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I nod in agreement, hoping my awe at the splendor surrounding us isn't too obvious. Her refined accent and the way she carries herself finally trigger my memory.
"Forgive me, but are you Francesca Howard, the soprano?" I ask.
Ms. Howard's painted lips curve into a pleased smile. She's clearly accustomed to being recognized.
"I knew you looked familiar," I say eagerly. "I'm such a huge fan. Your performance as Tosca last season was utterly breathtaking. The way you embodied her passion, her devastation...it brought me to tears."
"How kind of you to say. Puccini holds a special place in my repertoire." Ms. Howard says, touched. "Tell me, do you attend the Met often?"
"I wish I could," I confess ruefully. "As a student, my budget only allowed for the occasional ticket. But our musicology professor got us seats in the front orchestra for Tosca. It was the most magnificent production I've ever seen."
Ms. Howard's eyes light up. "We must make sure your generation keeps these arts alive. Promise me you'll never lose your passion for music's capacity to transport the spirit." She grasps my hands, her grip surprisingly strong.
"I won't, Ms. Howard," I promise sincerely.
Emboldened by my encounter with Ms. Howard, I meander through the elite guests, sampling hors d'œuvres and sipping champagne. I close my eyes in pleasure as the briny oyster chased with crisp bubbles bursts across my tongue. When I open them, I notice I'm standing on the fringe of a circle surrounding Leo Fenton, the eccentric modern artist renowned for his provocative found-object sculptures.
A middle-aged socialite in a bejeweled turquoise gown is gushing over Fenton's latest exhibition. "The use of industrial materials - so raw, so innovative," she coos. "The rusted metal and broken glass symbolize urban decay and the plight of the working class so profoundly."
The simplistic interpretation makes me wince internally. Unable to help myself, I interject. "If I may offer a differing perspective," I say delicately. "I interpreted the materials quite differently. The shards of glass refracting light reminded me of the fragmentation of identity in an increasingly disconnected modern world. While the twisted scrap metal forms symbolized the distortion of moral certitude in the face of crooked institutions."
Mr. Fenton turns to me, bushy silver eyebrows raised in interest. "Very perceptive insights, young lady. You clearly have an eye for nuance and metaphor. What did you make of the inverted shopping cart sculptures?"
We launch into an invigorating discussion about consumerism and the cruelties of unchecked capitalism. Mr. Fenton seems delighted by my thoughtful perspectives on his work.
"You have quite a discerning eye," he praises. "You simply must visit my studio sometime."
I thank him earnestly, thrilled at the opportunity.
Before I can slip away, Vittorio Ricci himself cuts through the crowd with intent, parting the sea of guests effortlessly. Antonio's imposing father cuts an elegant figure in his tailored tuxedo. When his flinty eyes land on me, he offers an approving nod.
"You look lovely tonight, Miss Thomas," he says formally, taking my hand and brushing a polite kiss atop it. His lips barely graze my skin before releasing me. "I hope you enjoy yourself this evening. I see you and my wife have become fast friends."
With that, he moves off to greet the next set of arriving guests. I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I was holding, grateful for Vittorio's brevity. Even the lightest touch from the ruthless mafia Don makes me uneasy. But his manners help steady my nerves among the sharks in this lavish ballroom.
I scan the ever-growing crowd, though there's only one face I'm really searching for - Antonio. We haven't spoken all day, not since our tense parting yesterday. My feelings for him shift hourly between disbelief, anger, and begrudging attraction. Our eyes catch from across the glittering ballroom and the chatter seems to fade away, leaving only the two of us suspended in this moment.
Before I can go to him, a tall figure blocks my view. I blink, looking up into the scowling face of a stranger. He's gangly, with slicked-back black hair and a beakish nose. His severe tuxedo does nothing to soften the predatory glint in his dark eyes as they rake over me.
"So you're the little mouse Antonio's taken in," the man sneers, thin lips curling in distaste. "How exciting for you, playing housemaid for the Riccis. Though I suppose it's the best a soon-to-be orphan like you could hope for."
I stiffen, outrage flaring inside me, but uncertainty roots me in place. I don't know who this crude man is or what he wants.
Sensing my unease, he steps closer, using his height to loom over me. "Let me give you some advice, little bird," he hisses under his breath. "Don't get too comfortable spreading your legs for Antonio. He'll tire of his new toy soon enough. You don't belong in this world."
Fury burns through me at the vile insinuations. But before I can spit back a retort, Antonio is there, interposing his imposing frame between me and this odious stranger. Without hesitation, Antonio draws back and lands a brutal punch squarely across the man's nose. There's a sickening crunch, and he stumbles back with a choked cry, clapping both hands to his gushing nose.
The conversation and music stop abruptly as heads turn our way. Antonio stands over the man, broad shoulders heaving, radiating menace. When he speaks, his voice is lethally soft.
"If you ever speak about Miss Thomas in such a disgraceful manner again, Emilio, I'll cut out your tongue myself."
A chilled hush falls over the ornate ballroom. Shock ripples through me at Antonio's explosive reaction, though a small, dark part of me thrills at his protectiveness.
The man - Emilio - glares up at Antonio through watering eyes, mopping blood from his mangled nose with a napkin. "You've made a dire mistake, cousin," he hisses thickly. "Our family won't abide this insult from you."
With as much dignity as he can muster, Emilio pushes past Antonio and stalks away. Antonio's jaw is granite, shoulders rigid as he watches him depart. After a long tense moment, Vittorio Ricci strides over to address the crowd, clearing his throat loudly.
"Please accept my apologies for that unpleasantness," he announces smoothly. "Nothing more than a disagreement between family. But boys will be boys. Let us continue enjoying ourselves, shall we?"
