Breathless for Him (Davison & Allegra)

by Sofia Tate

  “What are you doing here?” I ask with my mouth full.

  “Ugh. Manners, Alli,” Lucy admonishes me, staring at my mouth full of cream and pastry. “How are you feeling?”

  I sigh. “I think I’ll just hang a sign around my neck. ‘I’m in pain.’ Next question.”

  Then Lucy and Tomas exchange knowing glances, which totally throws me.

  “Okay, what’s going on with you two? Spill it,” I order.

  A solemn look crosses Lucy’s face. “We know who was behind what happened last night.”

  “How do you know?” I whisper.

  Lucy looks at Tomas in awe and smiles. “Because this genius got it all on video.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Tomas clears his throat. “After you ran out of the room, it got so crazy. People were about to leave, and I wanted to help. So I ran up to Derek and told him to play ‘La donna e mobile.’ I started singing and everyone calmed down.”

  “Oh, that was so nice of you. Thank you, Tomas,” I say quietly, overwhelmed by his kindness.

  “But that’s not the end of it!” Lucy says excitedly. She grabs Tomas’s arm. “Show her what else you did.”

  I look curiously at my best friend. Yesterday she was drooling over my boyfriend, or whatever he was. And now she’s beaming from ear to ear with pride at Tomas.

  “How long have I been out?” I ask jokingly.

  Lucy looks at me confusedly, and I shift my eyes to Tomas, who’s digging through his pockets for his phone.

  Not now, she mouths at me.

  Tomas finally pulls out his cell phone, touches a few buttons, and hands it to me. My father steps over, leaning over to watch with me as I press the “play” button.

  The video shows what looks like the hallway outside the ballroom in the Berkeley house. From the angle Tomas shot it, he was hiding around the corner from the two people who were on-screen—Davison and Ashton.

  He was yelling at her.

  “You did this, didn’t you, Ashton? You and my father!”

  “Did what?”

  “Don’t even attempt to play coy with me! I don’t know who you bribed to put that up on the screen, because God knows you’ll throw money at anything or anyone to get what you want, but this was all you. You made damn sure that Allegra was humiliated tonight, and for what reason?”

  “To show you what you’re getting into with her! I love you, Davis! We’re perfect together. You know we are. And I did it all by myself. Your father had nothing to do with it.”

  Ashton was crying, mascara running down her face. She actually loves him. I almost feel bad for her. Almost.

  “‘Davison,’ Ashton! My name is Davison.” He reared back in shock. “Oh my God, you hired some PI to investigate her, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did! I can’t believe you never checked her out before you got involved with her! You needed to see the shame and embarrassment she would’ve brought to your family.”

  A sharp voice rang out, “The only one who brought shame and embarrassment to my family was you, Ashton, you bloody shrew.”

  Ashton’s mouth dropped as Mrs. Berkeley stepped into the hallway from the ballroom. She was seething. “You little bitch! Not only did you make that poor girl suffer, but you committed something just as heinous—you ruined one of my social events!”

  “Mrs. Berkeley, I…I—” Ashton stammered.

  Davison’s mother stepped closer to Ashton, pointing her index finger right in her face. “Nobody does something like that to me and gets away with it. I’ll make sure that you’re blackballed from every charity board and club in this town. I don’t care how long our families have been friends. You’re done. Now get your skinny, bottle-blonde ass out of my house!”

  Ashton started to walk away, then turned back one last time. “You have no idea who you just messed with. You’ll be sorry,” she screeched.

  “No, dear, you’re the one who’ll be sorry,” Mrs. Berkeley said calmly in a cool voice, almost as if she were stating a foregone conclusion.

  Once Ashton stepped out of the screen, Mrs. Berkeley walked up to her son, placing her hands on his. “Darling,” she whispered.

  I can see his chest rising and falling rapidly, his face red and heated. In a flash, he spun around and punched the wall, a load roar bellowing from his mouth.

  “Davison!” his mother shouted.

  Then the screen went black.

