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Authors: Nia Stephens

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“Okay . . . sure . . .”
“Sutton, if you're having fun, say so. I'm not dying to leave,” Bree lied.
“Well, I have to admit,” Sutton whispered. “I've been snooping. This house is fantastic! You should see the drugs in the mother's medicine cabinet!”
“I should have known,” said Bree, shaking her head. “And where's Shaggy, Scooby Doo?”
“In the library, looking for wiretaps. This place is totally Sopranos, Bree. I mean, check it out—obviously they're pretty rich, but there's no sign anywhere of what they do. No law books, no medical books, no books on investing or . . . or anything! The wife is definitely into fashion, because there are plenty of books on that in the library, but there's no sign of where the money comes from.”
“Maybe they're old money,” Bree suggested, heading to the library to find Kylian.
“I called Sarah Ribera. She knows every old money clan in Italy, and she's never heard of your friend's family.” Their classmate Sarah Ribera was technically Princess Sarah, the heir to a north Italian principality, or dukedom, or something like that. Bree had never asked for a full explanation.
“Bree!” said Kylian happily when they walked into the library. “Your boyfriend is totally connected!”
“He's not my boyfriend. We haven't even gone on a date,” Bree pointed out. “Are you ready to go?”
“No way! We haven't found any significant clues just yet.”
“Except the conspicuous absence of clues,” Sutton intoned.
“Really, that's enough,” Bree began, but she was interrupted by the sound of clattering heels coming down the hall. Graciella came flying into the library with what looked like a nail file in her long, elegant hand.
“You cannot have him!” she wailed, stalking towards Bree, who froze.
Fortunately, Kylian and Sutton were not hypnotized by the sight of Graciella. Kylian shot straight toward Graciella in a flying tackle while Sutton threw herself at Bree, knocking her clear. The nail file went flying through the air until it hit the spine of
A History of Parisian Fashion, From the Reign of Louis XIV To the 1970s
and fell to the floor
.
While Kylian wrestled with taller, crazier Graciella, the big men in suits came barreling in, trailed by nearly everyone else at the party, including Antonio.
“Seriously, are you ready to go home yet?” Bree asked Kylian as the men in suits led Graciella away once more. Bree was still lying on the carpet, squashed flat by Sutton.
“Things are just getting interesting,” Kylian said, dusting himself off.
“I never knew you had that in you,” Sutton told him, dragging Bree back to her feet. “That was a pretty impressive leap.”
“Hey,” he grinned. “I'll do it for you anytime.”
“Don't get too cocky, tiger,” Sutton said, grinning. “That was a nail file, not a butcher knife. It wouldn't have cut paper, much less a tough New Yorker like Bree.”
“You know what would really make you my hero?” Bree said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. Like Sutton, she really was impressed. She had never seen Kylian do anything more athletic than dancing for three songs straight. “If you would please help get me out of here.”
“If you insist, darling. Coming through!” he barked, one arm draped protectively around Bree. With Sutton glued to her other side, Bree could hear Antonio calling her name somewhere in the crowd of shocked partygoers, but she just walked faster.
“Are you all right?” Sam asked when he arrived a few minutes later. “A whole carload of security types just showed up.”
“Fine,” Bree said. “But we're ready to get back to the city, where it's safe.”
“Um, right,” Sam said, turning to head back to the car. “The Big Apple, coming right up.”
 
Bree was expecting Antonio to call, so she wasn't surprised when the phone rang just as she let herself into the apartment. But it was the house line, not her cell phone, which was a little odd. Neither she nor her mother ever used the house line. In fact, they tended to forget that it was there.
“Hello?” Bree said, picking up.
“You forget me, but I have not forgotten you,” Graciella growled. “I know where you live, Bree Black. You leave Antonio to me.”
“And I know how to get a restraining order, you psycho,” Bree hissed back. “You can't tell me what to do!”
Graciella began shouting curses in broken English, so Bree hung up, leaving the phone off the hook. Then she went back downstairs to the Edwardian's security office.
