by Holly Hart
“But hey, it was Dec’s fault anyway. He was oldest, so when he said jump, I just asked how high…” I grin.
“Like hell ye did,” Declan growls, relaxing back into his chair and swinging an arm around Casey, pulling her into him. “It was probably your damn idea. Ye always were good at shifting the blame.”
I shrug, grinning at the crowd. I look from chair to chair, picking a person on every table to make eye contact with: another thing that da’ taught us. An old lady here, a family friend there, on every table I’m greeted by a tipsy smile…
…except one.
My eyes seem drawn to her: a lady in a mid-gray silk dress, plunging at her neck, barely covering her breasts. It’s not stealing the show. It’s not nearly the most revealing dress in this ballroom, maybe not even on the table she’s seated on. But it’s the only dress that’s literally stopped me in my tracks.
I’ve seen her before. But never looking like this.
It’s Sofia Morello.
Goddamn. My mouth goes dry. Mickey Morello’s sister looks fierce as hell. She’s not quite smiling. The corners of her lips are upturned, hiked upwards as though she’s considering it, but holding back. Sofia’s eyebrows are arched. It feels like she’s questioning me. I know I’m wrong, I know that she’s only staring at me because I’m giving a goddamn speech, but I can’t help thinking that Sofia only has eyes for me.
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry.”
I reach down towards the table, searching for a tumbler of water. I’m going to need it. I swallow a mouthful, and turn my eyes away from Mickey’s sister. I know that if I keep staring at her, then my tongue will stick like it’s been cemented in place.
My body begs me to turn back to face her. I feel it twisting of its own accord, trying to force me into something I know I can’t bear. I’ve never seen a woman like that before – so calm and confident in herself. It didn’t feel like Sofia was a mere guest at the wedding, it felt like she owned it. Her gaze felt like a thunderbolt ripping through my body.
“We must have been about ten years old,” I say. My voice sounds a bit weaker than usual at first, choked up, still affected by Sofia’s gaze, but I soon pick up steam. Declan glances up at me and groans. He knows the story I’m going to tell.
“Maybe eleven, but who’s counting? So’s, here is how it went. Declan had a bright idea. Most good stories start with that line –.”
Of course, there’s laughter.
“– And this one ain’t no different. Declan always did have an eye for the ladies,” I say, grinning at Casey, who’s hanging onto Dec’s arm like she’s afraid he might up and disappear, “and he wanted to get a real good eyeful, if you know what I mean…”
Declan fixes me with a glare that tells me he plans to get his revenge. I bet if he happens to ever be standing in my place, giving this speech for me, he will be more than happy to twist the knife. But that’s not likely to happen anytime soon…
“So he suggested we hop on down to Mason swimming pool down on Norfolk. The lifeguards there, let me tell ye,” I grin, kissing my fingers like an Italian mobster and gesturing out to the crowd, “they were something else. Somehow, Declan found out, so he did, they trained once every other week, on a Wednesday night.”
Declan makes a throat slitting gesture, though his lips are turned up with humor. Casey’s eyes are bright. I guess Dec’s already told her this story.
“So he dragged me – his frail, innocent, younger brother – down there,” I howl with mock indignation, “and made me crawl through a duct from the boy’s changing room to, you guessed it, the girls’ to watch them change. Of course, we never got nearly so far. A security guard busted us within a few seconds, right when we were unscrewing the grate. Big hulking brute, so he was…”
Two dozen or more servers file into the ballroom – entering from doors at either end – each carrying a fresh bottle of champagne. It’s like a precisely drilled military movement. I know that my job is to keep talking until every single glass in the house is full.
“So we ran. Believe me, I’ve never run faster in my life. You all met da’.” Rumbles of agreement sound around the room. “Seamus Byrne was a fierce man: a proud man. If he had ever found out what we were planning on doing…”
I shake my head, looking over at ma. Her proud eyes are glistening with tears. She dabs at them with her napkin. “It doesn’t bear thinking about. Our asses would’ve been paddled raw…”
Again, laughter rings out from the audience. I glance up into the crowd. The servers are done, heading back out of the ballroom. It’s time.
