by H. M. Ward
Everyone is watching. Cameras are clicking. Cell phones are recording. And the scariest monster of all is making a beeline directly for her son. Constance Ferro has a look on her face that could castrate an army.
This has to stop now. Before the crazy cousins jump in, because they’re headed this way too. The entire family is going to get into a brawl over my boob. It’s like a flash mob—a real one. This will ruin the merger, destroy my parents, and slaughter Pete’s image in the process.
I move without thinking, just wanting this to stop.
“STOP! PETE! DON’T!” I rush between them again and reach for his arm. “STOP!”
For a fraction of a second, I’m the target of his wrath. It's both beautiful and frightening all at once. All pure, raw emotion with nothing held back. His crystal blue eyes, normally filled with flirty amusement, cloud with hatred and hurt. His hands, normally gentle and sensual, are clenched tightly into weapons.
My arms fly up, instinctively protecting my face in case he doesn't have time to pull back his punch.
Nothing happens. I don’t see stars and I’m not plastered against the ballroom floor. I chance a peek. His fist is still up in the air, but he’s stopped his swing, holding it there.
“Gina, get out of the way.” Pete says through clenched teeth. His whole body is trembling with the effort of holding himself back, his eyes focused on the man behind me.
“No, Peter. I can’t let you do this. Let it go. Please!”
“I won’t let these sons of bitches do this to you.”
Stepping closer, I rest my hands firmly on his chest, gently pushing him back.
“It’s okay, Peter. It’s not worth it.” I’m begging now and mouth the word, ‘please.’
Pete lowers his fist and looks at me, not understanding. He takes a step back and turns around, running his hand through his hair. He stomps his foot down and lets out a frustrated growl-like scream before punching the air. My shoulders slump in relief. He’s letting out steam, but I still have work to do. I need to get rid of dipstick behind me before Pete pounds his ass into the floor.
Turning to the stunned photographer, I see him reach for his camera on the ground. He squeals like a girl as I stab his hand with the heel of my stiletto.
“I just saved your face, asshole, now you’re going to save mine. Forget the camera and LEAVE!”
His fingers stretch, trying to reach once more for the camera, and I twist my heel further into his hand, making him whimper and cry out in pain. I remove my foot from his hand.
“You two deserve each other," he mutters angrily. "Pair of fucking lunatics.” He scrambles for the exit, leaving the camera behind.
You don’t know the half of it, buddy.
But my victory is short lived. Pete is still trying to come to grips with his anger, and I have to make sure he won’t do anything he’ll regret later. His mother parts the crowd of onlookers like it’s the Red Sea.
“Peter Ferro.” She says his name like she’s scolding a toddler.
I cut in front of her and take Pete by the arm. “Lovely party, Mrs. Ferro. The most exciting I’ve been to in ages. I'm certain news of your merger will be sprawled across the front of every newspaper in the country by morning. Odds are HuffPo already has something up.” I talk swiftly and with confidence I don’t feel. “If you’ll excuse us.”
Walking up to Pete, I place a firm hand on his shoulder. He's so on edge that he flinches upon contact.
“Pete, follow me.” He looks up.
His face is a tangled mess of emotions; I can’t tell what’s going on in his head, but he does as I say and takes my hand. I need to move him away from the crowd. Too many people are watching us; among those people are a protective brother, pissed off cousins, and a mother that’s growing horns.
When we get to a remote corner of the room, I push through a set of doors that lead to the stairwell. There’s someone sneaking a smoke. There’s a no smoking policy in this place and from the looks of it, this waiter can’t afford a fine. He flinches and I smile at him.
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Done." He puts out his cigarette and nods. "I wasn’t here and I have no idea where Peter Ferro is. If you’ll excuse me.” The waiter walks past us and back into the ballroom.
We’re finally alone.
“Are you all right?”
I start to ask him more, but a tap on my shoulder interrupts me. Pete looks over my shoulder and scowls. I turn around. It’s Philip.