“Hello, Miss Black,” said Julius, scrambling to his feet. Behind him, a bank of televisions showed grainy black and white footage of most of the building's public areas.
“Hi there. Call me Bree, please. I wanted to let you know that some nut is stalking me.”
“Have you filed a complaint with the police?”
“I think she's been arrested, actually. But just in case, watch out for a tall, blonde model type. Her name is Graciella.”
“Tall, blonde, model,” he said, writing it down on a clipboard. “So we are talking about a woman?”
“Yeah, she's female.”
“All the way?”
Bree smiled. That was a New York question. “I'm pretty sure she was born with the same equipment, yes. She used to go out with this guy I know, and she seems to think he left her for me. Not true, but there you go. She's a psycho.”
“I'll put out an advisory and prep everyone at the Monday meeting.”
“Thanks, Julius.”
Bree went back upstairs and put the phone back in the cradle. It immediately began to ring, so she pulled the plug from the wall and headed for her bedroom. Halfway there, her cell phone began to ring.
“You've got to be kidding,” she said, fishing through her coat pockets for the phone. Graciella had to share her mother's agency. It was the only thing that made sense, especially since she was able to find their unlisted home number that quickly. But how on earth would she know Bree's cell phone number? It wasn't listed anywhere.
The easy answer to figuring out who Graciella was, she decided, would be to ask her mother. But Ameera would want to know why Bree wanted to know, and Bree didn't see the need in scaring Ameera with tales of psycho models with nail files.
By the time Bree found her phone, it had stopped ringing. But the number on her missed-call registry was not a psychiatric facility—it was Antonio. She could see the new voicemail icon in the corner of the screen, but she wasn't ready to deal with him just yet.
She took a shower, washed and dried her hair, applied a minty moisturizer to her scaly toes, and then listened to the message.
“Bree, it's Tony. Antonio. And I just wanted to apologize for Graciella. I broke up with her weeks ago and she just can't seem to get over it. I never expected her to attack you, and my dad is pressing charges. I'm sure you never want to see me again, but I felt a real spark between us. If it's all right with you, I'd love to take you to dinner on Friday. Please call me back.”
Bree almost hit Call right away, but her finger froze halfway to the button. On the one hand, Antonio was right—there was a spark between them. On the other hand, his ex-girlfriend had tried to stab Bree when and she'd only known him for ten minutes. She didn't know what Graciella might do if things got serious. And what if Kylian and Sutton were right and Antonio actually was in the mob? Then again, she did owe Antonio a kiss—and that was a debt she wouldn't mind paying.
“Forget it,” she said aloud, turning her cell phone off. “I'll figure it out in the morning.”
She braided her hair, checked her knees and elbows for bruises from Sutton's tackle, and went to bed.
 
SHOULD BREE GIVE ANTONIO A SECOND CHANCE?
turn to page 117
to see what happens.
THINK BREE SHOULD GET OUT WHILE SHE CAN?
turn to page 125
to see what happens.
Think Bree should get to know Antonio a little better? Then read on!
Chapter 6
Heart and Sole
“I
'm so glad you called,” Antonio gushed when Bree finally called him back the next day. “Are we on for dinner?” “If you're sure that it'll just be the two of us,” Bree told him, admiring her newly pedicured toes as she sprawled across her bed. They were painted a brownish pink that made them look to Bree like little chocolate truffles.
“Of course! I should have known Gracie would crash the party.”
“How did she know about it if you broke up weeks ago?” Bree asked, wondering how an Italian model happened to know a high school boy from Jersey. Graciella probably wasn't much older than Antonio, but Bree couldn't imagine her going to school dances. “Do you have a lot of mutual friends?”
“No, no,” he said hastily. “I met her through my dad's work.”
A voice in Bree's mind shouted
Prostitution! A traditional Mafia line of work!
The voice sounded a lot like Kylian.
“Oh really?” Bree said smoothly. “What does your father do?”
“He makes shoes.”
“He's a designer?” Bree asked. “I don't think I've ever heard of him.”
