by Nia Stephens
Think Bree should go out with Antonio, the party boy from Jersey? Then read on!
Chapter 5
Antonio
“I don’t know,” Sutton said, reading over Bree’s shoulder as she typed. “You know what they say about Jersey boys.”
“What do they say?” Kylian said, leaning over Bree’s other shoulder. “Is it dirty?”
“Probably,” Bree told him. “I think it’s unfair, actually. I’ve been to some gorgeous places in Jersey. And doesn’t your mom stable her horses in Jersey?”
“Just because Jersey is okay for horses doesn’t mean it’s okay for people,” Sutton joked.
“Don’t be such a snob, Sutton,” Kylian said. “Antonio sounds nice enough. And maybe, if she’s lucky, Bree can marry into the mob. Then all your money worries will be over!”
“Bree doesn’t have money worries,” Sutton reminded him. “Her dad is richer than God. As long as her mother doesn’t give it all away to needy children in Africa—”
“The Sopranos is just a show, Kylian,” Bree said, clicking SEND. “Anyway, it’s time for class.”
When Bree’s phone started vibrating an hour later as she was walking out of her calculus classroom, she hoped it was Antonio and answered quickly. Instead it was Fiona, calling to remind Bree of several auditions she would be attending in the next two weeks. That kept Bree distracted for the rest of the day, worrying about monologues and picking up a stack of head shots from her photographer. So when Antonio did call her at eight, she was happily surprised.
“I’m reading scripts,” she told him when he asked her what was up. “What about you?”
“I’m sending an Evite to everyone I know,” he said. “I turn eighteen on Saturday. Want to come?”
“Where?”
“My house. It’s a pool party, so bring a bikini.”
“In the middle of winter?”
“Don’t worry. We keep the pool very, very hot.” His tone suggested that more than the water would be hot at the party.
“I don’t know, Antonio. I won’t know anybody there.”
“So bring some friends. Everyone’s welcome.”
“I don’t know how my friends will feel about spending a Saturday night outside of the city,” Bree said, stalling for time. She wasn’t sure how she felt about meeting Antonio for the first time with Sutton and Kylian in tow.
“Give me their numbers. I’ll talk them into it.”
Bree laughed and said she would think about it. This was a guy who didn’t take no for an answer.
“Please come,” he said. “I’d really like to get to know you, Bree.”
“We’ll see,” was as far as she would go. “But send me an Evite so I can get directions.”
It was a three-day battle, but Bree managed to persuade Kylian and Sutton to come along.
“You could bring Lucas,” she told Kylian, afraid that he might back out in favor of hanging out with his new guy.
“And let him know I’m going to a party in Jersey? No way. I’m telling him that I’ve got the flu.”
There was less grumbling when Saturday night rolled around. They broke into Ameera’s stash of Ethiopian honey wine and were singing “New York, New York” in the Edwardian lobby when Sam showed up. Bree and Sutton had even started a kick line. Calvin, the night doorman, made fun of their matching hot pink sneakers. All the girls on the Rittenhouse track team had them.
“We’re going to Jersey, land of lawns,” Sutton explained. “We’re not going to wear real shoes if there might be grass.”
When they arrived at the address Antonio had provided, the girls were relieved to see that the party was mostly happening inside Antonio’s enormous house, though a few hardy specimens were playing water polo outside. The guests ranged in age from Antonio’s two grandmothers, who sat knitting in a corner next to speakers blasting Jay-Z, to a couple of tiny cousins being passed from lap to lap. Most of the guests were Antonio’s friends, and it seemed like hundreds of them, all tossing back prosecco, Italy’s answer to champagne, like Jell-O shots.
“Wow! You made it!” Antonio said, rushing straight over to Bree. “You look fantastic!” He kissed her on both cheeks.