“But now we’re adults. Will you all please join me in raising a glass to me brother Declan, and most of all to his beautiful new wife, Casey Byrne!”
I raise my glass high into the air. Flickering candlelight shimmers off the outside of the champagne flute, bouncing off the bubbles floating to the surface.
“To Casey Byrne,” I declare, completing the toast, and looking into the crowd with a broad, proud smile on my face, as I hear the response from the whole room.
Of course, without realizing it, my eyes search for the most dangerous woman in the room. Sofia Morello looks unstoppable. Her gray silk dress caresses her body. The light, airy cloth is pulled in tight enough that I’m left with no doubt that her body is just as taut. However, the dress dances around her in a way that makes it impossible to truly make out her figure.
“To Casey Byrne,” Sofia says, raising her own champagne flute into the air. When she speaks, it sounds like she’s speaking with two hundred voices. She returns my stare with lasers of her own which teases my cheeks with a stinging burn.
Two hundred glasses meet two hundred lips, and the room goes silent for a few seconds as our guests drink thousands of dollars’ worth of the best champagne money can buy to celebrate my brother’s marriage. It’s worth every penny.
I drain the whole glass. My mind is spinning. I’m not used to women staring at me like that – with such assurance.
I’m no stranger to looks of greed, or of hungry desire, but the way Sofia looks at me is quite different.
The champagne caresses my throat. The bubbles tickle my tonsils, and the feeling sparks me back to life. I’m still the best man, and my role in this wedding isn’t quite done – not yet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I call out into the crowd, “if ye will follow me to the dance floor, it’s about time me brother showed you what he can do with his feet…”
I slap my brother on the shoulder. His warm cheeks are tinged red with alcohol, and he’s smiling. His hands are linked with Casey’s, and somehow he manages to tear his eyes away from his new wife. Casey’s bump is showing – and her cheeks are red, too. But she is sober as a judge. Even so, it’s easy to tell that she’s having the time of her life.
Declan pulls me in for a hug. “Thank you, Kieran. You’re next, brother,” he growls into my ear. “I’m looking forward to it.”
I shake my head. I’m still spinning. Ten minutes ago, I would have laughed Declan out of the room; but right now, my confidence is shaken.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I murmur, but Declan’s already gone. Casey is dragging him across the room, the short train of her white dress floating out behind. Casey’s new step-daughter, Carla, has this huge glow of happiness on her rosy cheeks as she watches her new mother’s first dance. I never thought there would be, but the kid’s not jealous about her father being stolen away – just happy for him.
A saxophone player releases a pure, clear note that silences the room. He strides out into the dance floor, and the band strikes up on the stage behind him. Whatever song Casey picked, I don’t recognize it. It’s fast and happy, but…
…I barely hear it. My heart is beating loud in my ears: thud, thud, thud, thud. It’s drowning everything else out: the music; the laughter; the happy chattering of the guests; thud, thud, thud, thud. I feel it hammering in my chest. A heat is blooming across my body, burning my cheeks.
A
ll I can think of is Sofia Morello.
The ballroom is plunged into sudden darkness, and it startles me back to life. One beam of light picks out the happy couple as they step out – Declan leading now, Casey following nervously behind.
I move through the crowd. I’m being drawn by something: an urge; a need. It’s ridiculous, and I know it. There are dozens of women, hundreds, maybe thousands in Boston who would be happy to share a bed with me tonight. But I don’t want any of them. Maybe I haven’t for some time now, but I’m only just figuring that out.
Sofia is still sitting at the same table, all alone. She’s sipping from her champagne flute. It’s almost empty. I grab a fresh bottle from a server passing through the room, and slip the kid a few bucks.
“Need a refill?” I growl, from just over her shoulder. Her silk dress plunges down her back. It’s open. It takes everything I have to resist caressing it as I lean forward.
“I thought you would never ask,” Sofia says without bothering to turn round. I don’t know whether she knows who I am, or if she just thinks I’m a server. An irritation bubbles up inside me. I want her to look at me, to acknowledge me. It’s a childish reaction, but Sofia’s patrician coolness is infuriating.
