Chapter 13 Sunday Dinner

"You're looking thin, Miss Bianchi. Too thin." Charlotte, our housekeeper and cook, says to me.

My simple muddy brown wrap dress hangs loosely on my shoulders and doesn't hug my hips like it used to. I've lost interest in food over the last six months. I've lost interest in life. What's the point? I will always be Vaughn's daughter. I can't run from him or who I am. This is my existence. Each minute sucks the marrow from my bones like a blown-out egg.

The only time I'd ever thought I'd had a chance of a happy ending was with Foster, but he was an illusion I conjured because I wanted so badly for it to be true.

"We have an elaborate birthday feast tonight. Eat a hefty portion for me or you'll have me worried I'm not doing a good job." Charlotte's voice draws me from my wistfulness.

"You're doing a phenomenal job. It's not your food that's bothering me I'm just… I'll make sure to eat with gusto. Okay?"

"Thank you, Miss Bianchi." She smiles at me with caring eyes. It's nice and makes me miss my mom.

She pats my back. "We're almost ready. "

I nod and force my lips and eyes into the facade of Milana Bianchi. I don't dare to engage as my true self because no one cares who I really am. They all want Vaughn's dutiful daughter to show up and do her smiling act.

I've been dreading tonight. My father invited his two brothers—my uncle Vinny and Uncle Sal—and their wives. My dad says family who eats together stays together , so we have these Sunday dinners that usually devolve into a drunken shouting match with everyone talking at the same time. They're always complaining about something. The traffic, the weather, prices, people talking smack.

My dad doesn't care if I'm bored out of my mind and it's nothing a twenty-five-year-old girl would want for her birthday. It meets his need to prove we're close.

"There she is. The birthday girl." My Aunt Sylvia, who is plump and over dressed for dinner at her brother-in-law's, hugs me. I embrace her but I'm blank inside. She doesn't care about me. She's putting on a show for her husband and my father.

Over her shoulder, two men in suits standing by the wall on the far side of the dining room. My gaze passes over Renzo quickly and lands on the other man.

My throat grows thick like I've swallowed an apple whole.

A thief has stolen the oxygen from my lungs.

Olive eyes take me in from head to toe without blinking or moving an inch. The man looks exactly like Foster .

The same strong chiseled jaw, a twin sexy dimple in his chin. His handsome face is exactly the same as the Foster I knew, but he can't be standing at my… but he is.

Foster Dunham is leaning against the wall in the dining room of my father's Manhattan apartment.

My knees rattle and the floor falls away, leaving me adrift in the middle of an incomprehensible sight.

He looks dapper in a tailored black suit with a forest green shirt and thin black tie. He's refined. Dressed up. Only the crescent gray and yellow marks under his left eye suggest his dangerous profession. He certainly doesn't look like a fighter tonight. He fits in perfectly next to Renzo and my uncles. I'm annoyed my dad invited Renzo to my birthday dinner, but I can't concentrate on that.

Foster's deep gaze drills into my being. He dips his head but keeps his cool eyes on me, very polite. Overly polite. Except for the fading bruise, I don't see anything there that hints at the Foster I knew. This man is a stranger in Foster's body.

My dad's kiss on my cheek breaks my trance. "Hello, sweetheart." His extra friendly tone implies he expects me to play along. He presses his hand to my back, urging my feet to move closer to the Foster imposter. "You remember Foster? The man who kept you safe during the hurricane?"

My palms sweat and my feet wobble in my platform pumps. I chose this dress quickly, not trying to impress anyone. No color. I usually wear brighter, more feminine dresses. But Foster is looking into my eyes and I get the familiar feeling he sees my soul. He doesn't care what I'm wearing. "Of course." My voice falters. I nod at him. No way am I shaking his hand.

"I owe you one, Foster, smart move." For some inexplicable reason, my dad has done a complete 180 from the way he reacted to Foster the morning after the hurricane.

Foster grins and reveals a gap in the bottom row of his teeth. Holy crap. Someone knocked a tooth out of his mouth? He nods but doesn't say a word. He's eerily quiet and it's unsettling.

"I thought you might like to have Renzo here for your birthday too." My dad steps aside so Renzo can move in.

Foster's eyes flare as Renzo kisses me on one cheek, then the other. "Buon compleanno, bellissima."

We exchange an uncomfortable smile. Renzo fully believes I'm going to marry him and I'm planning a wedding for this spring. I am not, but I've stopped fighting my father and Renzo when they talk about it. I may have no say in what happens, but I won't be the one to plan my own demise.

