Page 49 of Veil of the Past
Iadjust my cufflinks in the reflection of the window, the city lights of New York glowing behind me, painting the glass with streaks of neon. Alessia is in the other room, finishing up. I hear her light footsteps, and the soft rustle of fabric as she moves. There's a low hum of conversation in the background–Valentina and Emiliano are already outside, waiting by their Maserati.
I glance down at my phone. A message from Nicolo, just the usual cryptic check-in. I pocket the device, my fingers brushing over my Jeep keys. The thought of tonight sends a strange current through me. Officially meeting her family. As if we need their permission, but it’s tradition, and in our world, tradition holds weight.
The door to the bedroom opens, and Alessia steps out. My breath catches. She’s wearing a deep, dark dress that hugs her curves, elegant and simple. She pauses for a second, catching my eye, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
“You ready?” I ask, voice lower than I intend. I push myself off the window ledge and cross the room, taking her hand. She looks up at me, her eyes filled with something—anticipation, maybe?
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she replies. I squeeze her hand, a silent promise in that touch, and we head out.
Down on the street, the cars wait. Emiliano leans against his Maserati, his expression unreadable, as usual. Valentina stands beside him, her hand resting on his arm. They both nod as we approach.
“I’ll take the lead,” Emiliano says, his voice calm but commanding. I nod back, and we head to the Jeep. The city is bustling tonight, the streets a blur of headlights and the murmur of the weekend crowd. I focus on the road, but Alessia’s presence beside me pulls at my thoughts and keeps them from drifting too far. They still don’t know what this dinner is about, but I’m sure they suspect something.
The city lights blur past us, streaks of neon red and gold against the black canvas of night as I grip the steering wheel. The engine purrs under my hands, a steady hum that matches the quiet tension in my chest. Beside me, Alessia sits with one leg crossed over the other, her red hair cascading over her shoulder like liquid fire, catching the glow of the passing streetlights.
She’s been quiet since we left the apartment, her fingers playing absently with the hem of her dress. Her reflection in the window is soft and contemplative, eyes focused on the buildings flashing by. The weight of what we’re about to do presses down on both of us, a thousand unspoken words hanging between us in the stillness of the car.
I reach over, my hand finding hers on her lap. Her skin is warm under my touch, familiar and grounding. She turns her head, her eyes meeting mine, a small smile tugging at her lips. I squeeze her fingers gently, feeling a wave of calm wash over me.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice low, just above the rumble of the engine.
She nods, but I see the flicker of nerves in her gaze, the way her breath catches slightly. “Just thinking,” she replies, her voice soft, almost swallowed by the hum of the city.
“About?” I prompt, my thumb brushing over the back of her hand.
She exhales slowly, a little laugh escaping her lips. “About how my father might kill you tonight,” she jokes, but there’s a seriousness in her eyes, a worry she’s trying to mask.
I chuckle, a deep sound in my chest. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve faced death,” I say, and she rolls her eyes, squeezing my hand tighter.
“I mean it, Romiro,” she murmurs, her tone turning earnest. “This is… it’s a big deal. For them. For us.”
I nod, my gaze fixed ahead as I navigate the winding streets leading us away from the heart of the city. “I know,” I reply, my voice steady. “But I’m not backing down, not from this. Not from you.”
Her smile grows, a little softer, her eyes glimmering with something like gratitude, like relief. She leans over, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek, the scent of her hair—jasmine and something sweet—filling the space between us.
“Good,” she whispers against my skin before pulling back, her fingers threading through mine.
We fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes from familiarity, from knowing each other’s rhythms and breaths. The buildings grow taller, more imposing, as we drive deeper into the affluent outskirts. I can see the lights of Emiliano’s Maserati ahead of us, a flash of red and silver weaving through the streets.
I keep my focus on the road, the city slowly giving way to sprawling estates, high walls, and manicured lawns. Alessia’s family home looms in the distance, a dark silhouette against the night sky, with tall wrought-iron gates standing sentinel at the entrance.
As we pull up, the gates open slowly, creaking with a metallic groan that sends a chill down my spine. I cast a quick glance at Alessia; her face is composed, but there’s a tightness in her jaw, and her fingers tremble slightly in mine.
“It’ll be fine,” I murmur, trying to reassure her—and maybe myself, too. She nods, a small, tight-lipped smile, but I can see the determination in her eyes, the fire that I’ve always admired in her. We drive through the gates, the gravel crunching under the tires, and park beside Emiliano’s parked vehicle.
Emiliano and Valentina step out, and I see Valentina give me a quick, encouraging smile. Emiliano’s face is unreadable as usual, but there’s a slight nod of approval. It’s a small thing, but it helps.
I cut the engine, and for a moment, there’s only silence. Alessia takes a deep breath, and I turn to her, squeezing her hand one last time.
“We’re in this together,” I remind her, and she nods, her eyes softening.
“Together,” she echoes, and we step out of the car, the cool night air wrapping around us.
The house is even grander up close, the kind of old-world elegance that commands respect. The double doors are already open, and we’re greeted by Christina, who envelops Alessia in a warm hug. “Look at you,” she murmurs, stepping back to examine her daughter. “Absolutely stunning.”
Alessia laughs, a little nervously, and I feel the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. Christina’s eyes then turn to me, assessing, but there’s a warmth there, too.
“Romiro,” she says, her voice polite but firm. “Welcome.”
