Page 17 of What's Left of Us

“It’s only me,” I say, flashing him my best smile where he’s perched behind his desk, still in his pale green polo tee that Ibought him for Christmas and the designer khaki slacks that my stepmother found to match that he was in when he left for golf this morning.

He used to say my smile was my best feature, capable of making even my worst enemy like me. I always thought of it as a compliment until I was older and wondered why I’d have enemies to begin with. But he always said the same thing when I asked.“You’re a Del Rossi. And Del Rossis have far more enemies than we do friends. That’s the price of our last name.”

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” I apologize, stepping in and staying near the door. I do my best not to fidget with the hem of my dress like I normally do when I’m nervous. Millie said it was one of my tells when I had something on my mind.

“Georgia,” my father greets with a tip of his head, gesturing me forward. “We were just talking about you. You remember Antonio Carbone, don’t you?”

I turn to his companion and flash him the same smile I gave to my father. He’s far too dressed up for golf, which I thought was where my father had spent his day off. The graying man must be around my father’s age and looks familiar, but I can’t say I remember him. There are always people coming and going from the house thanks to Daddy’s booming construction business that’s expanded past the five boroughs and into New York City and Jersey, so it’s hard to keep track of them all.

“Hello, Mr. Carbone.”

Antonio’s eyes flash appreciatively as they rake down the front of me in a way that has hair standing on my arms. “You’ve certainly trained her well,” he muses, his eyes roaming over my chest in a way that makes my toes curl in my shoes uncomfortably. “I do agree, Nik. She’d certainly fit the part. If you’ve raised her as I’m sure you have, she’ll be as dutiful as Leani is with you.”

Confusion furrows my brows at the mention of my stepmother, but I don’t have time to ask him what he means when my father speaks. “Is there something we can help you with, Georgia?”

I shift on my feet, gathering my courage. “I was hoping we could talk about something. I wasn’t sure if your…friend was still here or not.”

Once upon a time, I’d gotten to sit with him while he smoked and talked to his friends and associates. But that was when I was eight and still wore pigtails in my chocolate hair that I got from my parents and hideous frilly dresses that my stepmother insisted on putting me in. That quickly changed when puberty hit, and curves took over the stick figure I’d been sporting since my girlhood.

Millie said my father’s protectiveness was inspired by the C-cups that grew on my chest overnight, and the feminine slopes of my hips that accompanied them. Gone were the days when I could mingle with the men who now looked at me like a prize to be won, and in its place were strict demands to stay in my room when I wasn’t helping Leani with whatever charity event she was hosting in the Del Rossi name. It was busy work that I rarely found fun, but it was better than sitting around bored to tears because I wasn’t allowed out with the friends I’d been able to spend time with when I still attended school at St. Mary’s.

My father watches me with raised brows, lifting his cigar to take a drag in wait. No beating around the bush. Got it.

“My twenty-first birthday is tomorrow,” I remind him, standing taller with feigned confidence. “I was hoping I could go out with Millie for it. She mentioned a dance club opening that has very respectable reviews. It’s—”

“Absolutely not,” he answers before I can convince him otherwise.

My smile slips, and heat settles into my cheeks as Antonio chuckles from his spot in the leather armchair.

“Twenty-first birthday parties are full of nothing but debauchery, and that DeMatteo girl is hardly the right kind of influence you need in your life right now. It’s bad enough she’s got you to dress like her, looking like an escort for hire. I will not allow you to look like a hooker at some nightclub where you’re unsupervised.”

His tone warms my face, shrinking my posture. Any confidence I had before washed away as I feel Antonio Carbone’s eyes on me.

Millie has always been unapologetically herself—from the short, tight clothes she wears to the bright colors she dyes her hair to the people she associates with. She’s stubborn and opinionated. Two things that my father has never liked me being as I got older. He said I needed better influences if I was going to make it in the world he was building for us, but I never understood what that world was if I couldn’t be my own person in it.

“Plus,” he amends, tapping the cigar against the ashtray, “Leani has already planned a get-together here to celebrate with close friends and family.”

She hasn’t said a thing to me about it. Then again, the woman who always took me shopping for ugly dresses, shoes, and jewelry so I could fit into high society never quite enlightens me on anything unless she has to. Her sole focus has always been maintaining the household, which I learned all Italian American wives strive to do. I’m an afterthought more times than not, only getting attention when my appearance needed to be worked on for outings I was reluctantly dragged to. Usually, ones where I’d be squeezed into fancy dresses that hurt my waist, forced to sit through hours-long hair styling, and dolled up with makeup that made me look ten years older.

I know better than to press my luck and push the man watching me, but I do anyway. “Couldn’t I do both if I promised to behave myself? Most of the parties we host here only go until nine. I could get a ride with—”

“The decision has already been made,” he tells me firmly. “Trust me, dear. Tomorrow is far too important to miss out on. In fact, you’re going to formally meet Antonio’s son Luca tomorrow night. I already told your mother that you’d be needing a new outfit for it. I imagine you’ll go out tomorrow morning to find one.”

I’ve known Luca Carbone since we were little because we’d been dragged to the same galas and events by our families. As he got older, he started acting like the other boys he hung out with from other important families from the city. He schmoozed like a future politician—those were my father’s words. He’s always liked Luca and the connections he made, while I found him…less than impressive. He was a flirt back then, and I doubt he’s changed any now. Not to mention, there have been whispers about how he treats some of his intimate female friends. Why would my father want me to formally meethimof all people?

“I’m sure I could find something in my closet if you tell me what the theme for the occasion is,” I tell him, trying not to let my confusion show.

Antonio and my father share a look before my father turns those dark, espresso-brown eyes on me. He says I got my eyes from my mother, which is probably why he’s never able to look at me for long. “Find something formal and elegant and consider it your pre-engagement party.”

For a brief moment, I swear my heart stops.

Thump.Pause.Thump.Pause.Thump.

It echoes in my ears as I repeat those words in my head.

Antonio stands and walks over to me, giving me another cursory glance with a look of hunger in his eyes that I’ve seentoo many times during the events I attend with the family. “My son is certainly going to be a lucky man, isn’t he?” A slick grin spreads across his face as he tilts my chin up to meet his eyes before his own goes to my chest. Goose bumps cover my arms as I withhold from the shiver that quakes my spine. His touch feels wrong. Dirty.

My parents always told me to never let a man touch me without permission or supervision—that my virtue was my strongest asset.

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