style. Dominic, well, as much as he’ll complain about having to get dressed up, he’s gone all out. I watch him draw the elaborate gold skull mask down over his face, the wide grin so appropriate.
“I don’t know how you’re going to get any girls with that thing. You’ll scare them half to death.”
“You’d be surprised, Brother.”
But all joking is set aside as we climb out of the Bugatti and he hands the keys to the waiting valet.
Dominic gives me a glance. He’s noting each of the other families in attendance of this masquerade ball too. I wonder if the masquerade was Tinsley’s idea. A young woman’s fantasy when they still believe they’re the princess and their white knight is around the corner, just galloping along on his horse to rescue her from her boring life.
It won’t be too long now that she figures out there’s no such thing as a white knight.
“You should have worn a full-face mask,” Dominic says to me, patting me on the back. “That thing isn’t doing anything to hide your resting dick face.”
I flip him off and pull my mask down but think maybe he’s right.
I take it all in; the costumes ranging from the over-the-top outrageous to the minimal and everything in between, and the place lit up like we’re entering another world. The front doors stand open, and I hear the sound of a Soprano singing something unrecognizable but pretty. Mom would have liked that, I think.
I look up to the second floor of the mansion and take stock of the security guards among the couples admiring the view of the vast and, I have to admit, impressive gardens. Judging by my count, Constantine isn’t taking any chances.
We pass a group of women, and my brother gives them a sly grin. They’re attractive, I’ll give them that. Not my type though.
Not that it matters what my type is. My princess has been locked away in her tower for four years now. Just one more to go before I ride up and claim her.
Except that I’m not the white knight of her story.
I’m her monster.
“Maybe this party won’t prove to be such a bore after all,” Dominic says before we’ve even made it to the ballroom. He breaks off toward the women, choosing the most attractive one—obviously—and sweeping two flutes of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray on his way.
The inside of this place is a tribute to opulence and excess. It’s beautifully done, I have to say. It’s funny, when you grow up with money, you can always spot those who didn’t, no matter their status in life now. There’s a greediness about them. Something in their eyes as they ogle everything in sight. It’s about old money vs. new money and has nothing to do with how that money was acquired.
I don’t miss the eyes that follow me or the whispers in my wake as I head through the throngs of masked men and women toward the bar at the other end of the room where I hope to drink myself to oblivion before boredom kills me.
2
Lucia
I quietly slip into the bedroom and lock the door behind me, my heart beating fast at the excitement of it. Which, when I think about it, is a little pathetic. But I need a few minutes alone. After four years locked away at that nun’s school, I admit, tonight is a little overwhelming.
Not that anyone here knows who I am. I wonder even if they saw my face if they’d recognize me. Remember me. Most likely they’ve forgotten that I ever existed at all.
I was the story four years ago when the war between my family and the Benedetti family was won and not by us. The same year that twisted contract was signed, and my fate sealed.
Which is why I’m still pinching myself that I made it tonight. The nuns keep a close eye on me. They don’t want to take a chance that I’ll slip away because even they, in all their holy bullshit, know the Benedettis wouldn’t care one way or the other that they’re devoted servants of God if they lost me.
But what servant of God does the bidding of the freaking mafia, anyway?
I pick up the half-full bottle of champagne I snagged and drink straight from it. I try to remind myself of this when I feel divided about what I’m going to do tonight, because if I succeed, they will definitely face Franco Benedetti’s wrath. It’s not like