Page 17 of Veil of the Past
I should be focusing on the job, keeping my head straight, but all I can think about is Alessia sitting across from some asshole, smiling, laughing, maybe even touching his arm. The thought makes my blood boil.
Why did she do it? Why did she go?
I round the corner, needing to move, needing to burn off this energy before I do something stupid. But the red, hot, blinding anger is growing, filling my veins, making my hands shake. I stop, pressing my palms against the wall of a building, trying to steady myself, trying to breathe.
But all I can see is her face, her eyes, the way they challenged me that night in her apartment, like she was daring me to say something, to make a move. And I didn’t. I held back. And now, she’s out there with someone else.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, my voice tight. Slamming my fist against the wall, pain shoots up my arm, but I don’t care. I need the release, need something to distract me from the thought that’s clawing at my brain.
She fucking went. She disobeyed me.
7
ALESSIA
It's been a couple of hours since Romiro and I spoke This morning feels surreal, a hazy blur of moments I can't quite wrap my mind around. The other night with him still hangs in the air, heavy and electric, like there was a shift between us. But I force myself to push it aside, focusing on what lies ahead —the date my Mamma and Nonna have arranged.
Val helped me pick out an outfit before she left. I run my hands down the deep purple dress we chose, feeling the soft fabric glide against my skin. It’s beautiful, with a slit that climbs up my thigh, just enough to feel a little daring, though I know I’m making a mistake. I bite my lip. If Romiro finds out … I don't know what he would do, but I know it won’t be good.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. He has no business dictating what I do with my life It’s not like we’re together. I grab my matching purse, slip into my black heels, and throw on a light, thin shawl. My hand fiddles with my silver earring as a wave of doubt crashes over me. Should I cancel? No. I straighten my back. I’m going. I give Mr. Marvin a quick peck on his head, earning a soft purr in response, and head out the door, making sure to lock it behind me.
I take the elevator down, my foot tapping anxiously as I watch the numbers descend. When the doorspingopen, the cold air outside greets me. I try to hail a cab, and it takes a good ten minutes before one finally stops. Sliding into the back seat, I give the driver the address. "The Geraldeen, please."
The driver gives me a quick look, then pulls away into the sluggish traffic. It takes nearly half an hour to cover a distance that should’ve taken ten minutes—classic New York. I hand the driver the money, muttering a polite “thank you,” then step out of the cab. My eyes land on the restaurant's entrance, already lined with people waiting to get in. I don’t bother with the line; instead, I walk straight up to the guard at the front.
He’s a tall guy in a neat black suit, his chestnut brown hair slicked back. He looks at me, a little wary, a little curious. I stifle a laugh when the tips of his ears turn red, and he clears his throat. “Name?”
“Visconti. Alessia Visconti.” His eyes widen just slightly at the name. He doesn’t bother checking the list; he steps aside and opens the door for me. “Go ahead, Miss Visconti.”
The sound of my heels clicking against the granite floor rings out in the open entrance of the restaurant. At the hostess stand, a young brunette gives me a bright smile. “Hello, Ms. Visconti. Your date has arrived already. Please, follow me.”
She leads me up the familiar stairs. My hand lightly trails along the cool black stone railing, my heart beating a bit faster with every step. We reach the second floor, and there’s only one table set. A man in a navy-blue suit stands as we approach, his dark hair combed back neatly. He smiles warmly as I reach the table, stepping forward to greet me.
“Hello, Alessia. I’m Francesco, but you can call me Frankie.” His voice is smooth and polite, and he leans in to kiss my cheek, his cologne light and pleasant.
“Ok, Frankie,” I say, giving him a grateful smile as he pulls out my chair for me. I settle into the seat, and he takes his place across from me.
We begin with light conversation, the usual small talk—where we grew up, what we like to do. I ask him what he does for work, and he answers with enthusiasm. “I’m in investment, mostly in new tech startups. It’s risky, but I love it. It feels like I’m part of something bigger, you know?”
I nod, feeling a bit more at ease. “That sounds exciting,” I say honestly. “I imagine you’ve seen some interesting innovations.”
“Oh, definitely,” he replies. “And you’re a doctor, right?”
“Still finishing my residency,” I admit, feeling a little spark of pride. “Just one more exam to go, and then I’ll be officially qualified.”
Francesco smiles, his gray-colored eyes lighting up with genuine interest. “That’s impressive, Alessia. You must be incredibly dedicated.”
My cheeks warm a little. “Thank you. It’s … been a long road, but worth it.”
We continue to talk, the conversation easy, flowing smoothly from one topic to the next. Frankie is attentive, polite, and genuinely interested. As the meal progresses, I find myself relaxing more. He’s not bad. Maybe this won’t be such a disaster after all.
Then, as we’re finishing our dessert, he leans in closer, his voice softer. “I’ve had a great time tonight,” he says, his eyes looking into mine. “I’d love to see you again, if you’re open to it.”
Before I can respond, he’s closing the distance between us. His lips brush mine, soft and tentative, a polite, testing kiss. But in that instant, my thoughts freeze—Romiro’s face flashes across my mind, his smile, the way he looked at me the other night … my heart twists in my chest.
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps fills the room, firm and deliberate. I pull back quickly, my heart pounding and see Romiro standing at the top of the stairs. His gaze is dark, sharp, and locked on me. There’s something fierce and unyielding in his eyes, a storm gathering right in front of us.
Francesco, oblivious, smiles and straightens. “And who might this be?” he asks, trying to keep the atmosphere light.