“Gina, are you okay? What the hell happened out there?” He places both his hands on my shoulders. Oddly, I don’t want him touching me in front of Pete. It feels wrong. I politely remove his hands and let go of him, but he holds my hands tighter, possessively.
“Just a wardrobe malfunction. Some photographers got a good view. No biggie.” I'm downplaying it. It is a huge deal for me, but I don't want to get Pete all riled up again.
Phil sighs, “Damn those fuckers, always trying to get their shots." He nods toward Pete. "Thanks for looking out for her out there."
I look between the two men, utterly confused. Phil is still holding my hands and Pete's eyes zone in on the simple touch. He releases one hand and lifts my chin up with a finger to study my face.
"What happened here?” Pete tenses beside me, and it’s only then I notice the throbbing pain on my right cheek. When I press my fingers to it, they come back wet. I’m bleeding. Great.
“I got in the way of a flying projectile. When cameras have wings, right? Or is that pigs?” I shrug, hoping to not make a big deal out of it, but Pete turns his back to me like he can’t stand to look at my battered face.
I can't figure out why he behaved the way he did. The old Pete would have posed for the camera. The new one went Godzilla on their asses.
“Let me get something for that cut," Phil says, removing his finger from my chin. "I’ll be right back.” He drops a small kiss on my uninjured cheek. I nod, and Phil heads toward the bar.
“So. You and Gambino, huh? Was he the reason you were so happy last week?” Pete says.
I turn toward Pete. He’s leaning up against the wall, hands in his pockets. I shake my head and take a step closer to him.
“No. Yes. No. You know as well as I do that a relationship between me and Phil isn’t possible.” I look back at the fire door, wondering when he’ll be back. I kind of wanted some time alone with Pete.
“He’s a good man, Gina. Clean cut, good looking, from a good family with good values, well educated, promising career and the way he looks at you...”
My mouth quirks up to one side. I can't help but tease him.
“Wow, you paint a pretty picture of him. Do you have a crush perhaps, Ferro? I don’t think you’re Phil’s type.” It’s meant as a joke, to get a rise out of him, but his face remains somber.
“No, but he’s most definitely yours.”
I got nothing. He’s right. Under any other circumstances, Philip would be my type. I like him a lot and, when we talk, it feels natural and right.
Pete and I stay silent for a while, just looking at each other. So many unspoken words beg to come out. I hate that I’m still not free to make my own choices. At the same time, though, Pete has become such a huge part of my life that if it were possible to cut all ties with him, I can't say for certain that I would.
Part of me has grown attached to him somehow. Regina Granz, befriending a ruffian. Odder things have happened, I suppose, like being besties with a 'libertine', as Erin likes to call herself.
Phil comes back with napkins, a glass of water and a plastic baggie filled with ice. When he starts to dab the blood off of my face, I take the napkin from him and do it myself.
Pete pushes himself off the wall and clears his throat. He unrolls his sleeves and buttons the top button of his shirt.
“Now that you’re in good hands, I’ll leave you two alone.” Pete stares Philip up and down. “Hurt her and you’ll wish you didn’t.” His eyes focus on the door that le
ads to the ballroom and his entire demeanor changes. His lips twitch up into a crooked smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I saw a long pair of golden legs that need spreading.”
My lips curl in disgust. Pete, the player, is back. He pushes past us and walks into the ballroom. We follow him, watching. He heads toward a group of glamorous, high-maintenance, long legged women that have been begging for his attention all evening. He ignored them until now.
For me.
But that's not completely true. A nagging memory reminds me this is all an act. He did it for himself. He made sure this event would be covered in every single media outlet--as efficiently as possible.
Phil puts the ice pack on my cheek, and I suck in air through my teeth like a hiss. A single tear rolls down my cheek. I didn’t even realize it was there.
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” His voice fills with concern and his thumb brushes my shoulder delicately.
“No, you didn’t hurt me. It just stings.” I don’t lie to him, not really. It does sting.
