Chapter 5 - The Woman in RedThe invitation had been printed before the restaurant burned.
That made it useful.
The Philadelphia Children’s Foundation Gala was held every spring inside the Grand Clarendon Hotel, where people with more money than conscience gathered beneath crystal chandeliers to bid on paintings they did not like for causes they would forget before breakfast.
Both the Carusos and Messinas attended every year.
Not together.
Never together.
Until now.
“They are expecting us to cancel,” I said.
Luciano adjusted the cuff of his black dinner jacket.
“We should.”
“No.”
He looked at me through the mirror.
I was standing behind him in our bedroom wearing a red dress.
Not pale pink.
Not white.
Not any color my father would have chosen for me.
Red.
Sienna had selected it and described it as “the diplomatic equivalent of setting fire to a flag.”
Luciano had stared at me for approximately 4 seconds when I stepped from the dressing room.
Then he had said only, “No.”
I asked whether he disliked it.
He replied, “The opposite.”
That was when I decided to wear it.
Now he turned from the mirror.
“Bellandi attacked a Caruso business 48 hours ago.”
“Yes.”
“They may expect you at the gala.”
“Yes.”
“They may intend to kill you.”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You are enjoying this conversation too much.”
“I am enjoying the fact that you cannot order me to stay home.”
“I absolutely can.”
“And I can absolutely ignore you.”
We stared at each other.
Then he sighed.
Marriage, I was discovering, made dictators tired.
He stepped closer and adjusted one of the thin straps near my shoulder.
His fingers barely touched my skin.
“If you leave my side, Matteo follows.”
“Agreed.”
“If Matteo leaves, 2 men replace him.”
“Agreed.”
“You carry the emergency phone.”
“Yes.”
“You do not drink anything you did not watch being poured.”
“I was raised Caruso.”
“I know.”
His hand moved to my waist.
For one moment, the entire problem disappeared.
His forehead touched mine.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I want you upstairs with 20 guards outside the door.”
“I know.”
“And you are going anyway.”
“Yes.”
He kissed me once.
Briefly.
“Then I am going beside you.”
The Grand Clarendon fell silent when we entered.
Not completely.
Hundreds of people could not become completely silent without rehearsal.
But conversations stumbled.
Heads turned.
Forks paused halfway toward mouths.
A photographer nearly walked backward into a floral arrangement.
I held Luciano’s arm.
My father stood near the center of the ballroom.
His eyes met mine.
Then he looked at Luciano.
Neither man smiled.
That was probably the most peaceful greeting they had managed in 15 years.
Sienna appeared at my other side wearing silver.
“You look indecently happy for a woman attending a possible assassination.”
“I am concentrating.”
“You are smiling.”
“I am concentrating pleasantly.”
Matteo approached behind her.
His gaze lingered on Sienna for half a second.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You looked.”
“I have eyes.”
“You stared.”
“I assessed.”
“Assess someone else.”
His mouth almost moved.
I turned away before either noticed me watching.
The plan was simple.
That made me distrust it.
We would allow our enemies to see unity.
Caruso and Messina together.
My father would sit at our table.
Luciano would publicly announce a joint reconstruction fund for the destroyed restaurant.
If Bellandi wanted mistrust, we would give them the opposite.
Then we would watch who reacted badly.
For the first hour, nothing happened.
That was almost worse.
I spoke with judges’ wives.
Luciano endured introductions to hospital administrators.
My father drank water as though champagne might assassinate him personally.
At 9:40, the auction began.
A landscape sold for $70,000.
A vacation house sold for $110,000.
A signed baseball sold for an amount I found morally offensive.
Then the lights dimmed for the foundation director’s speech.
That was when I saw the waiter.
He was 20 feet away.
Ordinary black jacket.
White shirt.
Silver tray.
Nothing remarkable.
Except he was looking at Luciano.
Not occasionally.
Not like staff monitoring a guest.
Directly.
His right hand remained beneath the tray.
I felt everything inside me become still.
“Luciano.”
He turned slightly.
“Three o’clock.”
He did not look.
Good.
Matteo did.
The waiter changed direction.
Toward us.
Sienna was between him and my father.
I saw the movement beneath the cloth covering the tray.
Metal.
My body acted before thought.
I grabbed Sienna’s arm and pulled her sideways.
Matteo moved at the same time.
The first shot shattered a champagne glass.
Screams erupted.
Luciano pushed me behind him.
My father dropped behind the table.
Matteo struck the waiter’s wrist.
The weapon discharged again into the ceiling.
Security flooded the room.
People scattered toward exits.
The waiter attempted to bite something inside his cheek.
Matteo noticed.
He caught the man’s jaw before he could close it.
“Do not.”
The man fought.
Three security officers forced him down.
Luciano had one hand around my waist and the other beneath his jacket.
His entire body was positioned between me and the room.
“I am fine,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Sienna?”
“I am here,” she answered.
Matteo turned toward her.
