“Ah, bambina, we were just wondering where you were,” my father says, gathering enough concern in his voice to make it sound convincing. “Patrick here was just praising your abilities on the Amalfi Coast.”
The pit in my stomach opens up, and I feel nauseous. I don’t want to be reminded of the monster I became just to save my own skin. I even became a horror show to push Zane away. I don’t want an award for it. As I struggle to keep eye contact, my eyes drop and I feel my throat begin to close up.
I hear a cough and I look up to find Zane looking at me. While I feel the cracks beginning to splinter across my entire facade, he stands stoic, his eyes dead set on me. He doesn’t waver from his stare; instead, he strengthens it, narrowing his gaze and reminding me to be strong.
“It was nothing,” I humbly respond. “My uncle is not a force you’re to reckon with. If men need a teacher in this world, he is the devil to give it. He really helped me understand what I wanted in my life after I hit a few bumps.” I grin wickedly, knowing not many will know the ulterior meaning behind my words. “I’m here to leave a lasting impression and finally get a firm setting in life.”
“And how do you propose you’ll do that?” Patrick asks.
For a man I barely know, he’s awfully curious about my business.
“An Abbiati never tells,” I tell him, winking playfully.
Of course, I have no plans for my future – I’m winging it! But I’m a firm believer that if you make it sound convincing then people will believe anything you tell you. Patrick is one who seems to take that line of shit I just delivered.
“Not even a little hint of what’s to come in the future?” he asks, pressing me.
“Okay,” I sigh, dropping all of my walls and allowing my guard to slip. I play nice and innocent as my lips curl up. “It’s going to be wonderful.”
And that’s the bottom line right now – I don’t know what’s to come of my life, but I know one day I’ll look back and see this all as worth it. This amount of bullshit has to produce some beauty. It just has to.
“She’s a tough one to break in, my daughter,” my father quips, crooning proudly. “She’s a law unto herself and she’ll never let you in on what’s going to come next. She’s a powerful enigma. One even I cannot hold back. It makes me feel weaker than it should.”
As I watch Patrick laugh at my father’s quick wit, I notice a shape form through the material of Patrick’s jacket. So much so, I find myself staring. My gut instinct kicks in and tells me something’s not quite right here – between the ambiguity of who the hell Patrick is, the relentless questioning, and now the mystery box in his inside pocket, my instincts are on red alert.
“What about Zane?” he asks, pressing one of my buttons hard as he looks over at the man in question. “What do you think of what he’s doing?”
“He’s an idiot, but that’s a general consensus we’ve drawn together. He knows how I feel about his idiocy of being here.”
I take a step forward; I’ve had this man marked since I was introduced to him, but the more we have spoken, the more I am peeved at his audacity. My father seems blinded by the glorious attention applied to him tonight to not have realized he’s had a mole in his midst. I might loathe my father with such a ferocious intent, but I will not allow my family to be ridiculed and fooled. You fool one Abbiati, you fool them all.
I put my eyes on Zane, and I can tell he knows I’m up to something. This isn’t about to be a move to make him jealous, far from it. This is to protect whatever tatters my family name is torn into. I roll my shoulders a little, turning my sole attention back to the dubious stranger.
“Now, Patrick,” I begin to say as I put my hands on the lapels of his jacket, curling my fingers around the edges. I pull him closer to me, my lips millimeters away from touching his ear. “If you’re going to be a mole and infiltrate this world, be better at it.”
All the time I spoke, I was slipping my hand into his jacket, preparing to reach into his inside pocket. Now I take my chance and I immediately feel a hard piece of technology. It’s too bulky for a cell phone and having seen the imprint of it earlier, I knew he was recording the entire evening.
“Didn’t think this through, did you?” I say holding up the incriminating piece of technology. The voice recorder has been rolling all the time. I take the moment to rewind the tape only to replay my last comment on Zane’s idiocy.
“It’s not what you think,” Patrick tries to find an explanation.
“What is it, then?” my father bellows, his face reddening with anger and humiliation.