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I give the packed ballroom a big grin, swallow, and sweep the room with my gaze, appearing to be looking at people without actually doing so, lest I lose my dinner.
“Thank you. I don’t want to give an Oscars speech, but doors were opened for me that were closed to women before—and to some men, too. I’m both grateful and proud, on behalf of this great city. May justice reign, and may our monuments to greed and prejudice and lawlessness that masquerade as ‘just the system’ topple. I will push them over.” I pause—for exactly three Mississippis, then give a slight nod. “Thank you.”
The room erupts in a thunder of applause so loud it hurts my ears. And then people start to stand. The thunder becomes a roar. Someone whistles, and my eyes well. I’m about to lose it on stage.
I search the jam-packed ballroom for the infamous “one person” coaches tell you to lock onto and find a man at dead center. I can’t see his face or even much about his body for the bright lights in my eyes—just his head and shoulders a notch above the crowd.
There are more whistles, and then people in the bleachers start to stomp their metal footrests. “O-Hara! O-Hara! O-Hara…”
Mira, my girl operating the stage lights, must have E.S.P. Just as I start to drop some real tears, the spotlights leap off the stage and into the crowd. Back left corner…back right corner, front right, sweeping. I see so much blue and purple—campaign colors. My campaign colors.
I try to swallow, lock my eyes back on the guy as Mira beams him briefly. Man, she’s got a window into my mind. The spotlight zigs and zags and passes over him again—like the flickering of a film reel. Then, for one long second, it just rests. And my knees nearly buckle.
It…it can’t be.
But I think…I’m pretty sure…
That’s him.
He’s grinning with his head tipped back, arms out as he claps with such gusto, you’d think he just won D.A.
Another swirl of bright light near him, and the walls tighten around me.
Sweat pops out along my hairline as I tear my gaze away. It snaps back to him just like a magnet. I…don’t understand. My body flushes like I’m breaking a fever as the applause finally dies down.
Ree’s eyes catch mine. Now the light is back on us. The ceiling’s recessed lights brighten a notch. This is my cue to step back for Ree. She steps to the podium. My gaze boomerangs to that spot in the center of the crowd.
It’s Luca.
Now he’s fully visible. His shoulders look so broad. He’s wearing a dark suit. Something knots low in my belly, making my legs feel unsteady.
Why is he here? Why is he here?
He rubs a hand over his dark hair. He’s still as he listens to Ree. He’s just a dot, but he’s a larger one. I guess he’s on the…twelfth, eleventh row?
Silence, clapping…and the knot down in my belly tightens as Ree hands the mic to me and I resume my role, keeping my voice steady because it’s my job and I’m good at my job, dammit.
My body feels like wobbly Jell-O. I can’t breathe right. The lights brighten another notch as the departure music starts. I can feel excitement and momentum, all of it aimed toward me. This is it, the night I’ve worked toward for ten years. Things are moving too fast, my circle crowding around me, grinning, hugging. I grin back.
Words are spoken, information conveyed. I give hugs and thank the dozen people waiting in the wings. My heart beats heavy. I won’t go back to the podium, claiming I left something. We move off the stage as one big, happy group, and in the large green room, where I give another smiley speech.
But I can’t tear my mind away from grown-up Luca at my victory rally.
He’s my past—which I’ve done everything I can to hide. He’s my distraction and my dismay. He’s my job now.
If I’m the newly minted queen of law and order, Luca is the dark lord of the underworld. The second that I’m coronated, our kingdoms are officially at war.* * *“Those are some cojones.” Ree is shaking her head, looking mildly impressed even as she’s frowning out the window of our black car, no doubt silently critiquing the poor driver. “If I had balls that big…” She shakes her head again. “I’d have some big balls.”
I can’t help a laugh-snort. “Um, you do have balls that big.”
She smushes her boobs together, making me laugh.
“Breasts,” she says in a TV commercial tone. “The better balls.”
I glance down at my own, hidden behind a chaste white silk blouse, which is covered by one of my trusty pantsuits. I went emerald green today, because I’m the D.A.-elect, dammit.
“You have the best rack,” she says, looking wistfully at my B-cup chest. “Also, what the fuck from him! I didn’t see him till the two of them were sneaking out that side door. I wasn’t sure if it was him. I haven’t seen him since the East River Bridge.”
