Life Before Damaged Vol 7 :The Ferro Family (Life Before Damaged #7) (5 page)

W
HAT
?!

Our parents move away from the lectern, my mother stroking my father's back reassuringly. Pete walks over to the DJ, leaving me stranded alone at the front of the room looking like an idiot, tapping my fingers on my thighs. He and the DJ exchange a couple of words, gesturing with their hands and nodding.

Pete removes his jacket, vest, tie and cufflinks, setting them on the DJ’s table. When he comes back, he unbuttons the top button of his shirt and rolls his cuffs midway up his forearms, the whole time looking straight at me with those blue bedroom eyes.

When he’s ready, he walks over and offers his hand. I slip my hand in his while he rests his other hand on my waist. He tips his head down to look into my eyes.

“Ready to have your ass kicked, Granz?” The corner of his mouth lifts to one side. His goading breaks my unease.

“Kick my ass? At a waltz? I’m a ballerina, dude! We waltz in our sleep! We’ll see whose ass gets whipped.” Pete grins at my words and I realize what I said. “Shut up and dance, Ferro.”

Pete bursts out laughing and the music starts. Glenn Miller’s trombone rings out a few notes of warning and Pete’s mischievous smile says the rest. Oh, crapsticks! He intends on swing dancing instead of waltzing, and I’m not wearing the right clothing!

“Uh, Pete?" I tug on his shoulder. "Easy on the lifts, okay? I can't flash my undies to anyone here tonight.”

“As you wish, Miss Granz.” His words are coupled with a wink, and my hopes go the way of the Titanic. Crap. He’s totally planning on showing everyone the color of my panties.

Before I can back out, he spins me out, away from him and quickly snaps me back. The movement propels me so that I crash into his chest, and I’m eye-level with his exposed neck. God, he smells good. What is that? Leather? The guy smells like a saddle and spices. The little dip at the base of his throat is just begging to be licked.

We freeze for a couple of beats, smiling at each other, and when the intro fades into the melody, he starts leading me into the dance that I taught him. Our steps are perfectly synchronized and lively. He leads me across the dance floor, making me move in any way he wants. His grip is firm and authoritative. He isn’t a weak dance partner, and it’s not because I’m being a good girl and following perfectly.

When I try to take control, his grip on me tightens and he guides me more forcefully, pushing me under his arm, spinning me out, and snapping me back. We’re breathing hard and the rush is amazing. I forget the people watching. It’s just us and the magical pulse of the trumpet. The singer’s voice is lush and spot on. It’s like we’re lost in time, pulled apart from the things that threaten to destroy us. It’s just me and Pete, our feet moving perfectly together.

“And you thought dancing was for pussies.” I echo back the words he said so long ago.

He pushes me out, leads me under his arm, and then brings both arms down encircling me. We’re nose-to-nose, both of us breathing hard. “You changed my mind.”

Before I can answer, he spins me out again.

Pete’s being a good boy, avoiding any lifts, but he has that devilish look about him. Pete's holding back, and it's killing him. It's also killing me because sooner or later, he's going to surprise me with a flip and my ass, clad in cheeky Brazilian-cut undies, will grace the cover of gossip magazines everywhere.

A few more bars of music go by, and we're face-to-face, both smiling and breathing hard.

I jerk his wrist and say, "It's my turn to lead, