Il Bestione (The Golden Door Duet Book 2) Page 14

  He acknowledged her thanks with a nod.

  She plucked one from its velvet bed and tried to work the screw at the back, but her gloves made it a struggle. Those gloves went past her elbow and halfway to her shoulder and must have been difficult to put on, so Paolo pulled his gloves off and took the earring from her. He loosened the back and leaned close. Mirabella leaned as well, tipping her head away to offer her ear.

  He slipped the earring over her lobe and twisted the back until it fit snuggly but didn’t pinch.

  “More tight, a little,” she murmured. “Or it falls away.”

  Another careful twist, until he got a subtle nod from her.

  His fingers were on her skin, brushing behind her sharp jaw and along her sleek neck. He could see her pulse fluttering. That band of black velvet circling her neck, like a ribbon around a gift, bobbled as she swallowed.

  He could not remove his hands. One slipped back, under her hair, across her nape, following the edge of the ribbon. The other slipped forward and down, until he felt her clavicle, rising high and sweeping across her chest like a flourish. Her body rose beneath his fingers as she took in a quick, soft breath.

  She smelled tart and sweet, like lemons dipped in sugar

  She turned to him, and he lifted his eyes. In hers, he saw that if he kissed her, she’d open to him, not only allowing it but wanting it. There was nothing wry or jaded in her eyes now. Only heat.

  What would happen if he kissed her? If he kept her?

  Love was a judgment of worth, and he was unworthy.

  He’d failed anyone who’d ever mattered.

  He was cold, and brutal, and his life was full of blood. He’d tear her apart.

  As if the earth itself agreed, a wheel hit a hole in the street, and the jolt of the carriage tossed them apart.

  He stayed on his side and, focusing on the window and grey world beyond it, let Mirabella struggle with the other earring herself.

  XII

  Carriages lined up along the curb of 5th Avenue before Martin Deller’s great house. Servants in black tailcoats and white gloves assisted guests down from their perches, holding black umbrellas over their heads as they ushered them to the house. The carriages shifted sedately forward as they emptied.

  Paolo had spent the great portion of the ride leaning as far from Mirabella as he could, keeping his focus on the window. Now, he watched elegant guests exit their carriages and hurry from the rain. The umbrellas obscured the view, but there was often a moment or two during which he could see the guests. The men all looked alike, in tailcoats and white ties, top hats and gloves, silver-topped canes and gleaming shoes and bright white spats. His own ensemble was the same.

  But the women—they were like a confectioner’s display, arrayed in complicated, elegant dresses in most of the colors of the rainbow. The November chill had them in fur and velvet on the street, but the parts of their gowns he could see suggested that, whatever their own attractiveness, their gowns were the peak of beauty.

  Finally, he turned to Mirabella. She’d sat quietly, uncharacteristically so, since he’d given her the earrings. Now, her head was turned to her window, and the view of the Central Park beyond the raindrops.

  He didn’t draw her attention to him; instead he used the chance to look at her without thinking overmuch about what his interest meant.

  She looked like she belonged among these people. Her gown was as elegant as any he’d seen rushing into the house, and she wore it as if she always dressed this way.

  The velvet stole she wore against the chill had sagged a bit from her shoulders during the ride, and Paolo let his eyes savor the view of her long, slender neck, her graceful shoulders, the bit of bare back at the top of her gown, the corresponding bareness at the front.

  Her beauty was, in some ways, unusual. She was not like Caterina, whose beauty everyone who’d ever laid eyes on her called ‘perfect’ and ‘angelic.’ She was known for it, in fact. The people of Little Italy had called her ‘The Beauty’ long before he’d ever been known as ‘The Beast.’ He’d gained that name as much for being The Beauty’s brother as he had for his own behavior.

  At least at first. Since then, he’d earned it himself.

  Mirabella’s looks were sharp, confrontational. Narrow, regal nose. Dark, emphatic slashes of eyebrows. Angular crests of cheekbones. Her pointed chin jutted forward, making her lush mouth seem always primed to argue. All of that was crowned with her magnificent black hair, as wild as Medusa’s serpents. Even now, trained up in a style worthy of 5th Avenue, the wave showed, as if her curls fought back against their pins. Everything about her was a challenge.

