, locked up on the third floor, I only had the torment of seeing a few houses and a front yard. Up here, I am privy to all of New York, the endless city stretched out in every direction. It feels like being trapped in a snow globe. I don’t know how my father stands it.
My days are monitored now after I deliberately set off the fire alarm, trying to con my way out through the fire stairs. A failed escape attempt in my constant pursuit of freedom. Were there not countless families in the massive building underneath us, I could happily burn this place down for real.
My father has spent his days dealing with something. I like to imagine it’s Salvatore. It might really be, judging by the amount of curses I overhear behind the office door.
My father makes flimsy promises to keep me pacified. In a week, I will be able to leave the apartment. In four days. In two.
I am terrified for what is supposed to happen to Salvatore tomorrow. What makes tomorrow so different from today? I sit and look out the window, as if I can see him out there somewhere. As if I can warn him something is coming, though I don’t know what.
My day of so-called freedom finally comes. My father informs me a stylist is coming to do my hair. A treat. My father does not do ‘treats.’ I would rather buzz myself bald if it meant just one wig shop between me and Salvatore, but I wait it out, begging for this all to be worth it.
To finally be out.
My hair appointment is not nearly as simple as I was led to believe. It takes almost half the day, a full styling with makeup and nails. I know something is off even before I am brought a dramatic rose-gold ball gown and a pair of matching heels.
I have a million questions.
‘What the hell?’ encompasses most of them.
I don’t bother asking. If I am getting this dressed up, then that means I’m going somewhere. As long as I am out of here, there may be some chance for escape. There has to be. I play along, like my father’s dress up doll, squeezing myself into the flaring dress that trails after my every step.
I look myself over in the mirror, running my hands over the gorgeous gown, and wonder what the occasion is.
In the car, I am not allowed to sit by the doors. Uncle Emil sits on one side and my dour-faced guard sits on the other, both dressed to the nines. It seems my father isn’t attending.
Shocker.
I try to ask Emil where we’re going, but he simply beams and tells me it’s a surprise—a good one.
I wish I could agree. I ask, as casually as I can muster, if they’ve dealt with Salvatore Mori. If the threat is over. Soon, he says. I do not like the way he says it.
The evening has set in when we reach an event hall with a sprawling ballroom with gold light and marble floors. I get only a glimpse before I am taken around the back, up into the corridors that connect to fitting rooms, catering storages, and lounge areas. It feels like being behind the curtain of a stage. I find myself silently taking note of stairwells and exits, but my uncle guides me along with his grip on my arm.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Right through that door,” Emil encourages me, as if there is a surprise waiting for me on the other side. The door is plain and unassuming, telling me nothing about what might be behind it.
Bracing myself for the unknown, I turn the handle and step inside.
The door leads to a vacant space above the main room, where doors mark the multiple entrances into the ballroom below. And there, pacing the middle of the room—James.
My head spins, heart dropping as though performing evasive maneuvers. I bump clumsily back into the door that has just shut behind me.
“Jesus Christ,” James breathes as he looks me over. He steps closer, moving in with the intent to sweep me up in his arms. I press myself back into the door, as if a monster has stepped into the room with me. Those soft, deceptive brown eyes and gentle expression, just rugged enough to seem interesting but soft enough to seem safe. The first man I ever really fell for.
The sight of him here, dressed in this sharp tuxedo, rips open the old wound. That I once daydreamed about marrying this man like a lovestruck teenager makes me feel ill.
“Why the hell are you here?” I demand, gathering up my dress as if keeping every part of me away from him, even my clothes. He stops short, sensing our reunion isn’t a happy one.
His expression flickers.
“Why wouldn’t I be here...?”
“How should I know?” I demand, panic eating at my patience, “I don’t even know where we are!”
