AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I don’t have any clever retort. I don’t want to. This wasn’t my fault. But none of that feels like it matters in the face of that accusation, something brittle in me finally snapping.
“I tried to stop it,” I say again, feebly, clinging to that fact like it can change something.
“He was the one that sent them. Even when I begged him not to—”
“Well, you didn’t. So, fix your fucking face, and let’s go.”
I push him away. He pushes me back, my back colliding with the door. He gets too close, the threat of him looming.
“Tessa,” he says, his voice different now, his patience spent, “Your father didn’t give a damn the last time I had to knock some sense into you. You think he’s going to care if you go crying to him now?”
Our eyes meet.
“Salvatore Mori is still out there,” I whisper, “and I hope he tears you apart with his bare hands—”
James smiles.
“Let him try. We all got dressed up for the occasion, after all.”
I don’t follow his line of thinking.
“Let’s go,” he says. “If you aren’t out there in front of everyone, he’ll never believe you’re really here.”
His hand closes around my arm. I’m too stunned to resist him, following along in a numb haze.
This is the trap. This is the horrible thing that is going to happen to Salvatore. I am.
Because Salvatore is just crazy enough that even a roomful of men ready to shoot him dead would not stop him from trying to get to me.
Music surges in the ballroom. Below, men mingle near the catering table, while dance partners sweep across the ballroom floor. This is a party, just like any other. There are families down there, young and old.
The women laugh and gossip, the men swap their stories—how many of them know that this is a trap? That their lives are on the table, right alongside the champagne and finger food.
My eyes drift upwards, toward the balcony that encircles the room. Dark figures loom just out of sight. My heart pounds in my ears.
James and I descend the stairs.
People turn to stare. The dancing stops. An enthusiastic applause swells, welcoming me back into the family. I am on the verge of weeping, James’ iron-clad grip giving me just enough pain to keep the tears from falling. I force myself to smile through it, the pain drawing my lips into a tight grimace that is close enough to count.
We are caught in a rush of well-wishes and fond embraces.
James puts on a stunning show of being my bright-eyed husband-to-be, my solid rock. I keep looking into the shadows, into the corners of the room. Every dark, out-of-focus silhouette catches my attention, draws my eye.
I tell myself he won’t come, but I can’t really make myself believe it.
James leads us to a wide table, overlooking the dancing, where we sit like a king and queen presiding over court. He tries to take my hand, but I snatch it away from him, refusing to give him the satisfaction. He still sits too close, his leg touching mine, his arm over the back of my chair. My anger burns in the places he touches me, so hot it feels like a physical reaction, as if I am now allergic to the affection of other men. Every point of contact seethes with a single reaction:
I am not yours to touch.
I resist the urge to scoot away.
“Look happier,” he complains out of the corner of his mouth. “You can sulk for the rest of your life if you want, but for tonight, you might as well look happy.”
My expression shifts from unhappy to murderous, but the moment is broken by Dr. Armata. My expression doesn’t change at the sight of him.
“Miss Lovera,” he says, extending his weathered hand. I don’t shake it.
“Your father asked me to deliver this on his behalf.” He takes something from his pocket and slides it to me, face down. It’s a business card. The cursive script advertises a Dr. Steward, some kind of surgeon in Manhattan. I’ve never heard of him.
