Page 93 of Rosetti Family New York
There’s a flicker of something in his expression before he directs his focus back to the phone.
“Spend whatever you like. Ten grand, twenty grand. Whatever you need.”
His words are definitive, leaving no room for doubt or negotiation.
I nod, satisfied, and leave him at the table, pretending his flippancy doesn’t bother me. Up in the cavernous bedroom, I dress carefully, knowing that every choice is a statement. I put on a gown by an Albanian designer, Mirela Vokshi, whodresses diplomats and princesses. It makes me feel powerful and defiant.
I slip on heels and a long coat, checking myself in the mirror. Everything fits perfectly, every line smooth and intentional. My reflection stares back at me, a mixture of ice and steel. Perfect.
Then I leave the cold, empty room behind, the sound of my footsteps echoing down the stairs.
Outside, I pause for a moment, the wind biting at my face. A dull, gray sky stretches overhead. I glance back at the mansion, towering and unwelcoming, and decide I have nothing to lose.
The cold follows me as I leave the mansion, the sky a sheet of slate. I linger near the garage, pulling my coat tight against the November chill, deciding my next steps. I borrow an SUV and drive out the gates, passing the guards with a wave. Around the corner, I pull into a driveway behind a hedge and wait.
It takes hours before Dom’s preferred black town car slides by with his driver at the wheel. I follow at a distance.
I tail them through the city. My heart drums against my ribs with each turn they take. East, then south, winding through crowded streets and blocks of factories. The further we go, the more it feels like Dom is dragging a wire through me, pulling tight and close to snapping. We pass buildings with boarded windows, the landscape of someone else's struggle.
On a narrow side street, Dom’s car pulls into an empty parking lot. I wait until he disappears into a building, then drive past and park around the corner. Ten minutes later, Dom’s car drives away, and I can just make him out in the back seat. To be sure, I give it an extra five minutes before rounding the corner and walking toward the building.
My heels click against the cracked asphalt as I hurry to the entrance. Security is tight, but when I buzz, somebody lets me up. I breathe deep before going inside, bracing myself against the mingling scents of chemicals and dust.
Inside the ramshackle exterior is a pristine laboratory, all gleaming surfaces and cutting-edge equipment. In the back, a woman moves between rows of equipment, her blonde curls tied in a careless knot. She has the harried look of someone in love with their work, with no time for anything else.
“Hello?” I say.
The sound bounces off concrete walls.
She looks up, a question in her eyes. I see her calculating, adding up who I am, and why I’m here.
“Besiana Rosetti,” she says.
It sounds strange and uncertain on her tongue. She clearly knows who I am, which is a blow, but there’s no turning back now.
“That’s me. And you must be the famous chemist.”
I give her my best smile, disarmament through charm. Another one of the skills Baba taught me.
“Dr. Voss,” she tells me. She studies me for a long second, then shrugs and turns back to her work. “You just missed Domenico, I’m afraid. If you hurry, you might catch him.”
This is the first person outside the family I’ve heard refer to my husband by his first name, and at her bravery, she goes up a notch in my estimation.
“The boys are busy.” I watch her, intrigued by the tidy chaos. “They thought I might like to see the work in progress.”
She waves me over, warming to the attention. Her movements are brisk and assured, fingers flying between bottles and test tubes.
“Not much to see, but we’re making progress. New chemical compounds take time.”
I pretend to follow, letting her explain while I file away details. Names of chemicals. Their functions.
She lifts a large, amber-colored jar.
“See this?” Her eyes are alight with a strange kind of hunger. “Ixaphorine. Almost pure compound. It’s the key to our new formula.”
“Iride?”
I say the name, careful to sound only mildly curious.
