Page 2 of A Game So Reckless

“I’m celebrating.”

“Oh?” Antonio quirks a perfectly groomed brow at me in the mirror as he snaps off his gloves.

“I turned nineteen last week.”

It’s not actually something I want to celebrate this year. Because this birthday is what my parents have been waiting for. To officially announce the engagement.

To make it all real.

“Holy shit! I can’t believe I forgot! Happy birthday,bella!” Antonio looks like he wants to hug me, then remembers my sopping, dye-coated hair, and thinks better of it. He gives me two air kisses from a careful distance instead, and then says, “End of July. That’s, what, cancer?”

“Leo,” I correct him, flashing my teeth in a grin that I don’t have to hope meets my eyes. I know it does, because I have absolutely perfected that shit.

Antonio returns my smile.

“Of course! My beautiful lioness. Although, more like a panther with this new hair, eh? Alright. I’m going to let the colour set. Do you need anything? Water, coffee?” His eyes glint. “Champagne, now that you’re legal?”

He says it like I haven’t been drinking champagne at my appointments here for years.

Not today, though. I can already feel a headache drumming up at the back of my eyes, and it isn’t even noon.

“No, thanks.”

“OK,bella. I’ll be back.”

He sets a timer on his phone, slides it into the back pocket of his tight, ripped jeans, then strolls to the front of the salon to chat with the platinum-blonde receptionist there. I watch my own face in the polished perfection of the mirror, but I don’t really see myself. The noises of chipper stylists and chatting clients and hair dryers all fall away, until there’s nothing left but the crackling rasp of my papà’s knuckles breaking bone, the heavy fall of a man to the floor, and the grim finality of a door clicking shut.

Chapter2

Valentina

Iknow my mamma has decided to make her grand entrance into my room, not because she says hello like a normal person, but because she gasps like a soap opera actress and sputters, “Dio mio… Your hair! Valentina, what have you done to your hair?”

“Nothing much,” I say nonchalantly, capping my tube of blood-red lipstick. The gold lettering of the label pops in the light, reminding me that this particular shade is calledI eat men’s hearts for breakfast.“Just went back to my natural colour. Got tired of dealing with my roots.”

Yeah, right. I love getting my hair done. I love makeup and perfume and every single type of sparkle that is available to adorn the female body. Well, every single type except for my cupcake-esque engagement ring. The one my fiancé Dario didn’t even bother to give to me himself but rather passed off to my papà, who then passed it off to my mamma to give to me instead.

“Let me see you,” Mamma snaps. She flaps her hands at me, indicating that she wants me to rise from the plush pink chair I’m seated in in front of my white vanity table. I do so, stepping out from behind the chair so that she can get the full effect.

Antonio blew my ribcage-length, now nearly-black hair out in big, Old Hollywood waves. The dress is all black, with off-the-shoulder sleeves, a plunging neckline, and a tight fit all the way down until it flares at the knees mermaid-style.

“You look like you’re going to a funeral!” Mamma practically wails.

I look down at my very exposed cleavage, then gesture at the big sweeps of black liquid eyeliner and dark red lips.

“Pretty sure if I tried to step into a church looking like this I’d get smited on the spot. Smote? Whatever.”

Mamma sucks her teeth and makes the sign of the cross.

I turn away from my mamma’s horrified expression to take in my reflection once more. As dramatic as she’s being, I kind of understand her reaction. This isn’t my usual look. I’ve been some shade of blonde, from honey to near-white, for years. And usually, I’m decked out in all manner of sequins and shimmer and lace, often pink. My room is a testament to my typical taste. The entire place is done up in pastel hues of cream and dreamy rose. Velvet and satin and frills galore.

I look completely out of place standing in the middle of it all, so severely wrapped in black with these red, red lips.

If it weren’t for the August-tanned tint of my distinctly olive-toned Sicilian ass, I would look like a curvier Morticia Addams.

“I thought you were going to wear that dress we picked out on your birthday. The beautiful champagne-coloured one,” Mamma reminds me, sounding slightly desperate. Her own gown is a pretty ivory silk. My old hair and dress choice would have complimented her look perfectly.

“I changed my mind.”

---