chapter 35
JACE MARINO
The dinner smelled like wealth.
Perfume, champagne, fresh-cut roses and the faint sting of bleach from the marble floors. Everything gleamed too much. The silverware, the glass walls, the practiced smiles.
I've stood in darker rooms than this, but nothing ever feels as fake as charity night.
Cameras flashed at the entrance. My father shook hands with politicians and businessmen who pretended not to know what paid for their donations. Aiko was beside me, all elegance and quiet poise, a perfect mask in a room full of them.
"Smile," she whispered as the next photographer called our names.
I did.
For the camera, for the Marino name.
For survival.
We moved through the motions. Speeches about "community progress," checks exchanged, applause that sounded hollow even when it filled the hall. Every word about "hope" and "rebuilding" felt like a lie my family had told too many times.
