By 8:00 PM, Trattoria Rossi had been completely transformed into a glittering, grotesque theater of hypocrisy. Fifty thousand dollars’ worth of rented crystal chandeliers hung incongruously from my father’s rustic wooden beams. White truffles—the real ones, this time, flown in fresh from Alba—were being extravagantly shaved over gold-leaf risotto and served to 200 of the city’s most powerful, corrupt elite.
I didn’t wear the gray dress.
Instead, I wore my late grandmother’s vintage crimson gown. It was a masterpiece of tailored silk, a dress the exact, vibrant color of our signature, slow-simmered tomato sauce. I paired it with my mother’s diamond earrings and blood-red lipstick.
When I emerged from the back hallway and descended the main staircase, the roar of conversation in the room momentarily quieted. The sea of black tuxedos and pastel gowns parted. Isabella, standing by the champagne tower, had her face drain of color. Her grip tightened so hard on her crystal flute that I saw her knuckles turn white. Marco’s jaw ticked violently.
“What the hell are you doing?” Marco hissed, abandoning a conversation with a state senator to intercept me before I could reach the center of the dining floor. His heavy fingers dug into my bare arm, a brutal, hidden violence masked beneath his tailored Armani tuxedo. “You’re supposed to be in the back, staying out of sight.”
“It’s my family’s anniversary, Uncle,” I replied smoothly, meeting his furious gaze without blinking, forcefully pulling my arm free from his grasp. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I have a role to play, after all.”
The tension radiating from us was thick enough to cut with a meat cleaver. Every politician, every snobbish food critic, every compromised judge Marco had bought off over the last six months was subtly watching us. They knew the whispered rumors. They knew the narrative Isabella had spun: that I was the unstable, grieving, incompetent daughter who was slowly but surely driving the restaurant into the ground.