The bubbles fizz up the side of her champagne flute as I pour. “My lady,” I say sarcastically, resisting the urge to tap the side of my head in a mock salute. “Mind if I sit?”
“I suppose,” Sofia replies enigmatically. I don’t know whether that means she minds, or doesn’t, but I decide to take a chance. When she doesn’t protest, I figure I made the right choice. I top up my own glass and lift it to my lips to fill the silence.
“Nice speech,” Sofia finally remarks, glancing at me after a long pause. She lifts her glass to her own lips, and drains half of it in one long gulp.
“Stiff drink for a little girl,” I say, looking at Sofia with interest. She repays it, and I notice that the alcohol has done nothing to dim the intelligence behind her eyes.
“Sober for an Irishman, aren’t you?” Sofia replies, looking away and staring towards the dance floor. Her voice is cool, and so far she’s done nothing to indicate she has the slightest bit of interest in me. I don’t know if she’s playing it cool, or whether she really doesn’t care.
I glance up into the crowd. I see none other than Mickey Morello, cheeks red, stumbling through the crowd.
“Two can play at that game,” I grin. “Had a little bit too much to drink, has he?”
Sofia’s lips tighten, going white with irritation. “Stronzo,” she mutters in accented Italian, gesturing out into the crowd with disgust. She turns her head, and clicks her fingers. Seconds later, a man is by her side, dipping his head to her lips. I’m consumed by the heat of jealousy. I want to push this man away, whoever he is. He’s dressed in an ill-fitting suit. She jerks her head at her brother, and the man nods, and strides into the crowd.
“It’s handled,” Sofia says, grimacing, but in a tone of voice that indicates that the matter is closed.
I glance up at her brother with interest. After Declan’s troubles a few months ago, I knew that Mickey Morello was a shadow of his late father. His sister Sofia, on the other hand…
She gets to her feet, lightly caressing a handful of silk by her thigh to pull the train of her dress away from her heels. I get a glimpse of one long, tanned leg. I can’t stop looking at it. I have to force myself to tear my eyes away. What’s this girl doing to me?
“Come,” she says, gesturing at me like she did her bodyguard. “You can buy me a drink.”
I resist the urge to remind Sofia that it’s a free bar. If this is what it takes to get her on her own, I can play her game. I follow a couple of paces behind her. I think she probably likes that – it makes her feel important. I’m just checking out her thick, perfect ass.
“Yes ma’am,” I growl. This time I really do give a mock salute. Sofia turns and almost catches me, but my face is a picture of innocence. Whatever’s about to happen, I’m looking forward to it…
Chapter Three
Sofia
I know this is a bad idea. I also know that I don’t care. I know absolutely that I’m being driven by my emotions – in this case, irritation with my brother Mickey – but I still don’t care.
Sometimes a girl just needs to have fun.
I’m sitting in a dark corner of the Avery bar that is, itself, located in a far-off corner of the hotel. The only light is thrown by a flickering gas-fire that seems to explode into life from nothingness out of a slab of stone. I cross my legs and settle back into a leather chair that lightly creaks as it accepts my weight. Kieran Byrne’s eyes flicker across my body with the same intensity as the heat from the flame. I can’t tell which I prefer.
“Expensive place to have a wedding,” I remark dryly. I’m not kidding. The Ritz-Carlton is easily Boston’s most expensive hotel. “Seems like the kind of thing that might draw attention from the wrong kind of people.”
“We’re simple people,” Kieran grins, raising a heavy tumbler to his lips. The ice inside the whiskey cocktail clinks as it collides with the glass walls confining it. “And we’re honest workers: We save. Why shouldn’t we throw a nice party?”
I hide a smile. Kieran’s grin is infectious. I’m walking a tightrope here. I need to ask myself: am I doing this to tweak Mickey’s tail; or is it something else; something more? Does it matter?
“It’s not the cops you should be worried about, Kieran,” I say, giving advice to my rival, “not even the feds. But when it comes to the tax man? He’ll get you, as sure as night follows day.”