  I look up at my father, Lucy, and Tomas. Lucy pulls a tissue out of the box that sits next to my bed and hands it to me.

  “Cara, he obviously cares about you very much,” my father observes.

  I nod, knowing Papa is right.

  “But I sent him away,” I cry, talking through my tears. “He’ll never speak to me again. And his mother…God, I totally embarrassed them.”

  “Umm, Alli, were you watching the same video we were?” Lucy asks. “Because it sure as hell looked like she was defending you to that skank.”

  “I know, but…”

  “No ‘buts.’ He really cares about you. Can’t you see that?”

  This is too much. I need to think.

  “I love you both for doing this for me, but would it be all right—”

  “Say no more, sweetie,” Lucy stops me, the palm of her hand facing me. “You need your rest. Come on, Tomas.”

  I had to smile at them. She’s bossing him around already, and I don’t think he minds, because he’s got the brightest glint in his eyes.

  Tomas walks out, but Lucy gives me a hug before she follows him. “Just promise me you’ll think about everything and then talk to him. Don’t do anything rash.”

  “I promise. And thanks. Both of you. And I’m still waiting for details.”

  “You’re welcome,” she replies. “Soon, I promise.”

  Once they’re gone, I call my manager at the restaurant to tell him I am sick.

  “It’s fine, Allegra. We know,” William tells me. “Davison said you weren’t feeling well, so we already have a temp for the dinner shift.”

  I’m too tired to decide if I should be grateful to Davison for being so thoughtful or royally pissed at his possessive alpha ways.

  “Oh. Did he say anything else?” I ask nervously.

  “No, why?”

  “It’s nothing. Never mind. I should be better tomorrow,” I reassure him.

  “Don’t worry. Just get better.”

  After I talk to William, I take an aspirin and settle under the covers.

  I check my messages. Nothing from Davison.

  Just as well. Do I really want to drag him into all this? And now that he knows, the tabloids will pick up on it and I’ll be in the public eye again, something I’ve managed to avoid for the past nineteen years. And what I did all those years ago, when I changed my name thinking I could stay out of said public eye, is now totally gone to shit.

  * * *

  The next day, I walk into Le Bistro for my shift. I’m wearing my standard uniform, but on my face, I’m wearing more makeup than usual. Concealer hides the bruise that turned yellow overnight. The scrape on my chin is healing, but it’s still visible.

  I haven’t heard from Davison in forty-eight hours, since he left me in the ER. I quickly scan the room for him, but I don’t see him anywhere.

  “Allegra, I’m so glad you’re all right,” William greets me at the hostess stand. “You’re sure you’re ready for tonight?”

  “I’m fine. I want to work,” I tell him assuredly.

  “I’m pleased to hear that. It shouldn’t be a busy night, if that helps.”

  “It’s okay. I’m ready.”

  “Good. Just let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, grateful for his kindness.

  I make my way to the coat check, hanging up my coat and bag. I take inventory of what’s already been checked. I’m pulling down the box with the claim numbers when I hear his deep voice.

  “Hi.”

  I turn to the d
oor. He’s wearing a black suit accentuated by a white shirt and red tie. Davison’s green eyes sear into mine, but they’re missing the confidence and glint that arouse me to my core.

  “Hi.”

  “How are you feeling?” he asks, concern etched on his face.

  “I’m better. Not as sore,” I reply.

  “Please come closer,” he commands.

  Taking a deep breath, I step up to the counter. I look anywhere but his face as he studies me. I hear him inhale deeply, no doubt seeing through the thick layer of makeup.

  “I’m going to take you home tonight. We’ll talk,” he declares firmly, not welcoming debate.

  I look into his eyes. They’re blazing into mine now, fiery and powerful.

  “Okay,” I agree, completely pointless to argue.

  “Good,” he replies, giving me a quick smile and a nod before walking away.

  He smiled.

  So far, so good.

  * * *

  When I finish work, Davison is waiting for me, his hand on my lower back as he steers me outside to the Maybach.

