Chapter 4 - The Mask of Affection
At eight-thirty the following morning, the sun poured through the twenty-foot arched windows of the grand dining terrace, illuminating twenty thousand dollars' worth of fresh white Casablanca lilies arranged in crystal vases.
Vivien sat at the head of the table, dressed in a pale green silk wrap dress that showed off the five-carat oval diamond engagement ring I had placed on her finger six months ago.
Surrounding her were three high-society event coordinators, two celebrity florists, and the lead fashion correspondent from Vogue Italia, all sipping fresh Valencia mimosas while reviewing three-foot-wide architectural renderings of our upcoming wedding pavilion.
“No, absolutely not,” Vivien was saying, waving a dismissive, manicured hand at a sample of ivory Italian lace. “The aisle runner must be imported Belgian silk. Lorenzo Duca is marrying a Russo; I will not have our ceremony looking like a provincial merchant’s picnic. Make sure the private security detail at the cathedral is tripled. We don't want any... uninvited elements slipping into the front pews.”
I walked onto the terrace, my footsteps muffled by the antique Persian rugs.
I had spent two hours in my private gym, my muscles coiled like steel cables, cold water washing away the exhaustion of a sleepless night. I wore an impeccably tailored charcoal Brunello Cucinelli suit, an open-collared white shirt, and my signature gold chronograph. My posture was relaxed, my expression smooth, my lips curved into that subtle, confident smile that had disarmed boardrooms from Zurich to Tokyo.
“Good morning, darling,” I said, stepping behind her chair.
Vivien turned, her eyes lighting up with that bright, practiced radiance that had fooled half the city for a year. She leaned her head back, tilting her chin up for a kiss.
I leaned down and pressed my lips to her cheek.
Her skin smelled of French tuberose and expensive cosmetics. Beneath the perfume, all I could smell was the bitter reek of vecuronium bromide and the stench of her father’s betrayal.
“Lorenzo!” she beamed, wrapping her slender arms around my neck, her diamond flashing in the morning light. “You look so handsome this morning. You missed the tasting for the rehearsal dinner entrees. Chef Antonio prepared the Chilean sea bass with white truffle reduction—it’s absolutely divine.”
“I’m sure it is,” I smiled, pulling out the chair beside her and sitting down.
At that moment, the swinging double doors from the butler’s pantry opened.
Elena walked onto the terrace, wearing her pressed black uniform and white apron, pushing a silver wheeled tea trolley. Her face was pale, dark circles shadowing her eyes, but her hands were noticeably steadier than they had been twenty-four hours earlier.
Behind her, little Mia peeked around the corner of the pantry frame, wearing her red cotton skirt, her small fingers clutching the molding.
Vivien’s smile tightened at the edges—just for a fraction of a second, an imperceptible twitch of annoyance that only someone watching for it would ever catch.
“Elena,” Vivien purred, her voice shifting into that sweet, condescending register. “You’re late with the second pot of Earl Grey. Lorenzo likes his tea piping hot before he reviews the morning manifests.”
Elena stepped to the table, her head bowed respectfully. “I apologize, Miss Vivien. The kettle took longer to boil.”
She poured the steaming dark tea into my porcelain cup, her hand trembling slightly as the silver spout neared the rim.
Vivien reached across the linen runner, her fingers casually adjusting a vase of lilies, and as she did, her elbow deliberately clipped the hot porcelain teapot in Elena’s hand.
Clatter.
Hot water splashed across Elena’s wrist. Elena let out a sharp, stifled gasp of pain, stepping backward, clutching her reddened skin.
“Oh, goodness!” Vivien gasped, covering her mouth with theatrical horror. “Elena! Look at your clumsiness! You almost scalded Lorenzo’s jacket! Honestly, darling,” she turned to me, rolling her eyes with affectionate exasperation, “your mother’s old staff has completely fallen apart since her illness. They have no discipline. After the wedding, I really think we should replace the domestic staff with a professional private management firm from Milan.”
Beneath the table, Mia let out a tiny, frightened whimper from the doorway, her little hands pressing against her face.
I didn't yell. I didn't flip the table.
I picked up my linen napkin, reached across the table, and took Elena’s scalded wrist in my hand.
I gently wrapped the cool cloth around her red skin, my thumb pressing with reassuring, steady firmness against her pulse point.
“Elena has been in this house since I was twenty-four, Vivien,” I said, my voice low, warm, and utterly level. “Her loyalty to my mother is the only reason this estate runs smoothly. Accidents happen when people are tired.”
Vivien blinked, surprised by the subtle, public rebuke in front of the Vogue editor. A flicker of cold, sharp calculation darted behind her green eyes before she forced out a musical, self-effacing laugh.
“Of course, darling. You’re always so generous. That’s why I adore you.”
“Go take care of that burn, Elena,” I told the maid, releasing her hand with a subtle nod. “And take Mia to the garden. Have the groundskeeper cut her some fresh strawberries.”
Elena met my eyes. The silent understanding that passed between us was electric. She dipped her head, gathered her tea service, and hurried back into the pantry, scooping up her daughter as she went.
I turned back to my fiancée, picking up my teacup and taking a measured sip.
“Speaking of the rehearsal dinner,” I said, resting my forearms on the table. “I’ve decided to make a slight adjustment to tonight’s schedule.”
Vivien raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Oh? What kind of adjustment?”
“I called your father an hour ago,” I smiled, looking straight into her eyes. “And your brother Christian. I told them that an intimate dinner at a restaurant was far too informal for an alliance between the Duca and Russo names.”
Vivien’s breath caught in her throat. “You... you invited my family here?”
“I invited forty of our primary maritime logistics partners, two federal appellate judges, and the port authority commissioners,” I said smoothly. “Right here in the grand ballroom. At eight o’clock tonight.”
Her eyes flared with sudden, breathless triumph.
She believed the trap had closed. She believed that by gathering the city’s power brokers under my roof, she was about to witness the public coronation of the Russo takeover.
May you like
“Lorenzo... that’s magnificent!” she breathed, leaning across the table and clutching my hand, her diamond cold against my skin. “My father will be thrilled! He’s bringing the final maritime merger protocols for us to sign before the toasts!”
“I know he is, Vivien,” I said softly, my thumb tracing the blue vein along the inside of her wrist. “Tell him to bring every single document he has. Tonight... we settle every debt between our families once and for all.”