“I’ll tell me accountant,” Kieran says, brushing my advice away with a wave of his hand.
I stroke my chin. It must be nice to be like Kieran – not weighed down by the worries and cares of the world. It’s not like he approaches life through innocent eyes – I know Kieran Byrne isn’t just the happy-go-lucky joker whose face he presents to the rest of the world. But it’s clear that it isn’t a front – at least, it isn’t all a front.
“What about you, Miss Morello?” Kieran grins. “What’s yer story?”
“Call me Sofia,” I reply as I raise my cocktail – a Vesper, I think the menu called it – to my lips. I’m hit with an intense citrus burst, and then the warmth of alcohol burning its way down my throat. I feel myself relaxing, and I will myself not to give into its charms. I should get up right now, get up and leave –.
“I think I’ll call ye Miss Morello,” Kieran says, ignoring me. He’s got a wicked grin on his face that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You remind me of a Miss…”
A twinge of irritation flashes through me. I bite down on my lip to hide it. My face stays calm, passionless. I’ve heard what people call it, when they think I can’t hear: resting bitch face. I ignore them. At least I usually do. I can’t help that I have to be this person. Someone has to be the grown-up in this family.
“Why is that?” I ask. Even I can hear how hard my tone is. Any of the men under the Morello banner would know better than to challenge me in this mood. But of course, Kieran isn’t a Morello. Thank the Lord for small mercies.
Kieran, though – clearly – doesn’t care. He relaxes back into his own leather chair like he hasn’t a care in the world. His gaze – with those eyes, each a different color – flickers across my body. It rests on my chest for just a second too long, and goose bumps prickle into being. I shift my body in the chair, bringing my cocktail in front of me, and hide from his stare. I like his attention and I hate it all at once.
He takes a sip of his cocktail, and raises it into the air. A nearby waiter plucks it from his grasp.
“Because,” Kieran replies thoughtfully, chewing his lip, “of that…” He gestures at me, “…the way you hide yourself. You come here, with a body like that –.”
I flush, and glance down to hide my cheeks.
“Wearing a dress like that, and yet ye hide from the way ye look, Miss Morello.” There’s a hint of a growl to Ki
eran’s voice as he finishes the sentence. It’s husky, almost as though he’s unable to conceal his desire any longer. At least, that’s what I think it is. Perhaps I’m overthinking things.
“I –.”
Kieran cuts across me. “Tell me I’m wrong, Miss Morello,” he says, repeating his name for me again.
Every time I hear it, it grates, cutting into my soul. Kieran is irritating me on purpose, we both know it. He’s irritating me more than my brother ever has – and that is a high bar to beat. Kieran’s method is different, though. Mickey is a bumbling fool who annoys with his incompetence. Kieran cuts right to the chase.
“Tell me why the most beautiful woman in the room –,” Kieran pauses, holding a finger in the air, “no, I shouldn’t say that tonight, of all nights – or me brother will kill me. Tell me why the equally most beautiful woman in the room,” his eyes glint with humor, “acts like she doesn’t care what men think of her, when I know that that isn’t the case.”
I hold my tongue as a waiter pads towards Kieran, a cocktail the sole occupant of his silver tray. Kieran smiles his thanks.
I set my own cocktail down on the table next to me. I make a move, as though I’m preparing to stand. “Maybe, Mr. Byrne, this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
Kieran takes a long sip of his cocktail. The whole time, he doesn’t take his eyes off me. The different colored orbs blaze in the firelight. It looks like they are aflame. I want to ask Kieran about them. I want to know their story. While he’s staring at me, I feel locked into my seat. I want to throw my drink into his face, but that would mean I’d have to leave, and I don’t want to do that either.
“Maybe it’s not,” Kieran agrees.
A silence lingers between us. My cheeks are warm, my breath ragged and uneven – if just slightly so. Every ounce of good sense in me is telling me to get out of my seat and leave. But the devil on my shoulder is whispering that perhaps I should go with this.
“You should know better than anyone,” I say, “what it is like to be me.”
