“No,” I respond softly, dropping away from his personal space.
I excuse myself and head up the stairs. I don’t go far; just distance myself enough so I’m not in the thick of this dinner party all evening. I stand up on the balcony that circles the second floor of the house, allowing an overview of one of the main rooms. Every male in the room looks so pleased to be here, but little do they know, one of them is a target in tonight’s grand plan.
I sigh. It’s on evenings like tonight when I feel like a mob princess. Everyone expects me to be regal and elegant with a smoking gun in my clutch purse. Except, I am very much unarmed – both mentally and physically. I may dress for the part, talk the talk, and walk the walk, but I am not anything like my father thinks I am.
To Salvatore Abbiati, I am weak, delinquent, and expendable. That’s not how I view myself. Selfishly, I think of myself as strong, a fighter, a dreamer. I have to possess some strength to be here fighting for dreams I know one day will be mine. I may carry the burden of weakness on my shoulders, but that’s only because of my fear of faltering and falling too far out of line. I am weak for allowing my father to get so far into my head that I became a killer, but I will not mistake my strength that has begun to spark in me. I never used to talk back to my father like I have been. Zane Maverick has a lot to answer for and a lot to be praised for. Ever since our first meeting, he has both built me up and destroyed me, and apparently, the past is set to repeat itself.
“Amelia.” My father’s voice vibrates through the air behind me. I’m almost hesitant to look, but I don’t allow myself to be a petulant child. When I turn, I see him gaze at me, rendered silent once again by me. I must be getting better.
“What?” I ask, my attitude getting the better of me. “You have guests waiting for your company downstairs.” I see him remain unresponsive, but he just stares at me. “What is it?” I ask, looking down at my dress, scared to see I’ve ruined it.
“Nothing,” he utters, his eyes softening. “You look so much like your mother. I always believed you were made in her beauty.”
I look down at myself again and run my hands nervously over my waist and hip. The dress is beaded all over and a light in cream color. It’s an absolute beauty of a dress. It sits just on my shoulders and has a dramatic scoop drop to the back of it. The dress itself drapes around me until it feathers out considerably. My father likes me to be a princess at these events, and he mastered it by having this dress shipped in from Milan.
“I know when you’re trying to sweeten me up,” I remark coldly and don’t take the bait he’s offered.
“I’m past that now,” he comments back to me. “It’s the truth that you are a replica of her.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t place a deathly mark on me,” I mockingly lash out and realize I need to go downstairs and do my job. “I have a hit to do before dinner. I’ll see you back down there, Papà.”
He doesn’t hinder my leaving or speak up, just lets me go and I appreciate it. I cannot stand to be around him for much longer than I deem necessary and this had gone over what I’m comfortable with right now.
He’s trying, I know he is, to make me feel like he had before – the apple of his eye. However, he broke all sorts of unspoken and unwritten rules when he presented me to men who just wanted a piece of female meat to get greedy over. I, no longer, feel like I am something he prides himself with when I have let myself foolishly be led by a beating heart.
I take the stairs slowly, scanning the room step by careful step. I’m looking for my next hit. Even though my father is wining and dining, he is also using this to mark the fact he is still the powerful leader. I see my target standing on the sidelines, nervously looking around at what’s to come. It’s his first dinner at the Abbiati mansion, and sadly, it’ll be his last.
“Here,” I tell him on approach and pull the small bottle from my bag. I shake it and smile. “It’s liquid ecstasy. It’ll help loosen you up. You look like you could use it.”
“I’m not sure,” he rebukes the offer.
“It’s an Abbiati mix.” I watch as he remains unmoved and sigh, roll my eyes, and prepare to win him over. “Look,” I say popping the lid. “If it was that bad for your health, would I do this?” I ask him and pour a few drops into my own champagne. Briefly, I close the lid up and use my strawberry to swirl the champagne together. “I like to let it set in. The alcohol and the ecstasy are a slow release. If you’re looking for a quick release, just mix it and down the glass. It’s an instant soother.”