Chapter 46
Layla
“A ball?” I stared down at the cream cardstock invitation, the curling gold script declaring that I, Layla Bennett, had been invited to a goddamned ball. How cool would this have been, if I was seven?
“You should go.” Aldo hovered in the doorway to the guesthouse kitchen, arms crossed and a shoulder propped against the doorframe. Casual. Almost friendly.
Were we friends?
“Why?” I half-turned towards him. “So I can play dress-up and pretend like I belong in this world?”
A smile flickered at the corner of Aldo’s mouth. “Maybe.”
“What’s that look for?” I narrowed my eyes at him. He was up to something, but I couldn’t read him well enough to know what.
He turned back to all through the doorway. “You ready, El?”
“Yes!” Eli whizzed into the kitchen on socked feet, his smile reaching from ear to ear. To say he buzzed with excitement would’ve been an understatement; he vibrated with it.
In his hands was a giant, gift-wrapped box.
My gaze bounced from Eli to Aldo, still narrowed with suspicion. “What’s this?”
“Open it!” Eli nearly yelled, so I lifted the box out of his hands. Set it on the kitchen counter, and slowly tore back the paper.
When I lifted the lid of the box, shimmering blue fabric pooled in the tissue paper beneath. My breath caught. Because I knew, knew even before I lifted the cloth to tumble from the box—
“The dress.” My voice came out choked, strangled. “How … why … how?”
“Do you like it?” Eli beamed, his entire face shining with pride and expectation. “I’ve been working in the garage. Every day! Washing cars, I changed the oil on Carlo’s car. And I helped with the lawn mowing …”
My eyes found Aldo’s over the top of Eli’s head. You shouldn't have, I started to say, but I couldn’t find the words. Because he hadn’t just rushed out to buy me a dress with his millions of spare dollars.
He’d helped Eli find a way to do it instead.
“Thank you,” I whispered, blinking hard against the moisture in my eyes. I folded to my knees to wrap Eli in a hug, but my gaze lifted to Aldo when I repeated the words. “Thank you.”
“So, you’ll go?” Eli wriggled in my embrace, far too excited for sitting still. “You really should go to the ball, Mommy!”
I laughed through my tears, and I nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll go.”
A week later, I stood in front of the full-length mirror of my bedroom, trying to decide if I liked what I saw, or I hated it.
The woman behind the glass was undeniably breathtaking. The dress clung perfectly to my every curve, accenting all the right ones. The low neckline and slanted sleeves highlighted my throat and collarbones.
Melissa had even done up my hair.
But the sight of that woman made my throat too tight, choking. Because she looked like another woman I’d watched behind the glass eight years ago. A woman I’d believed strong enough and good enough to be the wife of Vasco Marcello.
How wrong I’d been.
How hopeful, how in love, how excited for the future. I hadn’t for even a moment thought anything could shatter our happiness—let alone that it would be Vasco himself.
A sharp pang of pain shot through my chest, and I turned away from the mirror. This was almost certainly a mistake.
But what else could I do?
Just like I had that fateful day eight years ago, I left the mirror behind and walked out to face the music and the crowd.
Unlike that day, this one contained almost no familiar faces.
Light flooded the Marcello estate. Music poured from the cracks, filling the grounds with soft jazz and turning the gardens and sapling trees to silver and silhouette.
Would’ve been quite beautiful, if I hadn’t felt like a dolled-up pig walking to the slaughterhouse.
I checked my attitude at the door, where a man in a pristine tuxedo took my invitation and ushered me into the grand foyer. Which, naturally, was decked in hundreds of mood candles.
More candles and staff bearing trays of champagne flutes led the way through the hallways and into the rear ballroom. Chandeliers glittered overhead, casting a golden glow over the polished hardwoods and the crepe curtains shrouding the full-length windows.
The floor was almost entirely filled with guests dressed to make my new attire feel shabby.
I lingered along the fringes of the room, tongue-tied, overwhelmed, and outclassed. How long was I supposed to stay here? Maybe I could walk around, nod and smile, and be on my way?
“You look beautiful.” Aldo’s voice preceded the man to my side. If I looked beautiful, he was utterly ravishing in a sleek black tux that accented his mouthwatering figure.
Not that I noticed.
“Thank you,” I said, adding a stiff smile along with the stiff words.
“Eli can certainly pick out a dress.”
That softened my smile up a bit. “I’m surprised he remembered my size.”
“Um.” Aldo winced. “It’s possible there was a bit of closet sneaking on his part …”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Kid’s resourceful.”
“Like his mom,” Aldo agreed, his own smile softening like butter, bright as sunshine. “And he’s smart. Also like his mom.”
“Ah, a different tact for flattery.”
“Is it working?” Aldo asked, all innocence. I almost laughed at the playful banter—but something caught my eye across the room.
I sobered instantly. Not something. Someone. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Marco Ricci—nope, Moretti—stood near the edge, his dark suit tailored to perfection, his sharp features highlighted by the glow of the chandeliers. Without warning, he turned.
Our eyes met.
A shiver crawled down my spine.
“Aldo,” I said through gritted teeth. “Why is he here?”
“Don’t let him rattle you,” Aldo murmured, his voice steady. He leaned almost imperceptibly closer, like he was trying to offer the comfort of his presence.
“I’m not rattled.” I took half a step backwards. “Why is he here?”
Aldo sighed and shifted backwards half a step as well. “Because that’s the reason for this ball. The truce between the Moretti and Marcello families.”
I gritted my teeth. I’d heard about that truce, of course, but I hadn’t connected the dots between the truce and the ball. Or if I had, I hadn’t realized the implications.
That he would be here.
That I’d have to see him and—my heart threw itself against my ribcage in a wild frenzy of beats as Marco stepped off the wall, his gaze still locked on me—talk to him.
“Do you want me to stay or go?” Aldo murmured, his eyes locked on Marco as the man wove effortlessly through the crowd.
Before I could decide, the man himself appeared before us. “Layla. I was hoping you might be here.”
The way the smile unfolded over his face, God, I almost believed it. Almost remembered him as Dr. Marco of the hospital, one of the most kind and generous people I’d ever met. A ready smile, an easy laugh, always eager to help a friend—
Such depth to his lies!
“I wish I hadn’t come,” I replied, my voice dry.
Marco laughed, transforming, once again, to Dr. Marco. “Balls like this are the most pretentious displays of wealth and bullshitting.”
Beside me, Aldo coughed. “Is that wise to say in front of the host?”
“Probably not,” Marco leveled his grin towards Aldo, easy as anything even as Aldo bristled. “But do you disagree?”
I almost laughed. Almost. It was kind of fun to see Marco pushing Aldo’s buttons in such an innocent way, especially when I knew—
“No,” Aldo admitted. “I loathe these events.”
And for one strange, otherworldly instant, the three of us were joined by one shared opinion.
Then, Marco smiled at me and inclined his head in a soft bow. “Would you care to dance, Layla? Helps the time go faster. And you don’t have to talk to anyone with a stick up their ass.”
He really could be entertaining. I was almost tempted—
“She’s here as my guest, Marco,” Aldo said, dashing any amity between them in a handful of words. “If anyone should dance with her, it’s me.”
I groaned. Out loud. Loudly. “You two cannot be serious.”
Marco blinked innocently back at me. Aldo glowered, his eyes never leaving Marco. And they both stood there and waited for me to choose.
So, I laughed. “You really think I have to choose either of you?
That seemed to throw them for a loop. Victory welling in my chest, I turned on my heel and walked away. Leaving them to squabble like children on the playground.
