“Lucinda,” my mother calls, voice crackling like cellophane. “A word.”
I motion for her to come closer, but Elise floats down the stairs first, arms folded, lips flat in a line of pure skepticism. Both women trail clouds of Bergdorf Goodman perfume, and Vittoria mutters something in Italian that makes her cigarette holder quiver with contempt.
I meet them by the makeshift reception area, which for now is a rolling rack of sample dresses and a folding table with a dying peace lily. My mother takes in the chaos with well-practiced disdain, but her gaze lingers on the velvet dress perched on a hanger, as if remembering a party where she wore it better.
She removes her sunglasses, revealing a new set of crow’s feet that weren’t there last year. “We heard you’re to be married,” she says, as if it’s a question of etiquette, not family loyalty.
“To Alessio Morrone, yes,” I reply, smoothing my hair down just to spite her.
Elise snorts, looking me up and down with x-ray vision. “How quaint. The wedding of the century, without any actual family in attendance.”
My mother’s face doesn’t move, but I can tell she’s calculating. “We want to understand, Lucinda. There are rumors. After what happened with your father, and the press’s obsession?—”
I brace for the blow.
“—Do you intend to embarrass us further?” she asks, voice brittle with the effort of pretending to care.
My anger is a sleeping wolf, roused but not yet hungry. I step closer. “You disowned me and sent the Feds to scare me. My actions no longer concern you.” I remind her.
Her jaw clenches. “That was before. Before your… involvement ruined everything.”
The word hovers in the air, ugly and sticky.
I look back at the half-finished studio, the men working because of Morrone money, Vittoria along for the ride because Alessio’s intimidation got her out of her last contract, and the bakery box still open on the folding table. I glance at my mother’s hands, clasped so tightly her knuckles are translucent. She’s fighting not to reach for me, not to beg.
“Did you come to apologize?” I ask, tilting my head. “Or just to see if I’m still alive?”
Aunt Elise interrupts: “We need you to do something. For the family.”
I bark a laugh, and Vittoria’s head snaps up, eyes glittering with delight. “Of course you do,” I say.
Mother’s voice drops a register. “We need you to tell your… fiancé to stop.”
“Stop what?” I ask, feigning stupidity.
They’re quiet for a moment. My mother looks suddenly old—there’s a crease in her eyebrow I’ve never seen before, a tremble in her lower lip.
“The calls. The letters. The men standing outside our building at night.” She fixes her stare on me. “This isn’t who you are, Lucinda.”
The wolf inside me is awake now. I smell blood, and it isn’t mine. “It’s who I’ve always been,” I say, letting each word find its mark. “You just never noticed.”
Elise presses closer, her perfume a chemical veil. “John is ruined. He lost the Yale board seat; the club rescinded his membership. Every time he steps outside, someone’s watching.He barely leaves the apartment.” She lets it hang there, the implication that the father I hated has now become the victim in my story.
Good. Let him rot.
My mother’s hand reaches for mine, nails manicured to a blade’s edge. “You can fix this. Tell Alessio to call off his people. Give us our lives back. Please, Lucinda. I’m asking as your mother.”
I almost expect her to drop to her knees, but she stays standing, lips trembling. It’s not humility; it’s desperation, and it’s the first honest thing I’ve seen from her in years.
I look at her, really look, and recognize a kind of hunger I thought belonged only to me. “You claimed to be powerful,” I say, voice low. “Why don’t you wield some of that power to get you out of this situation?”
She blinks, as if seeing me for the very first time. “You could have had so much more.”
I twist the ring on my finger. “Or maybe this is precisely what I want.”
Aunt Elise hisses through her teeth, and I can’t help but smile. “I’ll ask Alessio,” I say, “but I can’t promise you anything. You know he’s not the type to let unfinished business stand.”
Mother nods, her fingers slipping away from my skin. "You don't owe us anything," she says, her voice brittle as old lace. "But karma has a long memory." She looks at me with something almost like respect. "Remember that when the scales tip." In our family, this passes for a tender moment.