STREETWALKERS, SPOTLIGHTS, & GOLD DIGGERS
August 31st , 7:05 pm
I hate when people fuss over me, but I hate it even more when it’s public. Forget trying to go back unnoticed to the party. Mom is pouting because I’ve kept my swing dancing a secret from her, and everyone else wants to know what sparked the fight between Pete and the photographers. With the way Pete and I were standing, they couldn’t see it.
I’m not about to publicly admit I just titty-winked the entire world. They’ll find out soon enough anyway. Philip attempts to keep me close to him, draping a protective arm around my shoulders.
I excuse myself from Philip and the other well-meaning guests, pushing my way through the crowd as politely as possible. The last thing I see before finally finding refuge in my usual go-to place -- an empty bathroom stall-- is Pete, wrapped up in multiple female arms.
I sit on the lowered seat cover and let the tears fall for as long as they need to. I cry for Pete, not certain why. I cry for the embarrassment those pictures will bring. I cry for Phillip and our hopeless would-be relationship. I cry for my future empty marriage. I cry because, once again, someone was prettier, better, and smarter than me. It's crushing me. My fake relationship is causing me more grief than a real one.
“I’m so mental,” I say to myself. I wipe my tears and stand up. I need to put myself together before I head back out. I step out of the stall, hoping to have a quiet moment to fix myself up, and discover I’m not alone in the restroom.
Constance is waiting for me.
She stands in front of me like a statue. She doesn’t lean on the counter or slouch like any normal person would. Even in the bathroom, her posture is perfect. She stares straight at me, cold and unfeeling, as usual.
“Miss Granz, I must both congratulate and reprimand you.”
I walk over to the sink and pretend to study my face in the mirror, seemingly unaffected by her presence.
“Oh? Why is that, Mrs. Ferro?”
“Your little act of bravery, breaking up the fight between my son and those photographers, is an outstanding example of what I expect from you in this position. You have courage and strength, and the media will eat it up.”
I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop and....
“However,”
Clunk.
“While you are in here having your little moment, young Mr. Gambino is outside this door pacing, worried about you. My son, on the other hand, is gathering up a collection of women, intending to fill the family limousine for a private party. This is not the image I want to be portrayed. Need I remind you what your responsibilities are, Miss Granz?”
“No, you don’t.” I dab my eyes with a tissue and reapply some liner. “I know perfectly well what my responsibilities are, Mrs. Ferro.” When I’m done, I turn to face her.
“Good. Now, I want you to go back out there and do what you are supposed to do.” She lifts a perfect eyebrow, “Or you’ll wish you had when you had the chance.”
I square my shoulders and straighten my back. “Is that a threat, Mrs. Ferro?”
“Yes, it is.” Her voice is cold and devoid of emotion. “If I were you, I’d take this threat very seriously. You are in no position to slight me. Don’t make me change my good opinion of you. So far you have proven to be trustworthy, but headstrong. Don’t think your little act of rebelliousness went unnoticed. When I send someone with a message, I expect you to respond accordingly. I am not a lenient person.”
Just when I thought there would be no repercussions from ignoring her message to move into the mansion, out it comes. Her threat sits heavily on my shoulders. She will throw me into jail as easily as one would flick a bug off a shoulder.
“Now, Miss Granz, the next time photographers try to take pictures of you, no matter how revealing or compromising they may be, as long as you are with my son, you let them. They have a job to do and so do you. I suggest you get to it immediately. Go, run to my son and cry in his arms instead of cowering alone in here. It's astounding that you may possibly be the only woman in this entire place who isn't hanging all over him.” She eyes me as if I’m broken, incapable of feelings. She adjusts the rings on her finger. They slip on her fingers because of the weight. There’s one large ring embossed with the Ferro crest in shiny gold. She turns it back into place with a snap, as if setting a bone, then smiles at me, coolly.
“Regardless, you are going to change that, starting now. Go out there and fall in love with Peter, and make certain that I believe it.”
