Bloody Heart: A Second Chance Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 4)
Bloody Heart: Chapter 1

“Simone! Why aren’t you ready?”

My mother stands in the doorway, already dressed for the party.

By contrast, I’m wearing sweat shorts and a Wonder Woman t-shirt, because I was curled up in my window seat, lost in a book.

“What time is it?” I ask, confused.

“What time do you think it is?” Mama says, smiling slightly.

I would have said two or three in the afternoon, but the fact that she’s already put on her evening gown clues me in that it must be later.

“Uh . . . six?” I guess.

“Try seven-thirty.”

“Sorry!” I say, jumping up from the window, knocking my copy of Wuthering Heights onto the carpet.

No wonder I’m starving. I missed lunch, and apparently dinner too.

“You’d better hurry,” Mama says. “Your father already called for the car.”

“The car is waiting, actually,” my father says.

He stands next to Mama. They’re the most elegant pair imaginable—both tall, slim, impeccably dressed. His rich, dark coloring next to her fairness is the only contrast between them. Otherwise, they’re perfectly matched.

Sometimes my father wears bright Kente cloth on formal occasions. Tonight he’s dressed in a black tuxedo with a velvet lapel. The lavender calla lily in his boutonnière is the exact shade of my mother’s gown.

Next to their sleek perfection, I feel like I’m all elbows and knees. Too awkward to even be seen with them.

“Maybe you should go on without me . . .” I say.

“Nice try,” Mama says. “Hurry and get dressed.”

I stifle my groan. At first, I was excited to be home from boarding school. Chicago seemed like a whirlwind of parties, galas, and events. Now, only a few months later, they’re all starting to blur together. I’m tired of champagne and canapés, polite conversation, and even politer dancing. Plus, I wish my sister came along more often.

“Is Serwa coming?” I ask Mama.

“No,” she says, a small line forming between her eyebrows. “She’s not having a very good day.”

My parents leave me alone to dress.

I have a whole closet of gowns to choose from, most of them bought this year. I run my fingertips down the rainbow of fabric, trying to choose quickly.

I could spend an hour like this. I’m a bit of a daydreamer, and I love beautiful things. Especially clothes.

An interest in fashion can be perceived as frivolous. In my mind, clothes are wearable art. They’re the statement that precedes you into every room. They’re the tools that shape people’s perception before you’ve spoken a word.

That’s how I would describe it to anybody else.

To myself, they mean so much more than that.

I have an intense reaction to color and texture. They create a mood inside of me. I don’t like to admit it to anyone, because I know it’s . . . strange. Most people don’t feel physically repulsed by an unattractive shade of puce. And they don’t feel an irresistible desire to touch silk or velvet.

I’ve always been that way, as long as I can remember. I’ve just learned how to hide it.

I have to force myself to grab a dress, without poring over them for ages.

I take one of my favorites, a pale rose gown with fluttering chiffon down the back that reminds me of a butterfly’s wings.

I dust on a little pink blush, and lip gloss in the same shade. Not too much—my father doesn’t like me to dress overly “mature.” I only just turned eighteen.

When I hurry downstairs, my parents are already waiting in the limo. There’s an odd tension in the air. My father is sitting stiffly upright in his seat. My mother glances at me, then looks out the window.

“Go,” Tata barks to the driver.

“I got ready as quickly as I could . . .” I say tentatively.

My father ignores that entirely.

“Would you like to tell me why I just found an acceptance letter from Parsons in the mail?” he demands.

I flush, looking down at my fingernails.

I’d hoped to intercept that particular envelope, but it’s difficult to do in our house, where several different staff check for mail twice a day.

I can tell my father is furious. Yet, at the same time, I feel a wild swoop of elation at his words . . .

I was accepted.

I have to hide my happiness. My father is not happy at all. I can feel his displeasure radiating outward like a cold fog. It freezes me down to my bones.

I can’t meet his eyes. Even in his best moods, my father has sharp features and an intense stare. When he’s angry, he looks like the carved mask of some deity—epic and vengeful.

“Explain,” he orders.

There’s no point in lying.

“I applied to school there.”

