Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

I give myself a small smile, admiring the hue of my lipstick. It’s a discreet color, not the deep red I go for sometimes. This is more a pale magenta, clearly lipstick, but it isn’t screaming “look at me.” Which is a good thing—because my gown is. It’s black silk and slightly form-fitting…only three hundred and fifty dollars off the sale rack at Saks. It flows just a little bit behind me, not trailing but more a flounce when I walk in my favorite Tom Ford heels. I narrow my eyes at myself, asking rabbit questions.

I don’t know the answers. And, like my mother, I’m not really sure it matters. I think somehow, over the years, I’ve become a different rabbit anyway.

Within a few minutes of stepping off the elevator, I’m surrounded by a dozen people I know, most of whom are offering congratulations on my new job. I’m moving slowly down the hall that runs alongside the dining area and adjoining ballroom. The two spaces total probably 5,000 or 6,000 square feet, with dome-shaped thirty-foot ceilings and crystal chandeliers.

I get only glimpses of the space between the arched doorways that line the hall I’m in, so I can’t see clearly—but I can smell the roses. I hear the faint clanking of dinnerware and know that plates and cutlery are being whisked away from tables. I over-shot that part of the night, missed the presentation of the award—because I knew we’d all be in one room. And that would be too dangerous.

Unless fate intervenes, all I have to do is find my father’s friend and offer him my dad’s congratulations. Wait, there he is! Riccardo. As soon as he sees me, his eyes light up, and we spend so long talking in the hall that my feet ache and traffic starts to flow around us like water streaming past a stone.

“It’s a lovely thing,” he’s saying, “what you’re doing for the…charity. I’ve always thought of it as brotherhood, but they say any gender these days.” His voice fades as my eyes catch on a tall form near the end of the hall.

Dark hair, and…the way he’s moving. But…it can’t be him. I can’t be seeing him again in this place, not within minutes of arriving—like some time warp. But I am. Time runs thin and then expands as my blood roils like the water in some wild tide.

My hunch was right: He’s here tonight. He’s walking down the hall ahead of me, moving toward the elevators like we’ve dropped into another universe where everything is muddled and wrong.

I feel dizzy as I think of the night I stepped into the elevator with him all those years ago, and my ring cut his face.

I wrap up my conversation with Riccardo, steal away with what I hope is tact. My heart pounds as my eyes fly over every tall form in the crowded hallway, seeking out his wide shoulders, the still-familiar stride.

And there he is; he’s moved slowly enough that I can track him. He’s stopped beside a woman now…and then they’re walking. I’m some thirty or forty feet behind, but luckily for me, they’re moving with the leisure of conversation.

I see his profile as he turns toward his fair-haired companion. Cold sweat sweeps me as I pick up my pace. I want to stick close enough so I don’t lose him but not so close he sees me while he’s talking to her.

Oh damn, she’s out—walking under the last archway that leads into the ballroom. The crowd beyond that thins as the hall runs toward the elevator banks. It’s only Luca plus a few men. He doesn’t seem to be engaging with them as he turns the corner.

I feel déjà vu so powerful my head spins. I can see my younger self pressing the up button. I can feel the shock as I stepped inside with him. All that fury. Then the overwhelming horror after he walked out with the bleeding cheek.

That wasn’t who I wanted to be: someone filled with bitterness and anger. How many times did I think of calling him after? Of dropping by. And in the end, I didn’t. In the end, I chose to armor up and guard my soft spots. I was young, though. It’s okay, I reassure myself. He didn’t seem upset in Central Park. He was probably there to manipulate me.

I walk quickly, but I find the hall beside the elevators empty.

I wait a few minutes before pressing the up arrow this time. Give him time to get where he was going. I’ll ride to the rooftop garden, hide out there until Jace arrives in twenty minutes. We’ll dance—we’re both accomplished ballroom dancers by now; it’s good exercise, and fun—and then I’ll go home and leave my memories where they belong: in the past.