  No one would see Mirabella and think her beauty angelic. The opposite, more like.

  Perhaps that was the root of his fascination.

  The brougham rocked as Cosimo urged the horse forward again, and this time, Mirabella turned from the window. Her new earrings swung with the movement, brushing the pale curve of her throat. She looked first to the window in the door, ducking her head to see their place in relation to the house.

  “Three carriages before us,” Paolo said, answering the question he guessed was topmost in her mind.

  “The house is very big,” she said, still peering through the rain-streaked windows.

  “Yes. It’s one of the greatest in the city.”

  She set a hand on her chest, over her heart. “I feel …” she searched for an English word. “Ansiosa?”

  “Anxious,” he offered.

  “Ang—ang—” She stumbled over the odd sound of the word.

  “Anxious.” More slowly this time.

  “Anxious. My heart pounds.”

  Though she said each word carefully, making sure before she gave it sound that it was right, her voice was clear and steady, with no hint of tremor or hesitation. She did not sound anxious at all. “My words not so good for this,” she added, as the carriage moved again.

  “Your words are good enough. I’ll be with you to translate when you need it.”

  One corner of her mouth quirked up. In Italian, she said, “I suppose I’ll have to trust you to translate what they truly say.”

  “English, please. You wouldn’t have to trust me if you’d studied more.” Actually, she’d done well in the weeks she’d been really trying, but it amused him to needle her about it.

  The face she made —as if his assertion smelled bad—amused him more. “English is ugly words. Italian is better.”

  “Sicilian is better than either. But here, English is the language of power. Without it, you’ll be trapped in Little Italy forever.”

  “Where else to go?” In Italian, she asked, “What is it you want, Paolo?”

  The carriage rocked forward; they were now at the door, and two servants came up, their umbrellas at the ready.

  As one of them opened the carriage door, Paolo sat where he was, his eyes on Mirabella. “I want everything.”

  Then he climbed down, ignoring the gloved hand of the servant. Turning, he offered his hand to Mirabella. She set her fingers in his with perfect grace, and he eased her to the wide, smooth walk.

  The servants escorted them to the door, where another servant in the same elegant livery opened massive, burled wood doors. With Mirabella’s arm caught gently in his, Paolo led her into Martin Deller’s grand mansion.

  The foyer seemed as big as the whole first floor of the Little Italy Community Society. Gleaming tiles in an alternating pattern of black and white rolled out far and wide. Set well back on those tiles was a magnificent staircase that swept up from the center of the foyer, curved over it, and rolled up to balconies on the second floor. A massive crystal fixture glittered like a celestial orb over the curve in the staircase.

  Many guests had already arrived, and the air was full of the mumble and rustle of mingled people. There was music, too—something soft and forgettable played on stringed instruments. The sound carried oddly, not an echo, but a sense of vastness nonetheless.

  Along each side o
f the cavernous foyer were rows of paned-glass doors. On one side, all the doors were open, and an even bigger room, with parquet floors and brilliantly lit chandeliers, showed the guests, standing about in small groups or mingling to greet each other.

  On the other side, the doors were all closed, with heavy draperies over the glass. But there was light edging the darkness. That room was well lit, too, though apparently closed to guests.

  Paolo refused to let himself crane his neck at the marvels surrounding him, and he silently willed Mirabella to resist the temptation as well. They were not street urchins clambering under the side of a carnival tent. They were invited guests.

  It did not matter why or how Paolo had received an invitation. He had.

  Mirabella’s arm was calm in his, and he turned slightly to see her.

  She wasn’t gawking like a rube. She stood at his side, calm and graceful, waiting with him as servants took hats and wraps from guests ahead of them. She appeared unfazed by the grandeur of the house, as if it were no more elegant than her own.

