Page 11 of Satin Empire

We chat a while longer and watch some TV when I hear my name called upstairs. It’s Mom summoning me, which is never a good sign. I hurry upstairs, heart racing, afraid that someone really did spot my impromptu strip show, and now I’m going to be put down like a rabid raccoon.

“I have wonderful news,” Mom says, beaming as she fusses around the kitchen, pouring two glasses of wine. Now that I’m twenty-one, she likes to pretend we’re Real Housewives or some shit.

Mom’s only thirty-six. She had me when she was fifteen, which is why Gran was such a big part of my early life. I have to keep reminding myself that Mom was a little kid when I was born—younger than I am now by six freaking years—and she did her best trying to raise me. Her best was fine, but I love Mom endlessly for what she did and how hard she worked all those years. She missed out on a lot, and I think she’s making up for it now—while also secretly terrified that if she fucks up our current situation, we’ll go back to living in poverty. But she won’t be young enough to strip anymore.

She’s still gorgeous though. Mom keeps it tight. She doesn’t work, which means the gym is her job—all part of keeping Orsino happy. Blonde hair, trendy fitness clothes, everything tight and in place. A full-on blowout every day, and never a moment without makeup. It must be exhausting.

“What’s the big news?” I ask, not touching my glass.

“You have a little meet-and-greet coming up.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Are you excited?”

I don’t react. “Meet-and-greet… for what?”

“Duh, come on. Meet-and-greet for your future freaking husband, obviously. Orsino just told me. Carlo’s family called and set it up. They think it’s time the two of you got to know each other better. You know, since the wedding’s coming up.”

My stomach feels sick. It bottoms out and I wonder if I might puke. To cover it up, I grab the wine and take a few quick gulps. Mom’s got a smile plastered on her face, but she knows how much I don’t want this, only she’s never going to admit it out loud.

“When?” I ask, and it sounds like I’m wondering when the hangman is going to lengthen my spine.

“Tomorrow night. Oh, don’t give me that look, it’ll be fantastic. I’ll get you all dressed up and looking cute. Don’t worry, honey, you’re so pretty, Carlo’s going to be really happy.”

Yeah, really happy. Except Mom doesn’t know my future husband already got a really good glimpse of his future wife last night.

“Great. Sure. It’ll be great.” I try to smile, but it feels like I’m grinning while stabbing bunnies, and I stop.

Mom drinks a little, comes around the island, and gives me a big hug. “I know, Jelly girl,” she whispers, squeezing. I hate that nickname. And I also love it. When I was little, the only treat Mom could afford was these enormous bargain bags of jelly beans because our neighbor worked for the manufacturer and got them in bulk, and I ate the shit out of those things. I was basically obsessed. Thus, Jelly. Not super clever, but whatever, it’s ours.

“Your Gran would’ve been so proud,” Mom says, wiping a tear from her eye, and I’m pretty sure that’s fake.

Because no, Gran would not have been proud. Gran would have hated this so much. She gave me everything, sacrificed her retirement for me and Mom, and all she wanted for us was stability. Not whatever this is.

But I can’t say that. Mom has her own guilt and trauma to deal with. Instead, I give her a quick hug, and hurry back to the basement.

“How’d that go?” Noah asks, not looking up from a Vanderpump Rules rerun.

“I’m officially meeting Carlo tomorrow.”

Noah’s eyebrows shoot up and he looks at me. “Seriously? That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence at all,” I say, pulling my knees to my chest.

Because I think Carlo isn’t done with our conversation from last night, and I really don’t want to hear what he has to say.

Chapter 6

Alana

I fend off Mom’s beautification assault and stick to the simple knee-length floral dress I picked out. It’s a modest neckline, doesn’t cling too tightly to my body, and it’s just formal enough that I can get away with wearing it practically anywhere.

It also helps that there’s nothing revealing about it, and I don’t have to deal with Carlo’s eyes straying down below my neckline.

We’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.

Mom and I ride with Orsino. He sits up front with his long-time bodyguard, a heavyset man named Sal. My stepfather pretends like we don’t exist, talking shop with Sal as we move through traffic and end up at a little Italian place down in South Philly. It’s deep in Rossi territory, and I notice more than a few intimidating-looking guys in dark suits loitering around the storefront.

“Security’s tight,” Orsino comments before he gets out. He cranes to look back at me for the first time. My stepfather’s got dark hair, dark eyes, and a hooked nose. He looks like a hungry vulture, bored and searching for prey. “You will not embarrass me tonight. Do you understand?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell him, which we both know is far from true. Except despite how mouthy I am, I know better than to test the boundaries, because even if he doesn’t punish me, he’ll definitely take it out on Mom.

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