Page 22 of Veil of Obsession
I give her a grin, and she just lets out a sigh and goes right back to making some sort of pastry.
“What are you making?” I ask her.
“Lemon curd puff pastry cups. Val’s been craving them, but obviously hasn’t had the time to make them. Could you call Emiliano so he can come pick them up in an hour or so?”
Pouting, I ask her, “How come you don’t makeuspuff pastries?”
She cuts me a sharp look before going back to stirring the mixture. “Because you’re a grown man. Make it yourself.”
“I’m your son. Plus, Val’s a grown woman,” I point out.
“Val was pregnant. You try carrying and growing a human being in your body and then having to care for it practically twenty-four/seven,” she throws back at me, which pretty much has me gaping at her, opening my mouth and closing it.
Slipping my phone out, I mutter under my breath about it being unfair that her daughter-in-law gets preferential treatment. I used to be the favorite—before Mara and Matteo got here, but yeah, I was the damn favorite. The phone rings once, twice before Eli’s voice cuts through.
“How are you fucking shit up when I told you to stay at your apartment and not leave?”
I decide on taking the call outside instead of in the kitchen. Sliding the doors open, I step into the courtyard, the cool New York breeze drifting over my face.
“I’m not fucking shit up,” I reply, my voice tight and slightly annoyed.
“Aww, is our little fuckup upset? Listen, Lucio, I won’t always be able to clean up after your messes. It’s time you fuckinggrow up. You’re twenty-two fucking years old. You’re not a baby; you’re a made man. Act like it.”
He’s off on one of his stupid rants, ripping into me like he has a right to. As if taking Valentina back from Chicago on her damn wedding day hasn’t put us in a damn war with the Outfit at a time where he’s only just solidifying his damn rule over the Camorra. But no, he thinks he’s so damn perfect.
“Shut the fuck up. I may be a fuckup, but at least I wasn’t insane enough to go back into the Outfit’s territory for a damn woman and cause an entire fucking war. You’re an entitled piece of shit. Don’t think otherwise, brother. You may hate how I act, but we’re just two different sides of the same coin.” I pause for a beat to catch my breath before saying, “Ma wants you to come get the lemon curd puff pastries she’s made for Valentina in an hour or so.”
I don’t wait for his reply; I cut the call. Eli barely tolerates me, and he may be my brother, but he’s always managed to make me feel like an outsider in my own family.
8
Princess
My hand moves across the satin dresses that the dressmaker brought with her. It’s midafternoon on a beautiful fall day. And Mother has me locked up in this damn room, sifting through dresses for an event. She wants us to stand out when all I want is to blend into the background. That way I can watch from the shadows. No one suspects the wallflower in the corner of stalking one of the most powerful men in the city.
“Would you give us a moment, Ariel?” Mother politely smiles at the dressmaker as she makes her way out before turning to me. “Princess, for heaven’s sake, would you pick a dress already? I’vetriedto be nice and help you with suggesting a couple of beautiful dresses for the charity ball, but you keep finding somethingwrongwith them.”
If I ever take her advice, please feel free to shoot me in between the fucking eyes. She wants me to look like a hooker, and she’ll look like she’s pimping me out.
“I appreciate your suggestions. But I was hoping for something simpler.”
I’m not hoping for shit. Who doesn’t want to dress to the nines and look magnificent? But if you want to stalk someone, you stay in the background and try to look as boring as the damn wallpaper. So insignificant that they can practically see through you.
My mother, of course, doesn’t seem to agree with the notion. As a matter of fact, she looks downright offended by the mere mention of wanting a simpler dress.
“Don’t be stupid. You’re going to a charitygala, not down to the store.”
She calls Ariel back into the room, who avoids eye contact. I don’t blame her.
The racks groan under the weight of silk and satin, endless gowns in shades of crimson, sapphire, and pearl. My fingers skim the fabric, cool and smooth, but none of them feel right. Too bright, too soft, too delicate. I need something that doesn’t just shimmer in the shadows, but commands them.
Then I see it. The dress hangs in the dim light like a whisper of midnight. Black tulle cascades in delicate layers, pooling at the hem in a ghostly train. The bodice is sculpted and cinched at the waist, structured yet fluid, as if the fabric itself is molded to a woman’s curves. Off-the-shoulder sleeves drape in sheer folds, barely-there wisps of darkness that hint at bare skin beneath. Long gloves rest beside it, as if the dress isn’t complete without them. A dress made for secrets. A dress made for sin. This isn’t just a gown; it’s armor, it’s seduction, it’s power wrapped in silk and shadow.
I reach for it, the weight of it pressing into my hands like an unspoken promise. The silk brushes against my skin as I lift the dress from its hanger, the weight of it settling into my hands like it belongs to me. Like was made for me.
I turn toward my mother, who lounges on the chaise with a glass of something golden, watching me with her usual scrutiny.
“This one.” My voice is steady. Final.