  Charles is standing at the passenger door, his back ramrod straight and hands clasped, awaiting our arrival.

  “Sir,” he nods to Davison. “Miss Orsini, I’m pleased to see you. I hope you’re well,” he says with a gentle smile.

  “Thank you, Charles. I’m better.”

  I climb into the car with Davison directly behind me.

  The engine comes to life and we move into traffic, heading downtown to Little Italy. Davison isn’t looking at me, only straight ahead. My heart beats in my throat as I wait for him to say something.

  “I can see it, Allegra. Under the makeup. The bruise,” his voice rumbles.

  “Don’t worry. It’s getting better,” I try to reassure him.

  “It’s my fault,” he rasps.

  I finally turn to him. “No, Davison, it was an accident. I fell. That’s all. Please look at me.”

  I see his beautiful face, the guilt reflected in his eyes.

  I lean over and take his hand. “I didn’t call you because I needed time to think. I know what you and your mom said to Ashton after the accident. And I saw you punch the wall.”

  “What the…how?” he asks, his eyes widened.

  “It doesn’t matter. But now you know why I reacted the way I did when I saw us on Page Six, why I tried to pull away.”

  “When I got home after the accident, I went on the Internet.”

  I swallow in my throat.

  “I did my research. And what happened to you is horrific. Seeing your mother…” He trails off. “But I want to know. I want you to tell me everything. And I’ll listen to it all, baby. Every single word.”

  “I can’t. Not here.” I ask in a low voice, even though I know Charles can’t hear us. I’m practically begging.

  “I know. Come over to my place for a late supper tomorrow after work.”

  I exhale. “That works for me.” I nod.

  Suddenly, Davison picks me up under my backside and my knees, bringing me over to him, placing me gently in his lap. He curls one arm around my waist and, with his other hand, carefully lifts my chin to look into my eyes.

  “Tomorrow,” he whispers.

  “Tomorrow,” I repeat, placing my head on his shoulder. He wraps his other arm around me. We don’t say a word to each other for the rest of the trip, only listening to each other’s breathing.

  * * *

  Late the next night, I walk into Davison’s apartment, allowing him to take off my coat.

  “Go sit on the couch. We’ll eat there,” he asks of me in a low voice.

  I do as he says, settling into the comfortable cushions, removing my shoes, and tucking my feet under my legs.

  I hear a cork pop in the kitchen. Within a few minutes, he’s approaching with a tray of food and two glasses of white wine. There’s hummus, pita bread, a wedge of Brie, and a small bunch of green grapes.

  He hands me one glass, and we clink glasses without a toast.

  “I hope this is all right,” he says, gesturing toward the food.

  “It’s perfect. I’m starving,” I tell him, which puts a smile on his face.

  We dig in and silently eat our meal rather quickly, realizing he’s probably as nervous as I am, him waiting to hear my story, maybe worried it’ll be too painful, and me to tell it for that reason.

  I take a long sip of my wine and ease back into the couch. He turns to face me, one leg resting on his other knee. I inhale a deep breath and begin.

  “My mother’s name was Concetta Laterza. She left Naples when she was eighteen. She loved her family, but she wanted to see America. She also wanted to get away from a man who was infatuated with her. Carlo Morandi was his name. He had known my mother since they were kids, but she was never interested in him. He became obsessed with her, to the point where he started hounding her friends, asking them what she liked so he could know her better. My mother loved opera, so he began listening to opera too, standing under her window and serenading her in a really horrible voice. She was terrified of him.

  “My grandparents finally gave their permission and let her leave for America because they saw how much Morandi scared her. When she got to New York, she stayed in a boardinghouse on the Lower East Side and found work as a seamstress. On the weekends, she would explore the city. One day, she got lost in Little Italy, and bumped into my father when she was looking up at the street signs. It was definitely one of those ‘meet cute’ things, and the rest was history.”

  “Kind of like us, except in our case, it was a lost glove,” he remarks.

  I tilt my head. “Hmm…I never thought of it like that.”

  “Go on,” he insists.