  He knew enough of her past to know she’d had more exposure to nobility than he had, enough to know their manners, but she and her father hadn’t been nobility themselves. Watching her seeming lack of interest in the outrageous opulence around them, Paolo wondered how much of that was true lack of curiosity and how much was willful refusal to show awe.

  He hoped it was more the latter. That, he understood deeply. He would never, ever show awe, not to anyone. But there was a small boy inside him who desperately wanted to crane his neck, to peek under the tent and see a world beyond him.

  Beyond him for now.

  They arrived at the servants. Paolo eased the velvet wrap from Mirabella’s shoulders and handed it to a young woman in a plain, dark gown with a crisp white net apron and a little matching cap.

  Before he could begin to pull his gloves off, he heard a feminine gasp behind them, and couldn’t catch hold of the reflex to seek out the source of the sound.

  A couple stood behind them, older and rounder. The woman was staring at Mirabella in shock. Paolo shifted his regard to Mirabella, and tried to understand why she might have elicited such a reaction.

  He didn’t see it. She was beautiful, and as elegant as any other woman he’d seen enter this house—considerably more elegant than the woman gaping at her now as if she were a wild animal turned loose on the dinner table.

  A briskly cleared throat, and Mirabella’s concurrent murmur of his name, turned Paolo back to the servants. He handed his hat and gloves to a young woman. The older man, a butler or something like that, gave Paolo an estimating look.

  “Good evening, sir. Might I see your invitation?”

  He had not seen any other guests asked for theirs. But he knew when an insult was worth acting on and when it was simply worth remembering. He remembered this one and slipped the envelope from his pocket.

  The butler took it, examined it as if checking for forgery, gave Mirabella a similar once-over, and handed the invitation back. “Welcome, Mr. Romano … and Mrs. Romano?”

  “Mirabella Montanari,” Mirabella said clearly. She was right; English was an ugly language. Her name flowed like honey with all the flourishes of her Italian accent.

  The woman behind them gasped again. Paolo did not look back, but he would remember these people and watch them.

  “Welcome, Miss Montanari. Please, the guests are gathering just ahead.” With a wave of his hand, he directed them to the brightly lit ballroom.

  Paolo lead Mirabella forward. In the few moments that they were alone, before being swept up on the movements of the ballroom, Mirabella said, in Italian, “Already they see us.”

  He leaned down to speak softly at her ear, in Italian as well. “No, they don’t. They see who they think we are.”

  “And who are we really?”

  “Stronger than any of them.”

  “But not more powerful.”

  “Not yet.” He saw Martin Deller, watched the man see him and go pale. “Come, I want you to meet our host.”

  As they walked through the room, Paolo noticed the looks and heard, beneath the bland music, the rustle of whispered mutterings. He knew he and Mirabella were dressed with as much grace and style as any of these people, yet they stood out. There were at least a hundred people in this room, with more entering every minute. Did they all know each other so well they were surprised to find any stranger at all in their midst?

  Or did they know him particularly? Was that the scandal?

  If so, what did it mean, for all the people here to know him? Was it good, was it useful? Or was it dangerous?

  Martin Deller had paled more with every step they’d taken toward him, and he waited until they were very near before he made any move toward them.

  “Paolo. You’ve come.”

  At his side, Mirabella tensed subtly, her spine straightening even more from its usual proud posture. He wasn’t sure to what she’d taken offense, but he sensed that she had and took up a bit himself.

  While he’d been teaching her English, she’d been talking to him about society people—more than simply how they set their tables, but how to introduce someone or be introduced, how to speak to new acquaintances, how to know what the things they said meant. She had no understanding at all of New York society, but he assumed what she knew of Italian society would be close enough.

  She had assumed as much as well. In Firenze, her father had dressed American heiresses and business tycoons. She’d told Paolo that wealthy New Yorkers traipsed through the major centers of Italy like it was their personal playground—and many a disgraced heiress spent a few months in Italy to catch an aristocratic husband when her prospects at home dried up. Perhaps one of Italy’s many pauper princes, who wouldn’t mind a bride with an already swelling belly so long as his accounts swelled along with it.

