I probably look every bit of the twenty-one-year-old girl at her very first birthday party begging not to leave because I haven’t tried the cake yet.
I’m the girl who wants to belong but can never quite come up to size.
“This is not the time or the place for this discussion, Camilla.” Lydia’s face hardens, and she reaches for me again. “Not right now. We can’t do this right now.”
“Lydia,” Talent calls out, following us into the hallway. His shoes squeak on the marble floors. “It’s too late. He saw her.”
Lydia’s eyes fall closed, and she inhales a sharp breath through her nose. I know immediately that I’ve made a mistake. When she said we had to go, I should have believed her and ran.
But I have something to prove.
Coming to her senses, Lydia fusses over me like an adrenaline rush and swipes the tiara from my head. She smooths out my hair and wipes the smeared makeup from under my eyes with her trembling fingers. Her expression shows no signs of fright I saw only moments ago, and it somehow makes me more afraid.
“When we go back out there, don’t say a word to anyone. Don’t smile. Don’t breathe too hard. Be a fucking statue.” Talent looks me over, nodding in approval. “Be brave.”
“You’re a fucking queen,” Lydia reminds me. “Now it’s time to act like it.”
The celebration continues to go off without a hitch. Drinks flow, bodies move, and heads turn as we walk through the center of the commotion, showing our faces. No one here knows my name, but they know clear and present danger has come to crash the party.
Wilder stares down a shadow.
I don’t have to see their face to know it’s a Coppola. It’s apparent in the width of his shoulders, the lean of his head, and in the way my skin crawls as we get near. I run my hands up and down my arms before coming face-to-face with what I asked for. Lydia stands tall in her shoes, chin up, back straight. She’s taught me everything she knows, and this is my chance to put it to work. To prove I have a place at her side.
“I was starting to think you left out the back door,” he declares upon our arrival.
Now I know for sure he’s a Coppola. They all sound the same.
Like velvet and corruption.
“Nicolai,” Talent says with his usual charm. He shakes the man’s hand, making it a point to stand as a wall between us. “Long time, no see. I thought you left town.”
Talent signals a drink server over and relieves her tray of five glasses of champagne. One for each of us. The thought of swallowing another drop of alcohol turns my stomach, filling my mouth with saliva, but I play along. It keeps my hands busy and gives me something to focus on when all I want to do is grab Wilder and go.
He doesn’t outright acknowledge my presence, but Wilder knows I’m here. Even as his pointed stare remains locked on our unwelcome guest, he shifts to obstruct Nicolai’s view of me.
Unfolding his hands to show his open palms, Nicolai lifts his shoulders. “I’m back.”
Nicolai Coppola is as tall as Wilder, with olive skin, dark eyes, and short black hair. Unlike Luca, who’s corruption incarnate, the Coppola mounted before us matches the Ridges in style and grace. He may have a conscience, showing hints of an intact soul with tattoos of crosses on his knuckles and religious symbols atop his hands. An ivory rosary hangs from around his neck, another sign that he’s halfway in and halfway out of this life. He can’t be any older or younger than the brothers, and by the way they stand together in a triangle formation—close but careful—they share a history.
All have sinned, and all fall short of the glory of God.
“I’m getting tired of you motherfuckers showing up uninvited, Nico.” Wilder shortens his corner of the triangle and flexes his shoulders, gearing up for a fight he doesn’t intend to lose. He looks Nicolai up and down, daring him to do something about it. Ready to act if he takes the dare.
Nicolai grins wide enough to show all of his teeth and slowly turns his head to meet Wilder head-on. “My family is offended we weren’t invited.”
“Private event,” Wilder says with an indifferent shrug. “Go. Tell your father this is the last time any of you show up unannounced.”
Nico stiffens at the threat. His dark eyes narrow, and the cords in his throat tighten as he stretches his neck from side to side. A strobe light from the stage fractures his expression to pieces, turning him into a silhouette between flashes. And for a moment, when he’s nothing but space, Nicolai is what lingers in the dark when the lights are out.
“Have you lost your mind or just your manners, Wild?” Nico sneers. “It would do you well to remember who you’re talking to.”
“I know exactly who the fuck I’m talking to, Coppola.”
Nicolai chews on the sound and implication of his name from Wilder’s mouth, as if it’s something he hasn’t experienced in a long time. He’s accepting, and says, “I see where we stand now.” Gesturing toward Lydia and me, he asks, “Are these the whores you’re signing your life away for?”
Wilder’s hands close into fists, but Talent holds his arms out in front of him. “Enough.”
The up and down of emotions, being wound up and not knowing if we’re going to fight and talk this one out. Who’ll jump first, or will this sizzle out and die? I’m standing on the edge of a cliff and don’t know if I should jump off or take a step back. Wilder has a direct line to my heart, and it beats out of control as he does.
