𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐌𝐞

58|| Necklace

Celeste // March 24
•••

He loves me.

He loves me and we're currently in the back of a limo on our way to some opera show that only the highest profiled people in Chicago get invited to.

I'm wearing a long black dress with a double slit in the gown. My hair is styled in loose waves and I kept my jewelry to a minimum, only wearing simple silver earrings and two rings.

I'm a little nervous for tonight. I've never been to an opera, but I do know there'll be a lot of people there. And even though Dante assured me Lester won't be coming tonight, there still be many other important people.

But none of that really matters, because he loves me.

"What are you smiling about?" he asks, grabbing my hips and placing me on his lap.

He's looking so handsome in his suit, with his hair styled so flawlessly and his face so perfect. His rings feel cold against the bare skin of my thigh as he strokes up and down.

I look at him. "You love me."

His hand stops with stroking and instead settles on a comfortable grip on my thigh. "Damn right I do."

•••

There are eyes on my face and body when we make our way into the opera house.

Dante's hand is steadily holding my hip, keeping me close to him the entire time and guiding me into a path as I gape around.

There're so many golden things in here. The ceiling is so high and pretty edges are dividing the detailed paintings on it. We walk passed the big garderobe, in between the two large staircases to a bar area where many people are drinking and chatting.

This time, Dante doesn't ask what I want. He walks us to the bar and orders me a strawberry drink without alcohol.

We sit down in a cozy seating arrangement in the corner of the room and no one approaches us thanks to Dante's glares. But even when we're not talking to anyone I get a deep gut feeling that many are talking about us.

"People keep looking at us," I say, catching yet another pair of eyes staring in our direction.

The hand on my hip tightens a little. "Let them."

That simple comment had no business effecting my lower stomach in the way it did.

"Mr. Alessi."

A man's voice snaps me out of whatever conflict was going on in my core right now.

A man I recognize as the mayor of Chicago sits down on the other side of our booth with his wife next to him.

His face is wrinkly and pulled into a tight smile as he looks at Dante. "I didn't expect you here tonight," he says. "Thought operas weren't your scene."

"They aren't." His thumb starts drawing circles on the bare skin of my thigh.

It's then that I see it. The most beautiful necklace I've ever laid eyes on.

The gorgeous shiny emerald stone is shaped into a teardrop, hanging from a thin silver chain and looking so perfect that I doubt the wearer could look anything other than pretty no matter the state of their face.

My eyes rise to see the owner's face, and sure enough, she's pretty. But not as pretty as her necklace.

"I see," the mayor, Tom, continues. His eyes shift to me for not more than a second before deciding I'm not worth commenting on. "Well, I hate to talk business during date night with my wife, but it's been impossible to reach you."