Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

ELENA

W e have brunch on the back porch. The grated fires are lit since autumn is coming in. My eyes ache from spending hours last night scouring the internet. I searched “how to seem upper class” and “Italian classic films, paintings, books.” I’m doing my best to absorb as much information as possible. I need to sell Elena Esposito.

Platters sit on the table: assorted meats, cheeses, marinated vegetables. Mr. Moretti Senior, Salvatore, couldn’t make it. That’s a relief because he stared me down yesterday like he could see right through me. Mrs. Moretti, Maria, watches me, too, but not with as much judgment.

She’s an elegant woman, her cheekbones sharper than mine will ever be, and she’s wearing an elegant dress that is undoubtedly expensive but not tacky. Her hair is a graceful silver. Dario sits opposite me in a sleek suit, his expression difficult to read—no near-smiles this morning.

“How did you sleep in this new environment?” Maria asks.

“Excellently,” I say. “The bed was ever so comfortable.”

She tilts her head. Was “ ever ” so over the top? It’s hard to walk the line between seeming posh and fake.

“Your old bed wasn’t comfortable?” Maria asks.

“That’s not what she said, Mother,” Dario says.

Maria glances at her son, her lips pursed. She seems slightly more accepting without Salvatore here. Slightly . “Yes, you’re right. I’m being a Picky Penny, aren’t I?”

For the first time, Dario doesn’t seem ashamed by his smile. His intense eyes seem somewhat less severe as he looks at his mother. “Yes, but just a little. This Mortadella is delicious.”

Clara walks onto the porch. “Would anybody like something more to drink?”

I do my best not to smile at her, not to look at her. I can sense Maria watching me. Auditioning for acting roles—actual acting roles, not insane ones like this—has never felt this stressful. I wave a hand. “What we’d like is some privacy.”

Clara immediately retreats. My stomach twists into a vicious knot of guilt. That was the ugliest thing I’ve ever said or done to a server. It doesn’t feel good at all. Worse, even Maria doesn’t look impressed. She just watches me with that same unreadable expression. Dario’s back to not smiling as he stuffs more food into his mouth. Even that seems elegant and a product of high class somehow.

“Do you have any plans for this wonderfully gray East Coast day?” Maria asks after a pause.

“I’m currently rereading Dante’s Inferno ,” I lie because I mostly only read movie scripts and modern, easy books.

“How wonderful,” Maria says. “And you, my dear son?”

“Business,” Dario says. “Always business.”

“You say that with such joy,” Maria points out.

“You know me, Mother,” Dario says. “Joy is the only emotion I’m capable of feeling.”

His tone gets so somber that I almost want to touch his hand across the table. It’s a fleeting, silly thought I don’t entertain for long. We’re from different worlds. He’s paying me. His parents already hate me. He’s a criminal, maybe a violent one. Or perhaps the “maybe” is just pure ignorance on my part. He’s not attracted to me, and I’m not attracted to him .

Okay, the last one might be me stretching the truth a little, but it’s not as if we’re short of reasons we could never work for real. And I don’t want us to . I have to remember that.

As soon as Maria leaves, I walk through the big townhouse looking for Clara, finding her in one of the kitchens, chopping vegetables. She looks at me with the same expression she aimed at me when I arrived. “Anything I can help with?”

I glance over my shoulder, making sure we’re alone. “I wanted to apologize for how I spoke to you earlier.”

The look on her face is heartbreaking. It’s as if she can’t even process the concept of somebody in my apparent position apologizing to her. “There is no need for that.”

I walk around the kitchen island and reach out, touching her arm. “No, seriously. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. You didn’t deserve it. I—” Used to be a waitress , I almost say, but that wouldn’t exactly jibe with who I’m supposed to be. “… don’t usually treat people like that.”

“I mean it.” She takes a step back, glancing at the door. “It’s fine.”

I turn to find Dario filling the entire doorframe, his sleek, expensive suit highlighting his build. He stares at me, saying nothing, but the message is clear. He wants to talk. I join him in the hallway under a giant painting of a tree. It’s stunning, almost photorealistic.

“What was that about?” he asks.

“I had to apologize. I was horrible to her.”

“She’s used to it. She’s been serving assholes all her life.”

“So that makes it okay, does it?” I say.

“No,” he grunts, “but it’s how it is. It’s the way this world is. When certain people are born poor and become rich, they treat poor people like crap because they remind them of who they used to be. When people are born rich, they don’t think of being friendly to the staff. It wouldn’t even occur to them.”

“What about people who are born poor and are still poor?”

He takes a step forward, almost brushing right up against me. As far as I can tell, he’s not wearing cologne, but he has a scent. It’s manly, musky. Is that the word? Something flutters inside me. My heart beats a little faster.

“That’s not who you are,” he says huskily. “You were born rich, suffered a tragedy, and now you’re here.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have apologized?”

“No,” he replies. “You’re right. Clara doesn’t deserve to be spoken to like that.”

“So, why are you chewing me out?”

His eyes snap open wide at my choice of words. Maybe it’s too casual. Or perhaps it brings too much intimacy to mind, even if the phrasing is crude. “Maybe I feel like a jackass because it took a poor actress to apologize where I should’ve.” He turns. “I’ve got to go to work.”

“Mafia business?” I say.

He turns back to me, eyebrow raised. “Is there something you want to say to me?” Suddenly, it’s like I see the mob version of him. His eyes burn into me. His tone has become dark, even breathier. “If you’ve got a problem with this life, say it now.”

“Or forever hold my peace?”

I don’t know what instinct possesses me to sass him, but it’s like I can’t stop.

“Very funny,” he grunts, “but my money’s good enough for you.”

“I’d take money from the devil if it meant getting Aunt Rosa the care she needs. She needs pain meds. She needs rehab. She needs therapy. She needs more than I could ever give her alone.”

“That’s where I’m going, Elena … to earn money. So maybe take that judgment out of your tone.”

“It’s difficult.”

“Just pretend you don’t find my work completely sickening,” he growls. “Maybe, when you’re older?—”

“Come on . Don’t make this about age. I’m twenty-two. That’s plenty old enough to have an opinion.”

“Yes, and I’m thirty-seven, and I still don’t know …” He grits his teeth as if he’s about to overshare and has just stopped himself. “You can judge if you want. Luckily, this is a business deal and nothing else, right?”

I nod. “Right.”

When he leaves, I feel oddly hollow. I almost want to call him to come back and tell him I’m sorry. Sometimes, my mouth can get me into trouble. I didn’t mean to go at him like that, but it felt like a challenge when he stared me down.