“Um, thanks,” Bree said, her head spinning. With curly blond hair and pale green eyes, he didn’t look very Italian, but he did have that warm, lusty air that Bree remembered from trips to Milan with her mother. “American men mostly love themselves,” Ameera used to say. “Italian men love women.” Bree could see from the perfect fit of his Armani pants and T-shirt, and expertly cut hair that Antonio spent a lot of time on his appearance, but the weight of his gaze as he checked out the fit of Bree’s Baby Phat baby tee and jeans hinted at a thoroughly Italian adoration of the female form.
“These are my friends Kylian and Sutton,” Bree said, stepping back a little from Antonio.
“Welcome, welcome,” he said, shaking hands with her friends. “Come on in! Let me get you some drinks!”
They followed him toward the bar, a slow trip since absolutely everyone wanted to wish him a happy birthday. Antonio did a great job of introducing Bree and her friends. She lost track of Kylian early on, and Sutton soon after, as they both got entangled in conversations with new acquaintances.
“How about a tour?” Antonio suggested, offering his arm.
“Sure.” Bree slipped her arm into his and allowed him to show her a gorgeous little library, a media room full of boys playing some sort of game system, and a huge, chaotic kitchen filled with catering staff and uniformed waiters.
“Lemon or chocolate?” he asked her, swooping a couple of miniature tarts from a tray on its way out the door.
“Lemon,” she said, eyeing the sunlight-colored custard.
“An independent thinker,” he said, holding the tiny yellow tart to her lips. It was the size of a quarter. “I like that.”
Bree ate it in one bite and had to resist licking his fingers. It was the perfect combination of buttery crust and smooth custard, sweet and tart as lemonade. “I like chocolate, too, don’t get me wrong. But variety is good.”
He munched the chocolate tart and snatched two more flutes of prosecco.
“What else do you appreciate, besides fine wine, good company, and a little variety?” he asked, gently touching the rim of her glass with his.
“All sorts of things,” Bree admitted.
“A sensualist,” he said, smiling coyly. “So am I.”
“I didn’t say that!” Bree laughed, though it was true. She liked striking colors, lush fabrics, exotic flavors, and heady perfumes. She wanted life to be as sumptuous as a movie set from the nineteen-thirties—though there was no way Antonio could know that after one conversation.
“But I can tell,” Antonio said, grabbing another lemon tart for Bree. “The way you close your eyes when you bite into the dessert, that look of concentration—another?”
“Maybe we should finish the tour,” Bree said, eyeing the tart, but not Antonio.
“Come on. Indulge yourself. Consider it my birthday wish.”
“If you put it that way . . .” Bree closed her eyes and opened her mouth, and was rewarded by another buttery, sunshiny bite. Antonio brushed her bottom lip with his thumb, softly, like a kiss. “Delicious,” she pronounced, looking straight into his sea-green eyes.
“Then let’s hit the highlight of our tour,” he said, leading her upstairs.
“Let me guess. Your bedroom?” Bree said.
“My bedroom,” he confirmed.
“Then let me be clear,” Bree added before they reached the door. “I am not going to hook up with a guy I just met.”
She meant it, too. Ordinarily she would not have even entered the bedroom of a boy she had just met, no matter how sexy he was. But with a house full of guests, including her two best friends, Bree didn’t think there was much chance of things getting out of hand.
“Who said anything about hooking up?” he said, letting her into a fairly ordinary, if very large, bedroom. Even
the closet was larger than some apartments in Manhattan. “I’m just showing you my room, Bree.”
“That’s all?” she asked as he locked the door behind them.
“That’s all. Although, since it is my birthday, I think a kiss is in order.”
“One kiss?”
“One kiss.”
“All right.” Bree stood on her toes, putting her hands on his shoulders for balance, and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“You call that a kiss?” he teased, putting his hands on her waist. “I demand a do-over.”
“What would you call it?”
“I don’t know. A peck, maybe? This is a kiss.”
He was right. Comparing Bree’s kiss to his was like comparing a raisin to a glass of wine. It was sweet, sparkly, and intoxicating as a flute of prosecco.
“Can I try again?” Bree asked.
He grinned. “Impress me.”
“I will,” Bree said. “You may want to sit down for this.”
