Crossing Stars Page 12

  I chuckled the rest of the way to the last empty table. Of course the only people on the dance floor were a few older couples dancing like every joint in their bodies ached and the people who had clearly passed their lowered-inhibitions level by five drinks. One girl, who’d maybe gone over by eight drinks instead of five, was dancing like she was working a stage naked instead of backed by an orchestra playing Beethoven’s something. Even Luca nearly cracked a smile when she wrapped her arms around her head and hip-thrusted her way toward the conductor.

  “Take a bite of corn dog while watching that, and you’ll be in heaven,” I said as I spread a packet of ketchup on my own corn dog.

  Despite knowing most of these families had been elevated to power because of spilled blood, I’d always managed to look past that at the White Party. Mainly because it was one of the few times I got to experience life at its pinnacle. People acting like everyone loved everyone else, laughter cutting through the crowd as richly as the scents of food, the dancing that ranged from formal to strip-club . . . all of it reminded me that life wasn’t always a sentence. Sometimes, on certain nights, it was a party. For a girl who’d grown up hearing about parties or watching them in movies, living a party was the highlight of her year.

  Tonight was no exception . . . although it had less to do with the party itself and more to do with who I’d spent part of it with.

  “So? What do you think?” I asked after Luca took his first hesitant bite.

  Even eating a hot dog on a stick, the man looked like he was scanning the crowd for potential threats, ready to draw his gun in half a heartbeat. “It tastes like roadkill that’s been roasting in the sun for a week was stuffed inside an old tube sock and stuck in a fryer filled with puss.” Making a face, he tossed his corn dog aside.

  I blinked at him. “I think that’s the longest sentence I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “That’s how strongly I feel about this sorry excuse for food. Give me meatballs, give me pasta, but don’t ever give me that again.”

  To keep myself from laughing, I stuffed my own corn dog back into my mouth and tore off a bite. And just like that, the mood changed from light to dark. A chill ran up my spine right before a body angled itself beside me. Luca didn’t draw his gun, but from the look on his face, he wanted to.

  “Watching you eat that makes me think dirty things.” That was the greeting Constantine went with.

  My appetite was lost in the span of a few words. If the engagement period was about wooing, I didn’t want to think about what life would be like after the wedding. Dropping my half-eaten corn dog into the cardboard box, I kept myself from squirming. “Knowing you were watching me eat this makes me feel dirty too.”

  Luca rose slowly. Luca was a bull compared to Constantine, who was lithe like a fox and every bit as cunning. “That’s no way to speak to a woman, least of all the one you intend to marry.” Luca sounded every bit as stern as he looked.

  “And who might you be to tell me so?” Constantine was every bit as calm as Luca was upset.

  “Miss Costa’s personal guard.”

  I found it odd that Luca replied with his title as opposed to his name, but I supposed that was the way he saw it. He was my guard first, and Luca second.

  “Well I can tell you right now you won’t be the future Mrs. Lombarti’s personal guard. I like my hired muscle to take orders, bullets, and lives. I don’t expect anything else from them.”

  It was my turn to bolt out of my chair. Partly because I was outraged that Constantine stooped to that level of insult, and partly because I hoped that if I was between them, they wouldn’t progress from words to fists.

  Constantine’s eyes turned almost obsidian. “And the day I take orders, warnings, or suggestions from a target in a cheap suit is a day you won’t live to see, especially if you keep addressing me like that.”

  Luca stepped forward. “You might not take my warning to not say those kinds of things to Miss Costa, but something tells me you might if it comes from her father. Shall I go find him so we can get his opinion on the matter?”

  That made Constantine laugh like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “You do realize he chose me for his daughter for a reason, right? And it wasn’t because of my sweet disposition.”

  I spun on him, wishing I was in heels instead of flats so I could be at his eye level. “My father picked you because of your modern ideas and ways. Even though I won’t kid myself that your appeal was directly related to the mafia, it would be nice if it trickled down into the way you treat women.”

