Page 25 of Condemned By Betrayal
After showing them around, I end the call.
The front garden has been decorated for the party. Warm white fairy lights are strung in zigzags across the open space, looped around the slender trunks of young olive and pine trees. Lanterns of amber glass hang from wooden posts at the corners, casting a honeyed glow over the garden. A long table draped in cream linen holds an arrangement of wildflowers in pale pink and white, alongside platters of finger foods and glassware that catch the light. The space feels intimate and welcoming.
The front gardens of all the houses in our area are large enough for a much bigger party, but this is only a small gathering, occupying just a corner.
I don’t look in Hunter’s direction again. I make my way toward the gathered guests instead. They all know me, I was the first to move here, after all.
I make small talk with the guests. Soon after, Logan and Hunter join us. Despite the fifty-plus guests milling around, his gaze is still locked on me. It’s making me uncomfortable, like always. I decide to ignore him and fix my attention on Logan as he begins to speak.
“Thank you all for coming. Let me introduce us. I’m Logan Blackwood, and this is my brother, Hunter Blackwood. We’re from Toronto, Canada, born and raised there. We started a techcompany last year and were looking for a place to set up our headquarters, so we ended up here.”
Mr. Esposito, the oldest man in the neighborhood, raises his glass. “We wish you success, young men. Have a great time in Naples while you’re here.”
Everyone follows suit, murmuring well-wishes.
I swallow a mouthful of whatever’s in my glass; it’s bittersweet. I started drinking at small gatherings after moving to Naples, but I’m still not experienced enough to know the names of all the different types of drinks people usually serve at parties.
“Do you think he’s interested in me?” a voice says behind me.
I turn my head to see Amia and Ivana—daughters of Mr. Esposito and Mr. Colombo. Both families are native to Naples. Mr. Esposito was a small-scale businessman here, and Mr. Colombo was chief of police.
I turn forward again. My eyes land on a pair of gray ones, they look almost black in the dim light. He’s standing with Logan and three men their age, yet I manage to make eye contact with him easily after only a few seconds of looking his way, as if he were waiting for me to glance up.
He doesn’t look involved in the conversation, he’s just standing there. He looks away, says something to the men, and then walks off. I don’t watch him go. I look down at my glass instead, someone has refilled it.
“Why don’t you give it a shot?” Amia says, answering Ivana’s earlier question.
“He’s been staring my way all evening,” Ivana says.
Should I tell her she’s mistaken?I don’t think so, it’s not my place to interfere.
“Go talk to him,” Amia urges, her voice bright with encouragement.
Ivana walks past me toward the side of the house, screened from the party by the tall hedges that line the garden. My fingers tighten around the glass. Bitterness festers in my chest.
He isn’t Salvario.They only share a few features. I tell myself that, yet I can’t shake the discomfort. My brain is feeding me the wrong images of Ivana and Salvario, when she only went to Hunter.
I down the alcohol in my glass in one swallow. This time, it burns my throat more. It pulls my attention away from whatever is happening behind the hedges, for a few seconds.
But the sick thoughts creep back in, they don’t even wait for the burn to fade completely.
“He isn’t Salvario,” I mutter. I need to talk to Amber about this.
The waiter passes with a fresh tray. I take another and drain it. The longer the discomfort lasts, the more it keeps my imagination from spiraling.
Someone touches my arm. I turn to see Amia.
“Don’t drink too much Negroni, it gives the worst kind of hangover,” she chuckles.
I smile. “I like the taste.”
“Yeah, they have the good stuff. You know the Blackwood brothers?”
I nod. “I’m doing some business with them.”
I feel the buzz starting in my head. I don’t usually have more than one drink. Tonight, I’ve pushed myself—not in a good way, and not for a good reason.
Just then, Ivana comes back to us. I try to read her face, but my brain has started slowing its processing, I don’t quite get anything valuable from her expression apart from a visible flush.