He flopped, arms spread, onto his bed. “Have your way with me,” he teased. “But, with respect to my mother, please take off your shoes before climbing on the bed.”
Bree giggled, but she complied, glad she had worn her favorite pink and black striped socks that night.
“Ooh. Very cute,” he said as Bree hopped around, taking off her shoes. “What about the toes? I bet you have cute little toes.”
“Sorry. The socks stay on,” she said, joining him on the bed. “As we already discussed, this is just a do-over of your birthday kiss.”
“Come on,” he said, tickling her feet. “I bet they’re the sweetest little toes in town.”
“No way, buddy,” she insisted. “The socks stay on.”
Bree did not have the sweetest little toes in New York. Her pedicurist did what she could, but Bree was a runner, which meant her feet were always callused, and she usually had a blackened toenail or two. By applying dark polish to her toes she could get away with wearing strappy heels from time to time, but only if she was going someplace dark. Her feet would not stand up to any close observation.
“I’ll get those socks off you sooner or later,” Antonio teased. “Now, about my kiss—”
“Antonio!” shouted someone on the other side of the door. “Antonio! You open up this minute!”
“Is that your mother?” This, she thought, is the dark side of throwing an all-ages party.
“No, that’s not my mother,” he said, sliding off the bed. “That’s Graciella.”
“Antonio! You know I’m the only one for you! You said I was made for you!”
“Graciella,” he began, opening the door. “I’m sorry that this is so hard for you—”
“Her?!” shouted Graciella. “You leave me for Briona Black?”
“Do I know you?” Bree asked, mystified. Graciella did look familiar. She was very tall and very blonde, like Antonio, and even more Italian—she had a thick accent. A model, maybe, she knew through her mother? She didn’t look all that beautiful, but no one looks her best with a red-face from screaming and raccoon eyes from crying in mascara.
“She will not satisfy you,” Graciella said, suddenly calm, or, at least, calmer. “You will be back.”
“Gracie, it’s over. Really. Arrivederci.”
Suddenly she was crying again, wailing at the top of her lungs, trying to throw herself at Bree. “You cannot have him! He is mine! We were perfect, perfect—”
At this point three brawny men in black suits crowded into the hallway and dragged Graciella away.
“Sorry about that,” Antonio said, shutting the door again. “Where were we?”
“Never mind,” Bree said, slipping back into her sneakers. “Let’s go back downstairs.”
“Rain check on my kiss then?”
“Um, sure,” Bree said, though she would have said anything to return to the party. Graciella had spooked her badly, especially since she couldn’t quite place her. She knew all the top models in New York—there weren’t that many of them. Graciella could be a minor model at her mother’s agency, except that they didn’t handle minor models. Maybe she did something other than runway? Maybe she was a star in the world of . . . wedding fashions? This was going to bother Bree all night.
“Are you all right?” Sutton squealed when Bree found her, lurking near the base of the stairs. “I heard a girl screaming your name upstairs.”
“Fine. Psycho-ex-girlfriend incident. Are you ready to go home?” Bree couldn’t wait to escape.
“Okay . . . sure . . .”
“Sutton, if you’re having fun, say so. I’m not dying to leave,” Bree lied.
“Well, I have to admit,” Sutton whispered. “I’ve been snooping. This house is fantastic! You should see the drugs in the mother’s medicine cabinet!”
“I should have known,” said Bree, shaking her head. “And where’s Shaggy, Scooby Doo?”
“In the library, looking for wiretaps. This place is totally Sopranos, Bree. I mean, check it out—obviously they’re pretty rich, but there’s no sign anywhere of what they do. No law books, no medical books, no books on investing or . . . or anything! The wife is definitely into fashion, because there are plenty of books on that in the library, but there’s no sign of where the money comes from.”
“Maybe they’re old money,” Bree suggested, heading to the library to find Kylian.
“I called Sarah Ribera. She knows every old money clan in Italy, and she’s never heard of your friend’s family.” Their classmate Sarah Ribera was technically Princess Sarah, the heir to a north Italian principality, or dukedom, or something like that. Bree had never asked for a full explanation.
