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My spine goes stiff. Lev is taking me to Bellomo’s?
As in my father’s best friend’s restaurant, where my family has eaten every Sunday for years, surrounded by all my father’s friends?
God, what a bastard. This will be another display of my father’s defeat. Just like the wedding.
I stare at Zoya. Chances are she has no idea what going to Bellomo’s will mean for me, but I doubt she’d care.
“Thank you,” I mumble, trying to tamp down my rage.
“Is there anything I can get you before I take my leave?”
I shake my head and she leaves.
I place a hand over my heart, feeling that heaviness again.
I don’t think I’m going to feel anything other than that here. There is no solace for me.
How can there be when I married the devil?
Chapter
Twelve
Allegra
Iarrive at Bellomo’s at eight p.m. sharp in Lev’s black Maybach.
When we park, Roman gets out and opens the rear door for me. He extends a hand to help me out. I take it and step out of the car.
My skin is already covered in a million goose bumps, and my heart has been running its own marathon since we turned the corner. It’s anyone’s guess what state I’ll be in by the end of the night.
I called my mother last night to let her know we’d be dining here, just in case she or Papa decided to show up. Mama appreciated the call.
As much as I would love to see her, having her here tonight would have been awkward. I’m sure Lev would have done or said something to embarrass my parents.
Since my calls are being monitored, I have no doubt he’s aware I gave them a heads-up. In fact, I think he was counting on it.
Tonight isn’t about humiliating my father to his face. It’s about doing it behind his back, where the damage can spread before he has a chance to contain it. People in my father’s circle are already talking. Tonight gives them something more to gossip about.
Roman quietly escorts me toward the entrance. I’ve always loved Bellomo’s for its old-world Sicilian style. It’s tucked away on a quiet Upper East Side street, but it has been there long enough to become a New York institution.
I gaze at the familiar exterior and catch my hazy reflection in the windows.
I’m already gearing up for people’s reactions. The last time I saw most of them, I was dressed for either my engagement party or my wedding. Now I’m here dressed in a long black gown, and I look like I’m attending a funeral.
When we walk inside, Sebastiano Mancuso, the restaurant’s owner, smiles at me warmly from the front desk. He’s known me all my life.
“Gabrielle, it’s a pleasure. Er, em—” He catches himself. “I beg your pardon. Mrs. Karsavin.”
He gives me an apologetic smile and extends his hand to shake mine.
“It’s wonderful to see you, too, Sebastiano,” I reply, bypassing his outstretched hand to give him a hug. I don’t care who’s watching. I’ve been greeting him the same way since before I learned to walk. He’s like family to me. I have fond memories of him telling me stories about his great-grandfather Bellomo and how he opened the restaurant after World War II. There’s no way I’m greeting him with a handshake.
Though he looks uncomfortable, especially when he glances at Roman, he smiles back at me nervously. “I will show you to your table. Your husband is already here.”
My husband. God in heaven, I feel like I stepped out of the wrong door and ended up in the back end of the Twilight Zone. “Thank you.”
He leads the way.