  “You are so passionate, yet so misguided.” Constantine clucked his tongue as he slipped a hand into his pocket. “Your father chose me for you because I know the old ways of making money are dead, and I have the outlets and knowledge of the new ways. I figured out that a man who worships you instead of fearing you is ten times as loyal. Your father thinks I’m modern because of the way I do business, and that I wear a closer-tailored suit than him, and I drive something foreign instead of domestic. Your father’s idea of modern does not translate into the way I’ll run my household or what I’ll expect of my wife . . . Her watching her mouth and following orders are at the top of those expectations.”

  My fists balled at my sides. The adrenaline was so thick in my bloodstream I could almost taste it. “You just said a person is ten times more loyal when they worship you than when they fear you, but from the sounds of it, you intend to rule your wife and family with an iron fist. That sounds a lot like fear, and I’d say that’s more than just a bit of a contradiction.”

  Constantine smiled at me. Actually it was more of a grin. A condescending, infuriating grin I wanted to rip off his face. “I said a man. A man is ten times more loyal when they worship rather than fear their leader. A woman, though, is far more loyal when fear is keeping her in line.”

  I probably didn’t want to know, but I still asked, “Why?”

  Constantine stepped closer, that smile unfaltering. “Because a woman is weak.”

  When his hand lifted like he meant to strike, I withheld my flinch and stood my ground, fighting every urge to cower back into Luca. I lifted my shoulders and met his gaze. I didn’t back down. I may have wanted to, but I didn’t. A menacing glint flashed through Constantine’s eyes right before I felt the shock and sting of his hand slapping my cheek. My hand went to my face as I backed into Luca, who’d just shouted a warning. I wasn’t sure if I was retreating into him to keep him from charging Constantine or because I wanted his protection, but either way, I’d put as much distance between Constantine and myself as I could.

  “See?” Constantine held the palm he’d just slapped me with to his nose, closing his eyes in apparent ecstasy as he inhaled. “When you hit her, she falls back in line. If you praise her, you’ll make her think she deserves to be at the front of it.” When his eyes flashed open, he looked like a wild animal driven by instinct and the scent of blood. “Loyalty makes the world go round, and fear is the glue that holds it together.” As he turned to walk away, he added over his shoulder, “Save me a dance, my dearest love.”

  Goose bumps prickled down my arms when I realized the thing I was engaged to was more monster than man. I felt Luca move behind me and spun around to find him reaching for his holster.

  My hands covered his. “What are you doing?”

  “Shooting him in the back of the head,” Luca seethed, his jaw set. “He doesn’t deserve the decency of being shot from the front.”

  “Yeah, let’s save that plan for another day, cowboy.” I tried to ease the moment with sarcasm, but it was hard not to be serious. “A day when you won’t face a firing squad of five hundred men for killing their so-called future king.”

  “If I have to face a firing squad for putting down a rabid animal, then so be it.” Luca’s expression so closely mirrored Rylan’s the night he’d stood over me in that back alley.

  “Put away your gun,” I said with a dismissive wave. “Words are wind, forgotten the mome
nt after they’re spoken, but bullets are forever. Don’t let him get to you.”

  “Too late,” Luca muttered with one final glare at the back of Constantine’s head. His hand slid from his jacket, grasping nothing more dangerous than a phantom weapon.

  “Since you can’t shoot your anger away, why not dance it away?”

  I was acting like what had taken place was no big deal as much for my sake as his. Truthfully, what Constantine had just said and done had shaken me to the core. That a person could have risen to the heights he had with the assumptions and beliefs he ascribed to made the world out to be that much darker of a place. If the world was as shadowed as it seemed, what hope did two people like Rylan and myself have of making it? When I was with him, I felt a light, sparks, flames . . . all things that could be extinguished by a heavy blanket of darkness.

  If people like Constantine and my father rose in this world, how could a couple like Rylan and me stay standing? The probability of it was depressingly staggering.

  “I don’t dance when there’s music, and I really don’t dance on an empty dance floor with no music playing.” Luca collapsed back into his chair, the muscles of his neck close to popping through the skin.