"Come! Sit! We've prepared a special evening for your birthday and there's a room full of presents awaiting you." My father pulls out a chair for me. "Everything made precisely to your grandmother's recipe."

I drag my attention away from Foster to properly greet my aunts and uncles who have come across town to join us. They expect to be treated to a five-star meal and lots of expensive booze in exchange for the extravagant gifts they brought. It's all about them and my dad. As long as I smile, they'll be happy and have a good time.

I take the seat my father offered me because I have no choice. He instructs Renzo to sit next to me and Foster across from me.

Holy shoot. This is bizarre. Why is Foster in my father's living room on my birthday of all days?

Even more bizarre, Donnie walks behind Foster and pats him on the back. Foster gives him a familiar smile. When did Foster and Donnie become friendly? Six months ago they were at each other's throats.

Have I walked into an episode of the Twilight Zone?

As we settle in our seats, I keep my gaze down and place my napkin in my lap. I can't bear looking into his probing gaze again.

As Charlotte and the staff bring out the drinks, my dad starts up a conversation with his brother. They are off to the races and my dad won't pay me any attention for the rest of the night.

A waiter pours me a glass of Cabernet and Foster chooses a white wine. He smirks at me as the waiter pours it. This is the same guy who drank straight from the bottle in the wine cellar. The same guy who was a waiter for my family at one point in his life. This is too crazy. I have to find out what the hell is going on.

"So, Renzo." He turns his chin toward me. "How do you know Foster?"

Foster takes a sip from his glass. No sign of nervousness or agitation coming from his body language. He's as relaxed at a private birthday dinner in Manhattan as he is out in a hurricane in the Hamptons.

"We've both been helping your dad out," Renzo replies.

I check to see Donnie's reaction, but he's diving into the rosemary focaccia a server put in front of him. Foster's presence here clearly doesn't bother him as much as it does me.

"In what way?" I press.

"Let's not talk shop, Milana. How are you and how is your twenty-fifth birthday going? Did you get all you wished for?" Renzo asks me.

Foster raises an eyebrow, waiting for my reply.

Now that the initial shock has worn off, I return to my familiar friend, sadness. I'm sad the Foster I knew is gone. I'm sad this shell of a man who looks like him has shown up tonight to confirm his passing.

White heat layers the grief in my heart. It's all true. Foster was using me to get to my dad's money. He lied to me. He wasn't who he appeared to be at all.

All these months, I struggled with whether to accept it or not. Donnie had shown me video and pictures of Foster delivering packages and asking to be invited to Sunday dinner, but still, my foolish heart believed Foster was a good guy and there must be some other explanation. Now the life-size proof sits across from me at my father's table. He's an unscrupulous bastard and he played us all like a symphony. Well, watch out, Foster Dunham. Hell hath no fury like a rich girl scorned.

"I don't know," I reply to Renzo's question, pretending to be flippantly coy. "Is there a ring amongst my birthday presents?"

Foster's eyes blow wide open and he chokes on his wine. Renzo's head snaps back. "Would you be happy if there was?" He wipes his mouth with his napkin. He's chomping at the bit hoping I mean what I'm saying.

"All girls love to receive jewelry on their birthday. Don't they?"

Renzo blinks and turns his attention back to his plate as his lips tighten in a short grin. "Of course."

Foster has finished coughing and is now gripping his fork like a weapon. A vein in his neck twitches. Fine. Be angry. What do I have to lose? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

My dad clinks his glass with his fork and commands everyone's attention. I can barely control my anger long enough to look up at him .

"Listen to me for a second. Three generations of Bianchis sacrificed their balls for Bianchi Industries. When the road gets dark, it's your family who remains faithful. When you're alone, the sole light in the tunnel is the one who carries your blood, the one who will shed that blood to save yours. I know one thing; fidelity is its own reward. You got true family, you'll never be alone."

What the hell is he talking about? My father has a way of adding a heavy dose of guilt to his unconditional love, but this is beyond the pale. He's got me shaking in my boots and I have no plans to abandon him.

His speech seems to have affected Foster. He's looking down at his plate. When he looks up, I catch his gaze for a second and I see pain like he's burning from the inside. He would love to be part of this family, even if it is dishonest and dysfunctional, and my dad just made it clear he is not part of it and never will be. Foster clears his throat and breaks our stare.

I want to feel sorry for him, but I can't. He chose this path. He connived and manipulated his way in here and if he gets excluded by my dad, he deserves that and everything else for lying to me and breaking my heart. He twisted himself into someone he's not just to get ahead and that never pays off.