“Bree!” said Kylian happily when they walked into the library. “Your boyfriend is totally connected!”
“He’s not my boyfriend. We haven’t even gone on a date,” Bree pointed out. “Are you ready to go?”
“No way! We haven’t found any significant clues just yet.”
“Except the conspicuous absence of clues,” Sutton intoned.
“Really, that’s enough,” Bree began, but she was interrupted by the sound of clattering heels coming down the hall. Graciella came flying into the library with what looked like a nail file in her long, elegant hand.
“You cannot have him!” she wailed, stalking towards Bree, who froze.
Fortunately, Kylian and Sutton were not hypnotized by the sight of Graciella. Kylian shot straight toward Graciella in a flying tackle while Sutton threw herself at Bree, knocking her clear. The nail file went flying through the air until it hit the spine of A History of Parisian Fashion, From the Reign of Louis XIV To the 1970s and fell to the floor. While Kylian wrestled with taller, crazier Graciella, the big men in suits came barreling in, trailed by nearly everyone else at the party, including Antonio.
“Seriously, are you ready to go home yet?” Bree asked Kylian as the men in suits led Graciella away once more. Bree was still lying on the carpet, squashed flat by Sutton.
“Things are just getting interesting,” Kylian said, dusting himself off.
“I never knew you had that in you,” Sutton told him, dragging Bree back to her feet. “That was a pretty impressive leap.”
“Hey,” he grinned. “I’ll do it for you anytime.”
“Don’t get too cocky, tiger,” Sutton said, grinning. “That was a nail file, not a butcher knife. It wouldn’t have cut paper, much less a tough New Yorker like Bree.”
“You know what would really make you my hero?” Bree said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. Like Sutton, she really was impressed. She had never seen Kylian do anything more athletic than dancing for three songs straight. “If you would please help get me out of here.”
“If you insist, darling. Coming through!” he barked, one arm draped protectively around Bree. With Sutton glued to her other side, Bree could hear Antonio calling her name somewhere in the crowd of shocked partygoers, but she just walked faster.
“Are you all right?” Sam asked when he arrived a few
minutes later. “A whole carload of security types just showed up.”
“Fine,” Bree said. “But we’re ready to get back to the city, where it’s safe.”
“Um, right,” Sam said, turning to head back to the car. “The Big Apple, coming right up.”
Bree was expecting Antonio to call, so she wasn’t surprised when the phone rang just as she let herself into the apartment. But it was the house line, not her cell phone, which was a little odd. Neither she nor her mother ever used the house line. In fact, they tended to forget that it was there.
“Hello?” Bree said, picking up.
“You forget me, but I have not forgotten you,” Graciella growled. “I know where you live, Bree Black. You leave Antonio to me.”
“And I know how to get a restraining order, you psycho,” Bree hissed back. “You can’t tell me what to do!”
Graciella began shouting curses in broken English, so Bree hung up, leaving the phone off the hook. Then she went back downstairs to the Edwardian’s security office.
“Hello, Miss Black,” said Julius, scrambling to his feet. Behind him, a bank of televisions showed grainy black and white footage of most of the building’s public areas.
“Hi there. Call me Bree, please. I wanted to let you know that some nut is stalking me.”
“Have you filed a complaint with the police?”
“I think she’s been arrested, actually. But just in case, watch out for a tall, blonde model type. Her name is Graciella.”
“Tall, blonde, model,” he said, writing it down on a clipboard. “So we are talking about a woman?”
“Yeah, she’s female.”
“All the way?”
Bree smiled. That was a New York question. “I’m pretty sure she was born with the same equipment, yes. She used to go out with this guy I know, and she seems to think he left her for me. Not true, but there you go. She’s a psycho.”
“I’ll put out an advisory and prep everyone at the Monday meeting.”
“Thanks, Julius.”
Bree went back upstairs and put the phone back in the cradle. It immediately began to ring, so she pulled the plug from the wall and headed for her bedroom. Halfway there, her cell phone began to ring.