  “They must be switching bands already.” I inspected the stage that had been emptied of tuxedo-wearing men and replaced with drums, guitars, and speakers almost as tall as I was.

  “Out with the old, in with the new,” Luca recited.

  Every year, the party was split between tradition and the future, between the old way and the new order. Every year, everyone was expected to dress formally at the start of the party, and about mid-way into it, most people changed into more casual—always white—clothes. We spent the rest of the night rocking out to whatever “it” band my father had commissioned. The night had started big bandstand and would end with some raging rockers. Ballroom for the older folks, and rock for the younger ones. Italian food and Chianti alongside funnel cakes and icy lemonade. An opera singer at one end of the garden, and a Tilt-a-Whirl at the other end. The White Party was a celebration the Costa family—both the old and emerging.

  Some years, it looked a bit like a bi-polar party planner had been at the wheel of the crazy ship, but most years, the two halves blended until it was hard to tell one from the other. At least until you bit into a piece of baklava that you’d thought was tiramisu. No amount of blending or blurring could fool an Italian into mistaking a Greek dessert for the zenith of Italian ones.

  As people rushed across the stage to get the next band ready, I eyed the two still-wrapped corn dogs . . . and realized I might never eat a corn dog again. Too bad I hadn’t been biting into a pickle. Pickles I could live without, but a life without another corn dog was a sad prospect.

  After scooting the tray aside, I settled for sipping on my iced tea and scanning the crowd. Ever so slowly, the couples around my father’s age made their way toward the exit, and a stream of younger people made their way toward the stage. I’d always been content to watch them from my perch at one of the tables. I’d been close enough to smell the scents, to feel the heat from their motions, to hear the sighs when someone kissed their neck or trailed their fingers down their back. I’d made detailed note of many caresses, but never experienced any before tonight.

  Every year before, I’d been happy to sit and watch, but this year . . . this year was different. No more watching from the outside when I could be living from the inside. Tonight I would dance. Tonight I would laugh. Tonight I would throw back my head and sing.

  The band members were just making their way on stage to the roar of crazed women when I noticed something from the corner of my eye. Standing way off to the side of the stage, just in front of a dogwood tree that was in full bloom, was Rylan. He was talking with a younger couple like if they hadn’t been friends already, they’d be friends from here on out. He’d lost the fitted white jacket, but his vest and tie were still in place. His hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, although it wasn’t quite long enough for it all to be tied back. Some of the front pieces swept forward, framing his face.

  My initial flutter of surprise passed quickly, replaced by a crippling dread that he was in the open, for anyone to see, snatch off to some dark corner, and put a bullet in his head. Or a vial of deadly poison in his veins, making him face a slow, grueling death.

  I took a moment to stop seeing him so subjectively and instead looked at him like everyone else was. To the couple he was talking to, he was just as Italian as I was. A brother in a family tied together by the blood of their enemies. To the waitress who’d just slipped up beside him to offer him champagne, he was another friend of the man who employed her. To the handful of girls standing at a not-so-careful distance, he was a potential future ex.

  Rylan blended in. I’d been so convinced he couldn’t because I knew who he was and what I felt for him, and I assumed those feelings would be transparent, written on our foreheads for everyone to read.

  When I managed to calm myself down enough that I didn’t feel like I was barely clinging to the edge of hyperventilation, I let myself look at him again. I didn’t want to betray him to anyone who might have been looking, but I couldn’t help smiling as I watched him, perfectly at ease, clink his glass with the couple’s glasses. He glanced at the hand the female rested on his arm like he wondered what it was doing there . . . watching him this way was nearly as intimate as what we’d shared in the mirror room.

  Then his eyes met mine—almost as if they’d been trained to find me. He knew where I was, exactly where I was seated, and just when I was looking at him. A small smile touched his lips as he raised his glass infinitesimally my direction. Iced tea seemed inappropriate to toast back with, but iced tea was all that I had. When I returned the infinitesimal toast, we sipped our drinks at the same time.