Blood marked the cuff of his shirt.
Her face changed.
“You are bleeding.”
“Not mine.”
She grabbed his arm anyway.
“I said not mine.”
“I heard you.”
Her hand remained there.
The police were called.
The ballroom emptied.
The gala became a crime scene in less than 90 seconds.
The captured waiter carried no identification.
But inside his jacket was a card.
Black.
Unmarked except for one silver serpent.
Luciano held it inside an evidence sleeve 20 minutes later.
“They wanted him captured,” I said.
Matteo nodded.
“Likely.”
“Why?”
My father approached.
“To deliver another message.”
He looked older beneath the emergency lights.
For once, I did not see Don Emiliano.
I saw the man who had watched a gun point toward his only child.
He stopped before me.
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
His hand lifted.
For a second, I thought he would touch my face.
Instead, he lowered it.
Old habits.
Old distances.
“I saw you move.”
“What?”
“You saw the shooter first.”
“Yes.”
His eyes shifted toward Luciano.
Something complicated passed between them.
My father looked back at me.
“I taught you well.”
The anger I carried toward him returned instantly.
“You taught me to identify exits because you assumed someone might eventually shoot at us.”
“And tonight it saved your life.”
“No.”
I looked toward Luciano.
Then Matteo.
Then Sienna.
“It saved all of ours.”
My father went quiet.
The captured attacker finally spoke at 11:12.
He would not give a name.
He would not identify Bellandi.
He said only one sentence.
“The widow wants her city back.”
Tiziano heard it over the secure call and became silent for so long that Luciano asked if the connection had failed.
“No,” Tiziano finally said.
“Who is the widow?” I asked.
The answer came from my father.
“Serafina Bellandi.”
I knew the story vaguely.
Everyone did.
Her husband, Don Vittorio Bellandi, had died during the final year of the old conflict.
Some claimed Messina gunmen killed him.
Others claimed Caruso men had ordered it.
No one knew.
Serafina disappeared afterward with her children.
“She is alive?” I asked.
My father’s face hardened.
“Apparently.”
Luciano looked at him.
“You told me she died in Naples.”
“I was told she died.”
“And you believed it?”
“I had no reason not to.”
Luciano laughed without amusement.
“We have several excellent reasons now.”
Later, inside the car, the city lights moved across Luciano’s face.
I sat beside him, my red dress hidden beneath his coat.
His hand held mine.
He had not released it since leaving the hotel.
“You were right,” he said.
I looked toward him.
“That admission should be recorded.”
“Do not ruin the moment.”
I smiled.
He did not.
“You saw him before I did.”
“Because he was looking at you.”
“That is the point.”
His fingers tightened.
“You placed yourself in danger because you were watching me.”
“I was already in danger.”
“Valyria.”
I turned fully toward him.
“You cannot love me as though I am made of glass.”
He became still.
It was the first time I had used the word.
Love.
Neither of us had said it before.
The car seemed suddenly smaller.
Luciano watched me.
I felt heat rise toward my face.
Of all the circumstances in which I might have imagined confessing something so important, a bullet-resistant SUV after an attempted assassination had not been among them.
“You said love,” he murmured.
“I said you cannot love me as though—”
“I heard the rest.”
His eyes remained on mine.
“Did you mean it?”
My instinct was to retreat.
To make a joke.
To protect myself.
Then I remembered the greenhouse.
The bedroom doorway.
The question.
What do you want?
Courage is the same thing.
“Yes.”
His breath changed.
Barely.
But I knew him.
I knew the small movements now.
The rotation of the ring.
The tightening shoulder.
The honey after sleepless nights.
I knew what 1 altered breath meant.
He lifted my hand and pressed his mouth against my knuckles.
“I have loved you since you insulted Matteo at our wedding.”
I stared.
From the front seat, Matteo said, “I was not insulted.”
Neither of us acknowledged him.
“You barely knew me.”
“I knew enough.”
“You waited weeks.”
“I was trying not to frighten you.”
“You frightened everyone else in Philadelphia instead.”
“That was easier.”
I laughed.
This time he smiled.
Then he leaned across the space between us and kissed me.
Not like the church.
Not like the cautious first night.
Like a man who had nearly watched a bullet reach his wife and no longer wanted to postpone the truth.
When we separated, his forehead rested against mine.
“I love you,” he said.
Simple.
Direct.
No strategy.
I closed my eyes.
Outside, Philadelphia continued passing behind dark glass.
Somewhere in that city, Serafina Bellandi believed she was breaking an alliance.
Instead, she had given us something dangerous.
A reason to stop pretending our marriage was political.
By the time we reached the mansion, another envelope was waiting.
No seal.
No messenger.
It had been left inside the locked front hall.
That fact frightened everyone more than the message.
Luciano opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Sienna leaving the gala.
Matteo’s hand rested against the small of her back.
A red circle had been drawn around her face.
May you like
Beneath it were 3 words.
PHASE TWO BEGINS.
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