  “From the day I was born until the day my mother died, my childhood was idyllic. Mamma stayed at home with me, walking me back and forth to school every day while Papa worked in the shop. I loved seeing my parents together, always laughing and hugging each other. We visited my relatives in Italy every summer. We were so happy.”

  I breathe deeply as Davison takes my hands in his, holding them tightly.

  “When I was five, Mamma made me take ballet classes on the Lower East Side in a building on Rivington Street. I loved it. The leotard, the tutu, the ballet slippers. I carried a special bag, shaped like a box that had a special slot for my slippers on the bottom. I was so proud carrying that bag to class after school twice a week, holding Mamma’s hand.

  “At the end of the year, my class had a recital. We rehearsed so hard for it. Papa couldn’t come at the last minute because the refrigerators in the shop broke down. Mamma was so mad at him, and she yelled at him for not coming with us.

  “The recital was so much fun. Mamma cheered so loudly for me. We all got little tiaras from my teacher as rewards for our performances. I felt like a princess with my tiara and tutu. When we left, it was late, about nine o’clock.”

  I close my eyes, bracing myself.

  “It was quiet as we walked home, and then suddenly someone pulled my mother into an alley. A man had his hand over Mamma’s mouth. I stood frozen, not knowing what to do. I saw something shiny in his other hand. He was a short man, fat, balding. He was talking to her in Italian, saying, ‘I’ve missed you, Concetta. Have you missed me?’ Then he lifted the shiny thing, which was a knife. And he said, ‘If I can’t have you, nobody will.’”

  I start to cry as I continue. “Then he started stabbing her. She yelled to me to run, but I started screaming, telling him not to hurt her. He just kept stabbing, and she still kept telling me to run. ‘Run, Mia.’ Again and again. When she fell to the ground, Carlo looked at me, and that’s when I finally ran.”

  Davison releases my hands to reach for a napkin so I can blow my nose and wipe my eyes. “Oh, baby. You don’t have to keep going.”

  I shake my head. “No, you need to know this. I ran down the street and ducked into another alley. I found a door that was unlocked, so I ran in and hid in the basement of some building
. It was the boiler room. It was warm in there, so I just fell asleep in my tutu and tiara.”

  “When did they find you?”

  “Two days later. I was so scared to leave because I didn’t want him to find me. The police did a sweep of the neighborhood, canvassing all of the basements, roofs, anyplace where a five-year-old could hide. That picture of me in the cop’s arms was taken right after he’d found me in the basement. He said to me that he would take me to my daddy. I wouldn’t go with him at first because I was in shock, but something about him made me trust him. When he carried me out, the photographers swarmed us, and that picture of me hit the wires in a flash. I made national news. The tabloids here had a field day. ‘Little Girl Lost’ and ‘Little Girl Found.’”

  “Allegra…” his voice coos, stroking my face.

  “My grandparents wanted her buried in Naples, and my father agreed. The last time I saw her grave was when they put her in the ground a month after she was murdered.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he tells me in a gentle voice.

  “This might sound like an odd question, but how did you not figure out who I was?”

  “I was away at boarding school in New Hampshire when you were five. I was twelve then. I had no idea what was going on back here. Is that why you changed your name?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I didn’t want to be known as Mia Rossetti, Little Girl Lost, for the rest of my life. Papa and I talked about it when I was a teenager, and I decided I didn’t want to be Mia anymore. And the press wouldn’t stop hounding me, giving updates on me every year on the day she was killed, waiting outside our building for one fucking shot of me. He changed his name too so people wouldn’t ask why we had different surnames. But it still says ‘Mia Allegra Rossetti’ on my birth certificate.”

  He nods. “I understand now. I just wish you had told me all this sooner. So, what happened to Morandi?”

  “The police tracked him down by Pier 17, where he was hiding. They shot him and he fell into the river.”

  “Did you have to testify against him?” he asks curiously.

  “No.” I pause. “Because they never found his body.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” he mutters.

  “But there’s something else you need to know.”