Page 17 of I Would Beg For You
“Of course she did,” I tell her as she steps back to gaze at me. My sister is a cunning fox—her nickname isn’t volpe for nothing.
“It’s good to see you out and about.”
Does my smile look like a grimace? I don’t really care right now. Another cane whack slaps my ankle bone this time.
“Step up, Val,” she says in her tone that brooks no argument.
“Si, Zietta.”
She has the gall to laugh. Of course she will. Here I am, head of a powerful Borgata, yet being chided like I’m a ten-year-old up to some mischief.
She takes my arm, and we move to a small alcove from where we can watch the room with no one behind our backs.
“I really didn’t expect to be seeing you here tonight. You loathe such things.”
She’s right, but I’m here for a purpose tonight.
Speaking of, there she is. It’s easy to single her out of the crowd of lavishly attired women swirling around with the scintillating gleam of their high-end jewelry catching the light from the many gleaming chandeliers lighting up this grand ballroom.
Naomi doesn’t need any artifice. The pistachio-green off-the-shoulder ballgown hugs her delicate curves gently, the fabricflowing around her lithe form like a soft breeze. Unlike the other females in the room, she isn’t dripping in diamonds and other precious stones. A simple gold filigree necklace encircles the long column of her neck.
What draws the eye onto her is the intricately designed mask hiding her eyes and cheekbones. It’s a light, creamy color, streaks of pale gold finely decorating the piece. Unpretentious, unlike the many monstrosities I can see around, with feathers and sequins galore.
She shines with her freshness and simplicity, like a flower allowed to bloom without the weight of artifice on it.
“Ah,” Zia Vivi exclaims next to me. “Of course, there’s a ragazza involved.” She pauses, and I can feel her piercing gaze on me. The silver arabesque mask on her face is doing nothing to diminish the impact. “You know what you’re doing?”
Here she is making me feel like a foolish teenager who knows nothing.
In the past, bluster would’ve overtaken me, and I’d have stormed away while biting my tongue. You don’t speak back to your elders.
But this is now, and I’m not a boy anymore. In our family now, I’m the eldest.
“I thought you were like Switzerland, Zia. Not getting involved and all that.”
She scoffs. “I only married a Swiss.”
I take a sip of my champagne. “When it suits you.”
“It’s for your own good.”
Every society has one like her—a meddler who likes to pull strings from the shadows. Nonna Lorena is the quiet one in their duo. Zia Vivi always knew she’d be better as a strategist. If she’d married my Nonno, she would’ve run our Borgata with an iron fist. But he had eyes only for her gentle friend.
While I appreciate her concern—no one would ever want to get on her bad side—she’s not running the show here.
I turn to her and tip my flute of champagne her way. “I’m better placed to figure this out, don’t you think?”
A long beat of silence stretches between us, the din of the ballroom settling into the void, until she closes her eyes briefly then gives me a soft nod.
“It’s good to see you step into his shoes,” she says.
“I have a feeling you want to add ‘finally’ to this,” I mention.
She chuckles then sobers. “You were all grieving.”
Still are, I want to tell her, but bite my tongue. Nonna says grief is love that has no place to go. An apt description.
Zia Vivi thumps my ass with her cane. I quell the urge to wince.
