Page 12 of Vicious Temptation
I cap my mascara, letting out a slow breath. Maybe I should do that. Tonight isn’t going to end in an engagement, but I know my father isn’t going to take no for an answer. Before too much longer, he’s going to force a betrothal with someone. And I’ll have no real say in who it is.
The thought of taking up space in Clara’s tiny studio apartment makes me feel sick with guilt. For all that I know, her offer is genuine; it feels like an awful imposition. Like I’m taking advantage of how much she cares about me. I have no idea how long I would need to take her up on that offer for—I have no degree, no special skills, just a hobby that involves taking pictures, and New York is an astronomically expensive city. Even from my privileged perch, I’m aware of how much things cost, and I know I would have a hard time making it in New York on my own. The other option would be to move away—from my family, from my only friend—and that thought makes the panic well up fast and choking, until I want to strip the dress off and crawl back into bed.
“Bel?” Clara ventures. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I sweep a dark terracotta shade of lip stain over my mouth, slipping it into a marigold silk clutch that matches the shawl. I slip on my rose gold jewelry, and I’m ready to go. “I need to head down. I’ll fill you in on how it goes when I get back.”
“You better.” Clara presses her fingertips to her mouth and then to the screen. “Try to have fun.”
I snort. “Sure. Text you later.”
“Byeeee.” The screen goes dark, and I let out a long breath, staring at it for a minute before I get up and go in search of my high heels.
At ten minutes to seven, I drape the shawl around my shoulders and over my arms, looking in the mirror. It has a sort of eccentric twenties feel that I don’t mind, and I sweep my hair over one shoulder, happy with the thick curls that I managed to get it to fall into. I look presentable, and most importantly, I feel shielded enough to be able to leave the house.
I head downstairs, my heels clicking against the hardwood of the stairs—and I see him, standing at the foot of the staircase. He’s talking to my father, his deep voice echoing a little in the cavernous space of the foyer, and it gives me a moment to just look at him again before he sees me. His voice surprises me a little—there’s a rasp to it that I wouldn’t have expected from someone so polished. It sends a shiver over my skin, and for once, I’m not entirely sure that it’s a bad thing. It almost feels pleasant, for the first time in a long time.
I’m struck all over again by how handsome he is, as if I didn’t get the full impact of it yesterday in the chaos. His dark hair is tucked behind his ears, curling softly at the nape of his neck. He’s wearing fitted charcoal suit trousers and a deep blue button-down, the first two buttons open to show a hint of dark hair just below his collarbone. He’s also wearing a watch, and two rings on his right hand—a flat signet ring with a black onyx stone in the center of it, and a broad gold band.
He looks relaxed, head tilted and shoulders dropped, one hand in a pocket and the other loose at his side, as he stands there talking to my father. He seems utterly at ease and self-possessed, without the arrogance that I’m used to from the younger mafia sons I’ve known, or the stuffiness of the older mafia men. A man with nothing to prove, unlike the younger men I’ve known, but also one who doesn’t think as much of himself as my father, or other associates of his that I’ve met. Just as he did yesterday, he seems—different. Like someone I might actually not mind getting to know.
I push the thought away as soon as it enters my mind. Regardless of how handsome he is or how different he might be, he wouldn’t want me if he knew that I wake up crying at night from nightmares, or that I have panic attacks every time I think about being touched. Whatever he thinks tonight is, I remind myself, it’s just a dinner to me. And I’m going to tell him politely no, thank you, at the end.
He turns to look at me as I reach the bottom of the stairs. For a brief second, his eyes sweep over me, and I see a look of frank appreciation in his gaze. Not lust, or desire, but something gentler—something less frightening, to be honest. It doesn’t remind me of those leering looks I’ve so often gotten from men in the past, and that helps set me a little more at ease. It’s enough to almost make me think that I might be able to enjoy the evening for what it is—a dinner out with pleasant enough company.
“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” I smile faintly at him, and he smiles in return.
“Not at all. You’re right on time. The car is waiting outside, so—?” He gestures towards the door, and I nod.
“Let’s go then. Mr. D’Amelio.” He nods to my father, and starts to walk towards the front door.
He doesn’t offer me his arm, which surprises me, but I’m glad that he doesn’t. It spares me the embarrassment of flinching at his touch, and the necessity of being forced to touch him. Instead, he holds the door open for me to walk out, and then follows me out to the steps.
I stop almost as soon as I walk outside, startled at what I see.
I’d expected him to show up in the usual transportation for a wealthy mafia man—a town car or SUV with a driver, always black with heavily tinted windows. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anyone who drove themselves. But instead, a bright, cherry red Ferrari is sitting in our driveway, empty of anyone. It’s gleaming in the early evening light, sleek and gorgeous, a symbol of pure luxury and a clear hint of the kind of money the man I’m spending the evening with has. But there’s a classic elegance to it that I can appreciate, something that tells me this man prefers style over excessive displays of wealth for the sake of it. It makes me like him a little more, seeing what his taste in luxury items is, and the fact that he drives himself.
“She’s worth staring at, isn’t she?” The man’s voice comes from my left, and it occurs to me that I still don’t know his name.
“We haven’t actually been introduced yet.” I turn towards him, tugging my shawl a little closer around myself. “My father didn’t tell me your name. You must know mine—I’m Bella.”
He smiles. “I’m sorry, Bella. That was rude of me. Gabriel Esposito.” He holds out a hand. “At your service.”
I wince, reaching out to quickly shake his hand before withdrawing mine. His hand feels smooth and cool, his long fingers brushing against mine, and my stomach twists as I quickly shrink back. The touch sends a shudder through me, and I do my best to hide it. If he notices, he’s polite enough not to mention it. “It’s nice to meet you. Again.”
Gabriel laughs. “This is better than the first time,” he agrees. “For one thing, there’s dinner at the end of this.” He motions towards the Ferrari. “Shall we?”
I nod, realizing we’ve been standing awkwardly on the steps for several minutes. I walk down to the waiting car, more impressed by it the closer we get. It’s gorgeous, from the cherry-red shine to the soft, buttery tan leather of the interior. I feel a faint flutter of excitement at the idea of going for a drive in it, and that all on its own makes me feel a mixture of nerves and a small flush of happiness. It’s been a long time since anything has made me feel excited at all. Even this small bit makes me feel hopeful that maybe things are starting to get at least a little bit better.
But that feeling goes away as soon as I remember that even though I don’t intend for this date to go anywhere, eventually, my father will make me say yes to someone. And that sends me crashing right back down, into the depths of that hopeless dread that weighs me down every minute of every day.
Gabriel opens the door for me. “You look like you’ve never seen a Ferrari before,” he says with a laugh, and I give him a sheepish look.
“I haven’t. Not in person, anyway. Cars aren’t really my father’s thing.” I sweep my hand over the edge of the seat beneath me. It’s so soft. “Not what he chooses to spend his money on.”
Gabriel chuckles, sliding into the driver’s side and starting the car. The engine purrs, and he glances over at me. “Maybe later, I’ll show you what she can do.”
It’s an innocuous statement, but I feel myself tense immediately at what could be perceived as a flirtation. I don’t want to lead him on, not when I know I’m going to refuse his offer at the end of the night. He seems nice enough—nicer than most men I’ve met—and it feels wrong to give him any ideas that I don’t intend to follow through on.