  That was when the first chord echoed across the grounds. I was up and gliding toward the dance floor before the second could be strummed, and Luca called for me to wait for him. Only because I still felt badly for taking five years off of his life with my short-lived runaway did I pause.

  “Ready to dance?” I asked him.

  His face screwed up as he surveyed the dance floor. “A man who is carrying two guns, a hundred rounds of ammo, three knives, a set of handcuffs, and a ring containing a suicide pill should not be dancing.”

  Men as a species were difficult to get on the dance floor, but Luca put new meaning to the concept. One look at him told me he’d rather get his back waxed than trudge toward the marble floor.

  “Why don’t you hang back? I’ll stay close so you can keep two close eyes on me, and you can save yourself some apparent torture.”

  He cocked his eyebrow. “You think, after what happened earlier, I’m letting you out of arm’s reach?”

  I gave him a suit-yourself shrug before continuing forward, trying and failing to keep my gaze from wandering back to the man still pretending he was interested in what the couple was talking about. He was doing a miserable job of pretending to ignore me. So much for not being obvious . . .

  Another glance back at Luca, however, revealed that he hadn’t noticed. Yet. He seemed scared to take his eyes off of me in case I bolted off again. Since Luca was with me, I dove right through the crowd, heading for the center of the party. Most everyone was dressed in tees and shorts or sundresses, but since I’d been a bit detained earlier, I was still wearing my long gown. After the third person stepped on my hem, I tied it up into a giant knot on one side.

  The song the band was playing was familiar, some hit I’d heard on the radio, but I couldn’t name the band or the song. Everyone seemed to love it, singing every word as if it were their own. Whoever they were, whatever the song, one thing couldn’t be mistaken—it was loud. So loud, my eardrums developed their own heartbeat . . . and it was pounding. The bass was so intense, I felt like a thousand pinballs were inside of me, bouncing from one bone to the next, shaking me to the core.

  “This is what people consider music
you can dance to?” Luca asked, shoving back a young guy who’d stumbled in my path.

  “I guess we’ll both find out,” I said, stopping when I felt like I’d made it to the center of the floor.

  Looking around, I found Rylan easily. He seemed closer, although the couple was still with him. I threw him a warning look before pointing at Luca. Rylan rolled his eyes like all I had beside me was a newborn lamb. A two-hundred-fifty-pound newborn lamb who believed in three things: protecting me, killing those who meant me harm, and the Holy Mother.

  Throwing my arms above my head, I swayed in place, hoping I didn’t look like a total idiot. When I glanced at Luca, I found him standing still, arms crossed, forehead creased. Against an ocean of swirling bodies, his lack of movement was especially funny. I turned away so he wouldn’t see my smile.

  I’d no more than spun around to find Rylan cutting through the crowd, coming my way. My grin stretched until I realized who was still camped out behind me like a grumpy statue. I shot Rylan a warning look before slicing my hand across my throat a few times, hoping he’d get the message. Whatever message he got, it kept him moving closer. From this proximity, with the lights flashing from the stage, Rylan’s eyes were almost glowing. He wasn’t going anywhere—except closer to me—so I’d have to get Luca to go somewhere.

  I turned to find Luca somehow even grouchier looking, only uncrossing his arms to shove away someone about to tumble into me. “Having fun yet?” I stole a look at Rylan. He was only ten yards away, but with all of the bodies congregated around the center of the dance floor, he was moving slower now.

  “Loads,” Luca said, folding his arms tighter.

  “Why don’t you go sit over there before your mood transfers to all of us? It’s a party. It wouldn’t hurt you to act like it’s one.”

  Luca studied an empty table at the edge of the dance floor . . . almost wistfully. “This isn’t a party. This is purgatory.”

  I groaned, shoved at his chest, and kept dancing. Or what I hoped was dancing. No one was pointing and laughing, so I must not have looked like the dancing monkey I felt like. “Go. That’s an order.”