Antonio chuckled. “You wouldn't have. He makes one-ofa-kind shoes for movies and awards shows. That kind of thing. You can't just buy a pair of his shoes. Six months before you need them, you meet with him. You show him the dress, or, if it hasn't been made yet, sketches for the dress, and he measures your feet, taking eighteen different measurements. Then he thinks about it for three months and draws three designs. He helps you decide which pair you want. Then he goes to the workshop and makes them. And two or three days before the premiere, they get delivered.”
“Wow,” Bree said. “That's a lot of time for a pair of shoes.”
“They aren't just shoes. They're works of art. The shoes he made for Diana's wedding are part of the crown jewels now. Two hundred perfectly matched pearls, twelve marquise-cut diamonds, and two flawless sapphires. And he also did the boots in
Pretty Woman.
”
“Okay,” Bree conceded. “I think I see what you mean.”
“Mom calls him the Shoe Whisperer,” he said in tones of awe.
“So, I take it you want to stay in the family business?”
“Oh, definitely.”
“How . . . interesting.” Bree wasn't sure what else she could say. She coveted her mother's Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos, but she didn't spend a lot of time thinking about shoes beyond that. It was just a simple decision beween, “Yes, I want them,” and “No, I don't.”
“Would you like to come by the workshop on Friday, before dinner? He's working on slippers for the new Broadway production of
Cinderella
.”
“Well, all right. Why not?”
“Perfect! I can't wait!”
“Yeah. Me, too.” Even with all her acting experience, Bree couldn't make the line sound convincing.
 
Bree had cheered considerably by that Friday. She realized there could be benefits to dating a man who loved shoes. She imagined a Valentine's gift of Manolo Blahniks topped with red roses, riding boots for Christmas, red-carpet slippers for her first major motion picture premiere. Thinking about Diana's shoes, Bree wondered if Antonio would propose with a ring or a pair of platinum kitten heels topped with princess-cut diamonds.
Not knowing where Antonio planned to take her for dinner, Bree wore a simple black dress with the huge, heart-shaped tanzanite pendant her father had given her a year before. The violet stone didn't match anything in her wardrobe except a pair of silk-covered stilettos, so she put those on too. She skipped tights, since Antonio had warned her that most of the shoes available for trying on were strappy stilettos, and any kind of hosiery would look odd. She added tanzanite studs for her ears and declared herself done five minutes before Calvin announced that someone was waiting for her downstairs.
“By the way, I've been watching out for blondes, Bree,” Calvin assured her as he opened the door to Antonio's black Boxter. Bree hated riding in a Porsche—they always made her feel claustrophobic. Her father insisted that if she ever learned to drive she would forget all her complaints about Porsches, but she didn't think she would ever appreciate tiny German sports cars.
Antonio, however, looked perfectly comfortable behind the wheel, as gleaming and elegantly tousled as any male model Bree knew.
“Hello, Bree,” he said, leaning in to kiss her hello. “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
“You really think so? Mom thinks my brother and I are too vain, and nothing is so unattractive in a man as vanity.”
“I don't know,” Bree shrugged. “Morbid obesity doesn't do it for me. And I'm not so into guys with a lot of tattoos either. Or too many piercings—ugh!”
“A little vanity doesn't bother you?”
“Nah,” Bree assured him. “A little vanity is a good thing. But a couple of extra pounds wouldn't bother me either. Or one tattoo. Or one piercing.”
“So what you really like is moderation?”
“Yes,” Bree said slowly. “I guess I do.”
Antonio laughed.
“What?” asked Bree.
“That's pretty funny, coming from someone wearing a twenty-carat tanzanite around her neck.”
“I like moderation in men,” Bree clarified. “Not jewels. And by most bling standards, I'm completely underdressed. Tiny earrings, no rings, tiny vintage watch with tiny vintage diamonds. It's not like I've got my first name spelled out in diamonds on my neck.”