  Now, Paolo relied on Mirabella’s teaching. “Martin. Please meet Mirabella Montanari. Mirabella, this is our host, Martin Deller.”

  “Miss Montanari.” He took her hand and made a little bow over it. “Charmed.”

  “Mr. Deller,” she said. “Your home, it is very good.”

  Her accent and imperfect English phrasing seemed to charm Deller truly. A small but apparently sincere smile eased his lips up. “Thank you.” He let her hand go and stood straight, turned a bit and, with an imperious wave, summoned someone near. A mousy, plump woman in a gown of sumptuous silk, but in a design so plain and prim it seemed ancient, came up.

  Paolo had studied up on the men he meant to do business with—and take business from. He knew that Deller, though well born, was a third son and thus had had little more than a comfortable allowance of his own. He had married his wealth—and chosen the richest debutante to charm. The richest debutante had been Edith Clemmons: plain and dull, but the only child of a fabulously wealthy man.

  Knowing Deller’s proclivities, Paolo couldn’t imagine it was easy to be chained to him in matrimony. Seeing the woman, however, any compassion his coal-cold heart might have found for her was choked out in a spasm of contempt. She looked at Paolo as though her husband had brought her face to face with the night soil man—and the look she gave Mirabella was worse.

  Deller set a hand on the woman’s arm, and Paolo detected a faint flinch in the woman. “Allow me to introduce my wife. Mrs. Edith Deller, please make the acquaintance of Paolo Romano and Mirabella Montanari. Paolo and I are business associates.”

  He said that last with a stilted, rigid smile more like a snarl.

  Again, Paolo reminded himself to judge insults carefully—which required immediate action and which needed only to be remembered for a later time when action would be most favorable. He couldn’t manage a smile, but he nodded and offered his hand. “Mrs. Deller. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She took his hand, but barely—a quick brush of her fingers over his, and nothing more.

  His fist wanted to clench, but instead Paolo committed the slight to his growing assor
tment of memories of this night and pressed onward.

  “Mrs. Deller,” Mirabella said and offered her hand. “I am happy to see you. Your home is very good.”

  Mrs. Deller’s drab brown eyes flicked to Mirabella’s offered hand, and back up to her face. She paused precisely long enough that they all felt the disrespect, and then she gave Mirabella’s hand the same scant touch.

  “Well,” Deller said. “I must see to the newly arrived guests. Please, enjoy the evening.”

  He led his wife away, and Paolo and Mirabella were alone in a sea of people.

  In Italian, rising on her toes to lean up close to his ear, Mirabella said, “I don’t suppose you’ve brought a knife with you? Most of these people could use a good stabbing, don’t you think?”

  Paolo laughed. The sound was harsh and strange, more like a dog’s bark than anything human. He could not remember the last time he’d laughed.

  She leaned back a bit and smiled up at him. There was wonder in her eyes. But when she spoke, she didn’t remark on the strange noise he’d made. Instead, she asked, “Well, have you?”

  “I have. I always do. A knife is my weapon of choice.” His cheeks ached; he was smiling. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that. You’ll spend the rest of the evening trying to pick my pocket so you can put it in my back.”

  “Not tonight. You look so dashing in your tailcoat, I wouldn’t want to muss it. Besides, I’ll never stab you in the back. I’ll be standing right in front of you, just like last time.” Her pert smile faded and she leaned close again. They were speaking in Italian, but some of these people might know their language. “Why is it that you want this, to be with these people who hate us?”

  He gazed down at her face. Her eyes were brown, but not drab like Mrs. Deller’s. Mirabella’s dark eyes were fiery and fathomless. “Why do you think I want this?”

  She considered him for a moment. “Power.”

  “Yes. All of it. Imagine, Bella—all these people who think we’re beneath them, who can barely touch our hands in greeting, imagine them on their knees before us.” He looked around the room, imagining. All these captains of industry, pulling the strings that made New York—and all of America—move. All their heiresses, whispering behind fans and silk gloves. All of them hating two dirty Italians in their midst. He meant to drive every last one of them down to their parquet floors.