Mrs. Ferro turns to leave. She unlocks the door and barely manages to get it open a crack. I stomp my way behind her and shove the door closed, and lock it again.
Mrs. Ferro turns and I'm in her face. Her only reaction, the only way I have of knowing that I've made some impression on her, is that damned lifted eyebrow.
"Don't you dare," I yell. "I may be the only person in this entire place that actually cares about Peter and what happens to him. You were supposed to have journalists here, professional reporters. Not trashy, gossip rag paparazzi. Those people only want one thing. To drag Pete's reputation farther down the sewers. Who let them in and why didn't you throw them out?"
"I know exactly what those photographers want. That's why I invited them. Don't ever question my methods, Miss Granz. Those photographers were paid to do exactly what they did. To create whatever scandal they could and have both of you right in the middle."
I point to the door that leads to the ballroom.
"You did that on purpose? You set him up to have the press all over him? You knew he’d fight if they got in his face! What would they have done if he actually hit one of them?"
Her lips pull into a thin smile as those Ferro eyes bore into me.
"That was a happy accident. Their directions were to harass you and Peter just enough to get him to protect you. Fate worked in our favor with your,” she glances at my dress and then back into my eyes, “faulty attire."
"He's your son! How could you do that to him?"
"I always get what I want. You’re a stage performer, are you not?"
I nod, not seeing where this conversation is going.
"Let me make it crystal clear—I've set the stage, the actors are now in place, and we have the audience's rapt attention. The spotlight is now on you. It's your turn to play your part and turn my son around. You can start by getting rid of your new young suitor, dressing more like a socialite and less like a streetwalker, and getting Peter away from that horde of gold-digging women."
I walk back to the counter and rest both palms down, head hanging down between my shoulders. I look up at my reflection in the mirror. It's just me. I'm no powerhouse, no one influential. I'm just plain old Regina Granz, and Peter has already turned me down too many times to count.
“Why does everyone think that I can change him? You can’t change someone. They are who they are.”
Mrs. Ferro unlocks the door and places her hand on the handle.
&nb
sp; “I'm not asking you to change him. I'm ordering you to clean up my family's name by reigning in one of my sons in the public eye. I suggest you do it and I don't care how, so long as you stay away from Philip Gambino.”
I turn and rest my hips against the counter. “Really? Another threat? I’m a lucky girl.”
She lowers her lashes and examines the audaciously large diamond ring on her left hand. She tilts it to the side, watching the light dance off the massive stone.
“No dear, it’s advice. I rarely offer anything of the sort, Miss Granz.” She looks up at her reflection in the mirror, smooths her gown, and adds, “If I were you, I’d take it.”
Mrs. Ferro walks out of the restroom, letting voices and laughter from the reception echo through the open door. I turn and stare at myself in the mirror again. A swollen gash throbs angrily from my right cheek. My skin is already turning an awesome shade of purple and my eyes are puffy.
Frustrated, I slap both hands on the counter by the sink and yell. I can’t change Pete. That’s not in my power.
I thought I did. I really thought I did, but people don’t change.
Seeing him tonight gave me hope that he’d started to come around, but a nice tuxedo, a suave dance, and a warm smile aren't proof of anything. He puts on a good show, but ultimately the decision to make any real changes is his.
I put myself back together, and I walk out of the restroom, determined to do my part. I make my way back into the ballroom to try and find Pete. How the heck can I get him away from his hoochie horde? My eyes scan the room, but he's nowhere to be found and neither is the tramp troupe for that matter.
I'm too late; he's gone. A pair of hands rests on my shoulders and I feel someone pressing up against my back.
"I've been looking for you. Feeling better?"
It's Phil. His voice is most welcome, and I want to lean into him so badly and let myself be comforted by someone kind, but I can feel Mrs. Ferro's eyes on me. Reluctantly, I wriggle away, breaking any contact from him.
"I'm sorry, Philip, I'm tired. I think I'll just head on home."
