Page 10 of Bad Bishop
I wrenched my gaze away from him before he noticed me.
Next to him was another man who was unmistakably his brother, maybe even his twin.
“Oh, the music started.” Rita clapped excitedly. “Let’s gather around the newlyweds for their first dance.”
My feet shifted heavily toward the human ring forming around Luca and Sofia. The couple assumed their place robotically, with Luca taking the lead and moving to what I assumed was a waltz. Their faces were grim, their eyes dim with apathy.
Papa wedged himself between Mama and me, slinging his arms over our shoulders with a cunning grin. He appeared gaunt and yellow, but happy for a change.
“D’you see who’s here, Lila?” He turned to look at me. “The president of the United States, no less. And he brought his wife, too. This marriage puts us in a different league. The Ferrantes are going to be the new Kennedys. Mark my words.”
I blinked at him, pretending not to understand what he was saying.
“Eh,che Dio ti benedica. Your head just keeps your ears apart.” He patted the top of my head, laughing rancidly. “God really was cruel to you,cara mia. Giving you so much beauty and nothing to do with it.”
Ignoring the urge to smash his head against a sharp object, I returned my attention to Luca and Sofia. The waltz ended, and when another one began, a stream of couples flooded the floor. Everyone paired up like magnets, drawing toward one another in perfect harmony. Couples swirled and fluttered. Laughed,hugged, and twirled. I watched Tate Blackthorn holding his wife close, whispering in her ear, paying no heed to the tempo everyone else in the room was shackled to.
Enzo dipped a famous model to the floor, his lips a breath away from hers.
Achilles had a shoulder pressed against the wall, surveilling the room with his dead eyes, hands in his pockets. He didn’t dance, and I wondered if it was out of choice, or because no woman was brave enough to touch him.
“Roger, please.” My mother tapped a waiter on the shoulder. A middle-aged man spun around in his uniform, holding a silver tray filled to the brim with champagne. “Get Lila more pink lemonade,” my mother prompted. “Two ice cubes. Plastic cup.”
No sharp objects for me. My mother said I had severe mental impairment, which put me at age six or below on the scale.
A handsome, fair-haired man approached us from the center of the room. I recognized him instantly. Angelo Bandini was in his early thirties, impeccably mannered and dressed, and prominent in his family business. Sofia’s older brother.
He kissed Mama’s and Papa’s cheeks, then turned to me with a hopeful smile.
My heart fluttered against my rib cage like a butterfly testing its new wings. I forced myself not to smile back.
“Might I ask the youngest Ferrante for a dance?” I watched his lips move. He opened his hand, offering it to me.
My fingers twitched in anticipation beside my body.
“My daughter doesn’t dance,” Mama said.
Angelo chuckled good-naturedly. “Surely, just once? With her new brother-in-law. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
Mama stepped forward, cementing herself between us. I couldn’t see what she was saying, but Angelo’s beam morphed into a scowl. The sharp movements of her arms told me she was yelling. The blood drained from my face.
Mama had always been overprotective of me. Most of the time I was grateful, but this time…this time something dark and resentful unfurled behind my rib cage.
“Oh, I wouldn’t count on this, Lady Chiara,” Angelo’s mouth moved smoothly as he stepped back. A sheet of brutality draped over his expression. “I could count the things I wanted and never got on one hand and intend to keep it that way.” His gaze flitted to President Keaton across the room and the woman he held possessively in a waltz. His wife, Francesca.
“Forgive my wife.” Papa inclined his liver-spotted head. “The wedding preparations have left her exhausted and distraught. She means no disrespect, Bandini. My daughter…” Papa pinched my cheek, then kissed his fingers. “She’s simple, you see.”
What a prick. Mama told him to stop using this derogatory word, but he never listened.
“No hard feelings, Don Vello.” Angelo’s lips expanded into an insincere smile, which my father returned. He then yanked Mama by the elbow, dragging her reluctant figure to the dance floor to save face. Angelo strode away, but not before giving me one last derisive look.
I stood alone, surrounded by couples.
Jealousy clogged my throat. I normally didn’t mind being left alone—preferred it, actually—but right now, I hated it.
I turned around and stormed away, shouldering past catering staff and uniformed waiters. The main entrance was swarming with soldiers and security, so I slipped through the wine cellar’s door.
I was immediately clasped in a womb of darkness.
