Bound by Honor novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Terrace

Bianca confronts Dario about the dead fiancee, he tells her the truth and offers her signature back, and she keeps it; a black ribbon is tied to her car.

I found Dario on the back terrace, alone, with his coat open and his hands in his pockets.

The lawn went down to a line of black trees, and the cold smelled like wet leaves.

"Your cousin says you buried your last fiancee," I said.

He did not turn around.

"Silvio says a lot of things."

"Is it true?"

"Yes."

One word, flat, and he let it sit there.

I had expected a speech.

I had expected him to say Silvio was a liar.

Or that it was none of my business.

Instead he took his hands out of his pockets and faced me.

"She was twenty-one," he said. "I was twenty-two."

"Three years ago in March, her car left a road in Queens at two in the morning."

"It hit a pole."

"Was it an accident?"

"The police said so."

"What do you say?"

He studied me for a moment.

"I say I wasn't there, and I'll never know."

The wind moved the dry leaves across the stones.

I pulled my wrap tighter and stood next to him at the rail.

I did not want to be sorry for him, so I looked at the lawn instead.

"Why did you say yes in there?" I asked. "To all three terms. You didn't even try to bargain."

"They were fair."

"Men don't give away a chair at the table because it's fair."

"I do."

"Why?"

His mouth moved, very slightly.

"Because you found a mistake six lawyers missed," he said.

"Then you looked at me to see if I'd flinch."

"I didn't want to be a man who flinched."

I felt my face warm, and I was glad of the dark.

"You could have told me about her before I signed," I said.

"I tried to. Silvio was in the hall."

"Your father's men were on the stairs."

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I was going to tell you tonight, privately."

"And give you the chance to take your name back."

"Take it back?"

"The pen is still on the desk. Nothing is filed."

"Tear it up, and your father keeps his word."

"Mine keeps his face, and I tell everyone it was my idea."

"Your idea to be refused by an eighteen-year-old girl in front of a room full of men."

"Yes."

I stared at him.

"You'd do that?"

"I'd do it," Dario said.

"I don't want you to marry me because a room full of men watched you sign."

"If you want the docks, take the docks. If you want a seat, take the seat."

"But I want the answer to be yours, and I want you able to change it."

Nobody had ever offered me my own answer back.

It was being handed my own coat in a stranger's house.

I thought about the blue ink, and the clap, and Silvio's smile, and the little sound my father had made.

Then I thought about the numbers.

The Red Hook contract was real.

The Lakes route was real.

And on page six there had been a line for my signature that nobody had said I could not cross out.

"I'm not changing it," I said.

"You're sure?"

"I'm very sure that I want the chair. I'm less sure about you."

"That's fair too."

"I'm going to find out what happened to her," I said. "You can help, or I can do it alone."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I'm marrying into your house," I said. "If something in it killed a woman, I'd like to know where it keeps its teeth."

His laugh surprised both of us.

It was short and real and it changed his whole face, and for one second he looked his age.

"All right, Bianca Roselli," he said. "I'll help."

Then he held out his hand.

I looked at it.

I shook it, once, hard, and he held on a moment longer than a deal needed.

His palm was dry and warm and calloused along the base of the fingers.

I took my hand back first.

"Good night, Mr. Castellane."

"Dario."

"Good night, Dario."

I went around the side of the house to the drive.

I needed a minute alone, and my car was parked there.

The security lamp over the garage was buzzing.

My little white sedan sat under it, the one my father had bought me for my eighteenth birthday.

Something dark hung from the driver's door handle.

I walked closer.

It was a ribbon.

Black satin, about a foot long, tied in a neat bow.

I picked up one end.

Along the edge, in white thread, someone had stitched a date.

March 14.

Three years ago.

The same night, I was sure, that a girl's car had left a road in Queens.

I turned slowly and looked at the dark yard.

Nothing moved.

Behind me, on the terrace, Dario had gone very still.

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