“Why did you do that?” he says coldly.

“I . . . I wanted to see if I’d get in.”

“What does it matter if you get in, since you’ll be attending Cambridge?”

That’s my father’s alma mater. Cambridge is responsible for his posh manners, his European connections, and the slight British accent of which he’s so proud.

My father, poor but brilliant, came to Cambridge on scholarship. He studied much more than economics—he studied the behavior and attitudes of his wealthy classmates. How they spoke, how they walked, how they dressed. And most of all, how they made money. He learned the language of international finance—hedge funds, leveraged capital, offshore tax-havens . . .

He always said Cambridge was the making of him. It was understood that I would go to school there, just like Serwa did before me.

“I just . . .” my hands twist helplessly in my lap. “I just like fashion . . .” I say lamely.

“That is not a serious area of study.”

“Yafeu . . .” Mama says softly.

He turns to look at her. My mother is the only person my father listens to. But I already know she won’t oppose him—not in something like this, where his opinion is already so rigidly set. She’s just reminding him to be gentle. While he shatters my dream.

“Please, Tata,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. My father won’t listen if I become too emotional. I have to reason with him as best I can. “Some of the most prestigious designers in the country graduated from Parsons. Donna Karan, Marc Jacobs, Tom Ford . . .”

My father steeples his hands together in front of him. He has long, elegant fingers with manicured nails.

He speaks slowly and clearly, like a judge laying down the law.

“When you were born, my parents said how unfortunate it was that I only had daughters. I disagreed. I told them that daughters will always be loyal to their parents. Daughters are obedient and wise. Daughters bring honor to their families. A son may become prideful and think he knows better than his father. A daughter would never make that mistake.”

My father puts his hand on my shoulder, looking into my eyes.

“You are a good daughter, Simone.”

We’re pulling up to the Drake Hotel. My father takes a clean handkerchief from his pocket. He passes it to me.

“Clean your face before you come inside,” he says.

I hadn’t realized that I was crying.

Mama rests her palm on my head for a moment, stroking my hair.

“See you inside, ma chérie,” she says.

Then they leave me alone in the backseat of the car.

Well, not really alone—our driver is sitting up front, patiently waiting for me to compose myself.

“Wilson?” I say in a strangled tone.

“Yes, Miss Solomon?”

“Could you give me a minute alone, possibly?”

“Of course,” he says. “Let me pull to the side.”

He pulls the town car up to the curb, out of the way of everyone else being dropped off at the front doors. Then he steps away from the vehicle, kindly leaving the engine running so I’ll still have air conditioning. I see him strike up a conversation with one of the other chauffeurs. They go around the corner of the hotel, probably to share a cigarette.

Once I’m alone, I give myself over to crying. For five solid minutes I wallow in my disappointment.

It’s so stupid. It’s not like I ever expected my parents to let me go to Parsons. It was just a fantasy that got me through my last year of school at Tremont and the endless soul-crushing exams that I knew I was expected to pass with top marks. And I did—every one of them. No doubt I’ll be receiving a similar acceptance letter from Cambridge any day now because I did apply there, as required.

I sent a portfolio of my designs to Parsons on a whim. I guess I thought it would be good to receive a rejection—to show me that my father was right, that my dream was a delusion that could never actually come to pass.

Then to hear I was accepted . . .

It’s a sweet kind of torture. Maybe worse than never knowing at all. It’s a bright, shimmering prize, put right within reach . . . then yanked away again.

I allow myself to be childish and miserable for that five minutes.

Then I take a deep breath and pull myself together.

My parents still expect me inside the grand ballroom of The Drake hotel. I’m supposed to smile, make conversation, and let them introduce me to the important people of the night. I can’t do that with a blotchy, swollen face.

I dab my face dry, reapplying a little lip gloss and mascara from my purse.

Right when I’m about to reach for the door handle, the driver’s door is wrenched open instead, and someone slides into the front seat.

It’s a man—a huge man, practically a giant. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and definitely not wearing a uniform like Wilson.

Before I can say a word, he slams his foot down on the gas pedal and speeds away from the curb.