Chapter 1 - The Woman They Invited as a Joke
Natalie Strauss stopped beside Clemente’s chair and whispered: “You brought me here to laugh at me?”
Clemente Lombardo lowered his crystal tumbler and noticed her gold clutch shaking in her hand.
A tiny scratch crossed its clasp.
Three initials had been carved beneath it: E.L.S.
Clemente stopped smiling.
This wasn’t a joke anymore.
Twenty minutes earlier, Natalie had still believed she understood exactly why she had been invited.
That was almost worse.
She had worked for Clemente Lombardo for seven years, which was long enough to understand that powerful men rarely announced cruelty before they practiced it.
They disguised it as humor.
They called it tradition.
They said, Don’t take it personally.
Clemente had appeared at her desk late Friday afternoon, buttoning the cuff of an expensive black shirt while dictating instructions about Monday’s meetings.
“Cancel Moretti at nine.”
“Done.”
“Move the shipping conference to eleven.”
“Already moved.”
“And you’re having dinner with my family tonight.”
Natalie had stopped typing.
“I’m what?”
Clemente had looked at her with that infuriating half smile that made newspaper photographers love him and sensible people distrust him.
“Dinner. Eight o’clock.”
“I know what dinner is.”
“Good. Saves time.”
“Why?”
His smile had widened.
“My brothers keep asking about the woman who runs my life.”
“I run your calendar.”
“Same thing.”
She should have refused.
Instead, she had made the mistake of asking, “What should I wear?”
His eyes had traveled toward the garment bag hanging behind her office door. Natalie had planned to attend a charity reception after work.
“The red dress.”
She stared at him.
“You’ve never seen the red dress.”
“I saw the receipt when you accidentally submitted it with the hotel expenses from Chicago.”
Natalie closed her eyes.
“You are impossible.”
“Eight o’clock.”
Then he walked away.
Natalie had spent the next three hours wondering whether the invitation meant more than Clemente was willing to say.
She hated herself a little for that.
Seven years beside a man could create dangerous habits.
You learned how he took his coffee.
You knew when silence meant anger and when it meant exhaustion.
You recognized the slight movement of his left eyebrow that warned somebody was about to be fired.
You knew he called his grandmother every Sunday morning.
You knew he hated pears.
You knew he kept aspirin in the second drawer because stress headaches arrived after meetings with his uncle Vittorio.
And eventually, if you were foolish, you started believing that knowing a man meant he saw you too.
Natalie had never been foolish about Clemente.
At least that was what she told herself.
Then she entered the Lombardo dining room.
Four men turned toward her.
Clemente sat near the head of the long table in a fitted black suit, his collar open enough to reveal the dark tattoos climbing toward his neck. His fingers rested around a crystal tumbler.
Marco Lombardo looked at Natalie first.
Then at Clemente.
Then back at Natalie.
A smile appeared.
Not admiration.
Entertainment.
“Well,” Marco said. “You really did it.”
Natalie stopped.
Clemente’s expression changed slightly.
“Did what?”
Marco laughed.
“Brought Strauss.”
Another cousin, Paolo, leaned back.
“I thought you were kidding.”
Something cold moved through Natalie.
She looked at Clemente.
He did not laugh.
That helped.
Not enough.
Marco lifted his glass.
“You actually brought your secretary?”
The word secretary landed differently now.
Not as her profession.
As her category.
Natalie felt every detail of herself become suddenly visible—the curves of her body beneath the crimson satin, the slit revealing her leg, the neckline she had almost changed three times before leaving her apartment.
She knew that look.
She had known it since adolescence.
The quick assessment.
The silent comparison.
The assumption that a woman shaped like Natalie should be grateful simply to have entered beautiful rooms.
Clemente placed his tumbler down.
“Problem?”
Marco shrugged.
“None. I just didn’t realize tonight included entertainment.”
Nobody laughed loudly.
That made it crueler.
Natalie turned toward Clemente.
For one second, she saw something in his face that frightened her more than Marco’s insult.
Guilt.
“You knew,” she said quietly.
“Natalie—”
“You knew they were expecting me.”
Clemente rose.
“I invited you.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Paolo shifted uncomfortably.
Marco’s smile disappeared.
Natalie tightened her fingers around the gold clutch.
Her grandmother had given it to her mother, and her mother had given it to Natalie before she died. Natalie carried it only on evenings when she needed courage.
Tonight qualified.
Clemente glanced toward it.
That was when he saw the scratch.
“Give me that.”
Natalie pulled it back.
“Excuse me?”
“The clutch.”
“No.”
“Natalie.”
“You don’t get to order me around outside the office.”
Something almost like approval flashed across his face.
“Fair.”
He lowered his voice.
“May I see it?”
The room watched.
Natalie hesitated before handing it over.
Clemente turned the clutch beneath the chandelier.
Three tiny initials were engraved beneath the clasp.
E.L.S.
His entire expression changed.
“Where did you get this?”
“My mother.”
“Her name?”
Natalie frowned.
“You know her name.”
“I know you told me Elizabeth. What was her full name?”
“Elizabeth Lena Strauss.”
A chair scraped behind them.
At the far end of the room stood Vittorio Lombardo.
Clemente’s uncle.
Sixty-two.
Silver-haired.
Elegant.
And suddenly pale.
“Where,” Vittorio asked, “did your mother get that bag?”
Natalie stared at him.
“My grandmother.”
“What was her name?”
“Eleanor.”
Vittorio gripped the back of his chair.
Clemente looked between them.
“Uncle?”
Vittorio said nothing.
Marco tried to laugh.
“What is this, some antique appraisal?”
Clemente ignored him.
