Chapter 82: Discussing the Odds
The taste of ash faded, replaced by the cloying sweetness of frosting. Beth set her plate down on a passing waiter’s tray, her fingers feeling numb. The party noise was a solid wall now, a cacophony designed to drown out the echo of what had just happened. She could feel the shift, a subtle realignment of gravity in the room. And its center was now moving toward her.She didn’t need to look to know Vittorio Rossi was approaching. The atmosphere announced him—a pocket of quiet intent moving through the celebratory chaos. He materialized at her elbow, holding two crystal tumblers of amber whiskey.
“A refreshment,” he said, his voice neutral.He offered her one.
Beth took it, her fingers curling around the cool, heavy cut glass. “Thank you, Vittorio.”
“It is I who should thank you.” He didn’t look at her, instead surveying his guests as if checking the perimeter of a battlefield. “You prevented an unfortunate incident.Claire is grateful. My son,” he paused, the word laden with something unreadable, “is impressed.”
“It was nothing,” Beth said, bringing the glass to her lips but not drinking.The peaty scent of the whiskey was sharp and unfamiliar.
“No.” The single word was final. He finally turned his head, his eyes—so like Damien’s in color, but colder, stripped of their fiery heat—settled on her. “It was not nothing.Vincent Accardi is a bull. Once he charges, he does not stop until the matador is dead or he is.You turned him aside with a whisper. That is a skill.”
“A remembered loyalty,” she corrected gently, aiming for modesty. “My father’s memory still carries weight with certain men.”
“Samuel Montgomery.” Vittorio tasted the name. “Yes.I knew the name, of course.A man of influence in his circles.Agricultural. Transport.Philanthropy.” He took a slow sip. “A ‘fixer,’ some called him.”
Beth’s heart gave a single, hard thump against her ribs. She kept her expression smooth, a polite mask of daughterly pride. “He believed in solving problems, not creating them.”
“A noble philosophy.” Vittorio’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “And one he taught you, apparently. The way you spoke to Accardi… it was not the intercession of a socialite.It was the mediation of a diplomat. Or a peacemaker.”
The music swelled then, a sweeping classical piece that felt absurdly dramatic. Beth used the moment to take a small, deliberate sip of whiskey, letting the burn anchor her. “Growing up in that world, you learn the language.”
“You learned more than the language, Bethany.” He abandoned all pretense now, his gaze analytical, dissecting.“You learned the currency. You invoked your father’s honor like a seasoned negotiator.You offered Accardi a face-saving exit wrapped in nostalgia. That is not instinct. That is training.”
A light laugh escaped her, perfectly pitched to sound dismissive.“You’re giving me too much credit. I just didn’t want Claire’s cake to go uneaten.”
“My son’s ex-wife,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “a woman who built a boutique empire from scratch in Manhattan, who navigates boardrooms with the ease of a born general… and who can calm a man like Accardi with a reminder of her father’s handshake.” He finally drank, his eyes never leaving hers. “It paints a different picture. For years, I saw you as a chapter in Damien’s life.A passionate, perhaps ill-advised, diversion. I misunderstood.”
The air between them grew thin. Beth felt exposed, as if he’d peeled back the layers of her perfectly constructed persona and was tapping at the bedrock beneath.“The past is just that, Vittorio. Past.”
“Is it?” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping, though the music would cover it. “Accardi respects power.Real power. Not just the flash of a gun or the weight of a last name.He respects the kind of power that negotiates, that builds, that endures. He saw that in you tonight. And so,” he finished, his tone final, “did I.”
He gestured with his glass toward the dance floor where Damien stood, surrounded by laughing cousins, his own gaze a laser fixated on their conversation. “He never let you go, you know.Not truly.I thought it was sentiment.A weakness for a pretty face from his youth. Now I begin to wonder if it was something else. If he, perhaps, saw what I failed to see.”
Before Beth could formulate a reply—a deflection, a denial, anything—Marco appeared, sliding between them with the easy grace of a shadow.
“Vittorio,” Marco said, clapping a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Giovanni from the docks is over by the bar telling a story about you, a seagull, and two kilos of something that definitely wasn’t fish.It’s getting more dramatic by the minute. You might want to correct the record.”
Vittorio’s attention broke, a flicker of irritation crossing his features before the patriarch’s mask resettled. He gave Beth a final, lingering look—a look that was no longer dismissive, but calculating, reevaluating.
“We will speak again, Bethany,” he said.It wasn’t a request.
He moved away, following Marco’s pointing finger toward the bar.Marco stayed, turning to Beth. He plucked the untouched whiskey from her hand and set both glasses on a nearby table. “You look like you need air that hasn’t been pre-approved by the Rossi family.”
“He knows,” Beth said quietly, the words tasting of fear.
“He knows something,” Marco corrected, steering her by the elbow toward a quieter hallway lined with dark portraits. “He knows you’re not just a pretty divorcee with a successful shoe line.He doesn’t know what. That’s gonna eat at him.”
“I used my father’s name like a blunt instrument.”
“You used it like a scalpel,” Marco said.“There’s a difference.And anyway, it worked. Claire’s party is saved.Damien’s ego is simultaneously bruised and monumentally turned on. My night is now infinitely more interesting.Everyone wins.”
Beth stopped, leaning against the cool wall. The distant music was muffled here. “He’s going to dig, Marco.”
“Yeah,” Marco agreed, his usual smirk absent.“He is. And you’ve got layers to peel, Beth.More than most.” He studied her, his hazel eyes serious. “You ready for that?”
From the end of the hallway, a figure detached itself from the deeper shadows.Damien. He didn’t approach, just stood there, watching them, the light from the main room carving the severe lines of his face into a chiaroscuro portrait of possession and raw, unsettled curiosity.
Beth pushed off the wall, squaring her shoulders. The fear condensed, hardening into a cold, sharp point of resolve in her stomach.
“Let him dig,” she said, her voice low and clear. “My father taught me to always bury the secrets deeper than the shovel can reach.”