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That party might be happening upstairs in the hotel bar. But not down here.
Undoubtedly, we’re in the most powerful part of the New York’s underbelly, and I’m sitting next to a man who makes the men with tattooed knuckles, men with missing pinkies, men with teardrop tattoos, as well as men with ivy-league school rings all wish they’d never come here.
My internal alarms are so loud that ringing develops in my ears. In way over my head. I’m removed so far from normal life that I feel like I’m in a different world. Maybe I am.
When the iced tea comes, I grip the glass and stare at it, allowing the coolness from the ice to seep through my skin and ground me. Corrado places his hand over mine, and I look up. He regards me with an encouraging smile and squeezes my hand before rising. I rise with him, and when he smiles, I follow suit even though I feel as if I might throw up with how many people are staring at us.
“Franko,” he says, his voice pitched loud enough to stop the birthday girl in the red gown just as she comes to speak with the man, who I presume is Franko. She shoots Corrado a death stare. He glares back, ignoring her, his attention on the man she wanted to speak with.
Franko and the girl approach us, both wearing displeased grimaces. I can see they’re related. Same large brown eyes, distinctively straight large noses, and straight, jet-black hair. I recall our conversation in the car when Corrado said I could help him with a certain man wanting Corrado to be with his niece. This must be the pair he was referring to. I brace for an unpleasant conversation.
“Corrado,” Franko says. “We’re so happy you could come.”
“Yes,” Corrado says. “You look thrilled. Isabella,” he says. The girl’s eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles, though not for long, because Corrado takes my hand and pulls me in closer to him. He throws an arm around my shoulders and says, “It’s a pleasure to introduce you both to Michela. My wife.”
Oh my God!
6
PLAY ALONG
MICHELA
The bug-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look on their faces tells me I heard Corrado correctly. He said my wife.
The ringing in my ears intensifies. Are the walls tilting toward me? My feet aren’t quite on the ground, are they? Corrado planned this and predicted my reaction, which is feeling nauseous and faint, so he’s holding me up with his arm around my shoulder.
People at the table are smiling, but it all appears more like a show of teeth than genuine smiles. Franko Monelli blinks and looks away while his niece, Isabella, looks like she might cry.
Corrado picks up his drink and sips it, then stands there waiting for our collective shock to wear off.
Mine surely won’t, and neither will Isabella’s. She saves me by storming off.
Franko dips his head, his eyes locked with Corrado’s. “Congratulations.”
Corrado snorts. “Get out of my sight.”
“It’s my niece’s party.”
Corrado slaps him. Franko’s head turns, and Corrado slaps him again. It’s more humiliating than if he shot him with that golden gun. Gasps sound, and when Corrado raises his hand to slap him again, I grab the arm that’s around my shoulders and turn my face toward him. I rise onto my toes. “Please,” I whisper. “Let’s sit down.”
Corrado’s jaw works, and he jerks his head toward the door. “Get out.”
Franko simply nods and, without preamble, walks toward an older woman dressed in a white suit who waits for him by the door. The moment they leave, Corrado sits down, takes my red napkin, and unfurls it. He looks up at me, then down at the chair, signaling for me to sit as well.
I glance at the door, wondering if I’m fast enough to make it out. I might be, but something about this man tells me he’d let me think I got away only to corner me later. What did I get myself into when I agreed to his deal?
“Have a seat, Michela,” he says firmly.
Dutifully, I do as he says, and he arranges the napkin on my lap. “You’re doing great. Keep it up.” He pecks my cheek and says at my ear, “I saw the way you looked at the door. Are you thinking about running?”
I shake my head.
He pinches my earlobe between his teeth, and I shiver while something dreadfully embarrassing stirs in my lower belly. It’s arousal.
“If you run, I won’t chase you.”
“You won’t?”