“Eleanor what?”
Natalie swallowed.
“Eleanor Strauss.”
Vittorio whispered something in Italian.
Then he walked out.
Natalie turned to Clemente.
“I’m leaving.”
“No.”
The word came too quickly.
Her eyes hardened.
Clemente corrected himself.
“Please.”
“Why?”
“Because something just happened that I don’t understand.”
“Something happened before I walked through that door.”
Silence.
Clemente knew exactly what she meant.
The joke.
He looked toward his relatives.
Then back at Natalie.
“You’re right.”
Marco muttered, “Come on, Clem. We were messing around.”
Clemente slowly turned.
“Were we?”
Marco straightened.
“You said Strauss would never come to one of these dinners. I said twenty bucks she would if you ordered her to. That was it.”
Natalie’s face emptied.
Twenty dollars.
Seven years.
Hundreds of late nights.
Thousands of calls.
Negotiations she had saved.
Contracts she had caught before Clemente signed them.
Birthdays she remembered for him.
Funerals she arranged.
Hospitals she visited on behalf of employees whose names Clemente had forgotten.
And apparently her dignity had been worth twenty dollars.
She looked at Clemente.
“Was there a bet?”
He did not answer fast enough.
That was her answer.
Natalie nodded.
Calmly.
“Thank you.”
“Natalie.”
“No, really. Thank you.”
She reached for her clutch.
Clemente held it for one second longer.
“Don’t leave.”
“Give me my bag.”
“Natalie—”
“My bag.”
He released it.
She turned.
Marco looked embarrassed now.
Good.
She hoped he remembered the feeling.
Natalie had nearly reached the doorway when another voice stopped her.
“Miss Strauss.”
Clemente’s grandmother stood beneath the chandelier.
Teresa Lombardo was eighty-one and barely five feet tall, but the room reacted to her as though someone had entered carrying a crown.
Her white hair was swept neatly back.
She wore black.
Her eyes were fixed on Natalie’s clutch.
“Come here.”
Natalie glanced at Clemente.
Teresa noticed.
“I wasn’t speaking to my grandson.”
Natalie approached.
Teresa held out her hand.
“The bag.”
Natalie gave it to her.
Teresa saw the initials.
Her fingers began trembling.
“Eleanor.”
Natalie’s throat tightened.
“You knew my grandmother?”
Teresa looked up.
Her eyes were wet.
Before she could answer, Marco interrupted.
“Nonna, what’s going on?”
Teresa ignored him.
She looked at Clemente.
“What did you tell this woman?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
Clemente frowned.
“Why is that good?”
“Because for once in your life, Clemente, silence prevented you from making something worse.”
Teresa handed Natalie the clutch.
Then she noticed Natalie’s expression.
“What happened before I came in?”
Nobody answered.
Teresa looked at Marco.
That was sufficient.
“Oh.”
The old woman’s voice became quiet.
“You mocked her.”
“It was a joke.”
Teresa’s hand struck the table.
Crystal jumped.
“Cowards always rename cruelty after they’re caught.”
Marco went silent.
Teresa looked at Natalie.
“You were invited here as a joke?”
Natalie could not bring herself to answer.
Clemente did.
“Yes.”
Teresa closed her eyes.
When she opened them, disappointment had replaced anger.
She looked at her grandson.
“And what are you going to do?”
Clemente stared at Natalie.
Perhaps later he would tell himself he acted because Marco deserved humiliation.
Perhaps he would claim he wanted to protect Natalie.
Perhaps he would say he needed to keep her in the mansion until he understood why Vittorio had recognized Eleanor’s clutch.
All those explanations contained pieces of truth.
None contained all of it.
Because when Clemente looked at Natalie preparing to walk away from him, he felt something brutally simple.
He could not let her leave believing she was beneath anyone at his table.
He stepped beside her.
He took her hand.
Natalie stiffened.
“Clemente.”
He looked directly at Marco.
Then Paolo.
Then every Lombardo seated there.
“Natalie isn’t here as my secretary.”
Natalie stared at him.
Marco frowned.
“What?”
Clemente’s thumb rested against Natalie’s fingers.
“She’s my fiancée.”
Nobody moved.
Natalie forgot how to breathe.
Teresa’s eyebrows rose.
Marco’s mouth opened.
Paolo nearly dropped his glass.
And Clemente, having just detonated the most reckless lie of his adult life, remained perfectly calm.
Natalie turned toward him.
“Your what?”
“My fiancée.”
“You have ten seconds to explain.”
“Later.”
“Try now.”
Teresa suddenly laughed.
Everyone looked at her.
It was not a warm laugh.
It was the laugh of a woman who had just watched history repeat itself.
“Of course,” Teresa whispered.
Clemente narrowed his eyes.
“Of course what?”
Teresa looked at Natalie.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Upstairs.”
Clemente stepped forward.
“Nonna.”
“You stay here.”
“What are you going to show her?”
Teresa’s expression hardened.
“Something your father made me promise never to show you.”
The room went still again.
Natalie followed Teresa into the hallway.
They climbed the marble staircase.
At the end of the second floor, Teresa stopped before a locked door.
She removed an old brass key from beneath her necklace.
Natalie heard Clemente coming up the stairs behind them.
“Nonna, stop.”
Teresa inserted the key.
The lock clicked.
She opened the door.
Inside, directly opposite them, hung a portrait of a young woman with auburn hair.
Natalie stared at the face.
Her gold clutch slipped from her fingers.
The woman in the portrait was wearing the same bag.
May you like
And beneath the portrait, written in Clemente’s dead father’s handwriting, were two words.
Natalie Strauss.