“I'm just kidding, Bree,” Antonio assured her. “I think your jewelry is perfectly tasteful. I wonder if Dad has anything that would match that color as well as your own shoes.”
“I'd be surprised,” Bree said. The thing she loved most about tanzanite was how variable it was, coming in a whole spectrum of icy lilacs and cool violets. They were not common colors at all.
“Well, we'll see. We're almost there.”
“Almost where?”
“The garment district. Our family workshop has been there for decades.”
Antonio pulled into a private garage under a rather solitary brownstone. It looked out of place with all the surrounding lofts that had once been garment factories. Antonio punched in a lengthy code before the locks on the door popped open and they went upstairs to his father's workshop.
On the first floor was a gallery with small glass cases, each containing a single exquisite pair of shoes. Some were plain, but perfectly made. Others were covered in iridescent blue peacock feathers, or tiny multicolored gems, or trimmed with fur like on a pair of Russian boots. Each case also had a little plaque pronouncing for whom the shoes had been made.
“Oh, my God,” squeaked Bree, looking at a tiny pair of jeweled dancing shoes. “Audrey Hepburn's feet were so tiny! And these really belonged to Grace Kelly?”
“Come on upstairs and you can try some on.”
Bree bounded after him. She finally understood why Antonio was so very interested in women's footwear. These shoes belonged in museums, and she was actually going to put a pair on her feet.
“Size seven?” he guessed when they reached the workshop level.
“Exactly.”
“Well then . . . How about these?” He plucked a pair of white satin shoes, trimmed in what Bree thought was ermine, and topped with what she hoped were enormous rhinestones. If those weren't rhinestones, the shoes would buy a house in the Bowery. “They're for
Cinderella
.”
“They don't look like glass,” she said doubtfully.
“In the French version, she's wearing fur slippers.”
“Ohhh.”
“Come on,” he said. “Don't you want to try them on?”
“But they're so pretty! What if I break a heel?”
“Don't be scared, Bree. Have a seat.” He led her to a plush armchair near a window. “Now, let me take off your shoes.”
“Um, okay,” she said doubtfully. She wasn't usually worried about damaging valuables—she wore a ridiculously expensive diamond dogtag out jogging every morning. But diamonds are one of the toughest materials on the planet. Destroying footwear, especially a delicate handmade pair of heels, was all too easy.
“Oh, Bree!” Kneeling by her now-bare feet, Antonio sounded so shocked Bree looked down, afraid of what she might see. But they were just her feet, looking rather better than usual. She had visited her pedicurist twice this week, and even allowed her to sand away some of the calluses that protected her feet when she was running.
“What's wrong?”
“Your feet! Look at your toes! The little ones aren't straight, and the second toe is almost as long as the first!”
“How straight can a little toe get? Aren't they supposed to curve?”
“No, no. All of your toes should be straight and lean. The ends of your toes are all chubby. And arches—you haven't got arches!”
“Yeah, I have flat feet. That's not news. What's the big deal? They're just feet.”
He scrambled to his feet and pointed an accusing finger at Bree. “They're not ‘just feet.' They're your foundation! They're the pedestal that holds you up! A woman's feet reveal everything about her.”
“Oh. My. Goodness.” Bree shook her head slowly. “You're into feet?”
“
Some
feet,” he said with a nasty edge. “Really, Bree, I'm surprised. I thought you took care of yourself, really took pride in yourself. And you go around with feet like that!”
“I go
away
with feet like this,” she snapped, slipping back into her own shoes. “See you later, Antonio.”
“I hope not,” he sneered. “Especially if you're wearing sandals.”
Bree couldn't help herself. She slammed the heel of her right shoe on top of Antonio's arch. He howled and hopped away from her on one foot.
“If you do see me again, you'd better hope I'm not wearing stilettos,” Bree told him, and walked away.
 
MAYBE BREE WOULD HAVE PREFERRED A MAN WHO REALLY WAS IN THE MOB.
turn to page 125
to see what would have happened if Bree had dropped Antonio right after the party, or
turn to page 53
to choose another boy.

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