Renzo peers at my dad with stars in his eyes. He must think he's part of the family, or he's going to be soon, because he's eating this up .

As we move through the courses of fine Italian cuisine, the pressure between Foster and I builds like we're frogs sitting in a heating pot of water.

Foster looks at me across the table and the skin on my arm grows goosebumps. Something evil and convoluted is going on under the surface, and it's breaking what little resolve I could muster tonight. I feel terrible for flirting with Renzo. I'm confused why Foster is here. I have to flee this dinner and whatever Foster's cooking up with my father. My heart needs to run and hide under a pint of ice cream and a handful of melatonin.

My hands shake and my voice cracks as I place my napkin on my plate and stand up. "I, uh, I have to go."

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" my dad asks.

As Foster stands, everything about him mocks me. He laughs with his tall body, his trim waist, his broad shoulders, and the green fabric of his shirt playing off his eyes. He's gorgeous. He fits in here. He used me to get his spot at the table. I'm the fool.

This is too much. I can't stand it. "I'm sorry. I feel ill." I step away from the table and scuffle to the door. "My stomach didn't take the food well."

My dad stands. "Don't be silly, sweetheart. Stay and have cake. Presents. "

"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm really not well. I need to go get some medicine at the store." I lean forward and press my hand to my stomach as I leave the dining room.

My father follows behind me. "We'll send someone for whatever you need."

"I'll just go. It's faster."

Foster appears and holds out his hand, palm up. "Please, Mila, stay." Foster's pleading voice slices my heart like a box cutter through cardboard. He expects me to stay and suffer through this torture? No. Never. He can carry on with his Machiavellian plan outside of my presence.

Before he can say another word, I have my keys and bag and I'm at the elevator.

Foster moves toward the elevator with his mouth open like he wants to say something, but he's too late. The doors close with me inside, him out there. Two different worlds, never to be meshed.

The elevator takes forever to reach the parking garage. My dress pulls tight as I run to the safety of my car. The beep of my vehicle and the silence inside when I close the door feels like a refuge. I made it. It's over and I'm never going back. If Foster is going to be at Sunday dinners, I won't be there.

I hate him and I never want to see him again.

He wanted to sit at the table with the Bianchis and pretend I meant nothing to him? I hope he gets everything he deserves. I hope my dad messes with his head and casts him away like Foster did to me. Foster looked so damn arrogant in his tailored suit! He had the nerve to stare me down like I had done something wrong. I did nothing! He's the one who betrayed us and what we were building.

A flash of something hits my windshield and the car skids to a stop.

Oh my God. Foster is lying flat on his chest on the hood of my car. His arms are wide out to his side and his palms are flat. He's clinging to the car like Spider-Man, his eyes wild like a demon possessed!

The momentum of the car stopping pushes his face right up next to the windshield.

"Stop!" His angry face scowls at me. I'm mostly reading his lips because I can't really hear him from outside.

"I am stopped!" I scream back, but he's probably reading my lips too.

His eyebrows furrow as he slides off the car like he's mad at me. He's the one who jumped onto a moving car. I did nothing wrong except try to leave this nightmare of an evening—and him—behind. As he stomps to the passenger door, I fumble for the lock but he opens it before I can get my brain and my hand coordinated. He plops in the passenger seat of my Jetta and glares at me.

"Get the hell out of my car! "

"We're talking now." His voice is commanding and harsh. Who the hell does he think he is talking to me like that?

"The hell we are. Get out!"

"Drive to the beach." He points through the windshield telling me which way to go. The Brooklyn accent has returned to his voice and he looks a lot more like the fighter I once knew. That guy was hot when he was angry. This dickwaddle in a suit is just pissing me off.

A car behind me honks for me to get out of the way.

"I have to move."

"So drive."

"Not with you in here."

The car behind me gives up on waiting, honks, and goes around us.

"Get out!" I reach over his lap and open his door. My arms brush his thighs and darn, darn, they are still ripped and tight.

"Drive," he says like he can give me orders.

"No." I cross my arms and stare forward through the windshield.

"Your dad has probably sent someone out here to follow me. Did you tell him about us?" he asks me .

"No." Of course I didn't. It would put us both in the crosshairs.

"I didn't either, so unless Donnie or Renzo did, he doesn't know."

"Donnie and Renzo didn't tell him. I would have heard about it."

"Then drive if you want to keep it a secret," he says with a condescending tone.

"I hate you." My foot stomps the gas and my wheels squeak as we tear out of the parking lot.