The thought of her even in serious situations marveled her. The crystal clinked first then came the slow, deliberate pour of aged wine into stemmed glasses, the scent of roasted rosemary lamb hanging heavy in the air, thick like the tension pressed between every eye around the table.
Ellie sat at the far end of the long oak dining table in The Marchetti estate polished to a shine, lined with silver cutlery sharp enough to gut fish or feelings alike. She hated this room, always had. The paintings that stared too long, the silence between fork clinks, the expectation carved into every surface, every bite, every glass of Barolo and tonight, it all reeked worse than usual. 86
THE DINNER WASN'T FINE
Because he was here, the Capetti boy; Giovanni Capetti clean-cut, chestnut-haired, dressed like money and manners and none of the things Ellie gave a damn about. He sat three seats to her left, next to the supposed woman who birthed Ellie a woman with pin straight silver hair and a face that hadn't cracked since the late 70s. Except that woman wasn't her mother, not anymore. Not since Ellie overheard the estate staff whispering behind closed doors that her "mother" had been too old to give birth when Ellie came into the picture. That the real mother had disappeared, tucked away like a broken heirloom nobody wanted to polish. That this woman carved from marble and rules was her grandmother instead. Ellie hadn't asked, she didn't need confirmation, she already knew and tonight, the farce continued.
"You'll be meeting the Capetti boy next week," the woman said suddenly, sipping wine like it was laced with truth. His father owns most of the shipping line down the Hudson. A wise family, reliable blood. Giovanni turned slightly toward Ellie, smiling in the way boys do when they've been trained for alliances, not affection. I'd be honored to take you out again, he said, his voice smooth but hollow. My mother wants to host a spring engagement banquet. We'd love for you to come with your hair down, you don't often... smile.
Ellie smiled now a blade in silk. Maybe I haven't had reason to. Her grandmother set down her glass, hard. Ellie didn't flinch because the truth was, she wasn't even in that room not really. Her body sat there posture straight, dress modest, heels politely pointed beneath the tablecloth but her mind? Her mind was back in a shower made of obsidian stone. Back in a room where steam curled around two bodies like silk back where Amy stood motionless as water kissed her skin, and Ellie stepped into her space like she owned it.
Like she could make a god kneel.
Next time you try to disappear on me... I'll follow you into the fire too, Ellie had whispered that morning, pressing her lips against the slope of Amy's wet shoulder. She remembered how Amy hadn't even turned around. How she'd simply leaned back into her, into the moment like gravity finally made sense again. That kiss, that sound Amy made when Ellie pressed into her. Ellie's fingers twitched beneath the table now she cleared her throat. Her grandmother was still speaking. Ellie, the woman said sharply. Do you understand what's being offered to you? This isn't about childish preferences, this is about survival, stability. The Capetti boy is a gift; one that most girls in our circles would claw to have. Not the kind of clawing I prefer, Ellie thought, and instantly regretted it, because now the image of Amy's nails digging into her hips as she cried out her name replayed again in vivid, wet memory. She blinked, reached for her wine glass, took a long sip.
Giovanni smiled again. You're quiet tonight, nervous? Ellie turned her gaze to him. It was a gentle, brutal thing. No, she said, voice soft just bored. Giovanni's expression faltered for a moment, but he recovered well. A trained heir lLike her. They were supposed to make a good match; old money, clean sheets, children with names that wore suits and learned fencing by age nine.
Ellie nearly laughed because all she could picture was Amy's mouth. The scar on her left collarbone, the quiet grunt she made when Ellie pulled her hair just right. The way her walls had crumbled, not with war but with want. She hadn't smiled for Giovanni but she had smiled for Amy just once and Amy had looked ruined by it. The dinner dragged on conversation circling shipping routes, fiscal quarters, imports from Sicily. Ellie heard none of it Instead, she picked at her plate, eyes flicking up only when her grandmother spoke her name again. You'll wear the pearl set next week, the woman said. You've outgrown mourning black, you'll be a bride soon. Ellie set down her fork, slow and deliberate. What if I said no? The entire table paused even Giovanni stiffened. Her grandmother raised one finely plucked brow. "You won't." It wasn't a threat. It was prophecy. Ellie leaned back in her chair and said nothing because how do you explain to a table full of legacy and power that you've already been claimed not by duty, but by desire? That you've already belonged to someone.
To a woman with cigarette roughened fingers and a mansion made of shadows and emerald light. A woman who didn't smile easily, but when she did it felt like the world stopped spinning. A woman who kissed Ellie like it was her first and last breath, a woman Ellie shouldn't love and maybe didn't; maybe it was lust, maybe it was curiosity but it was real and sitting there across from a boy bred for contracts and clean family lines, Ellie knew she couldn't pretend anymore not for long. When dessert was served, Ellie excused herself. Claimed a headache, a touch of fever. Her grandmother didn't stop her, Giovanni stood to say goodnight. I'll see you soon? Ellie looked at him then past him and left without a word. Later that night, in her wing of the estate, Ellie lay in bed silk sheets too soft, the ceiling too quiet she pulled her robe tighter around her and opened the top drawer of her writing desk.
Inside: a slip of paper, Amy's name, scribbled once. A number below it. She hadn't called yet, she could right now but instead she held the paper to her lips, closed her eyes and smiled.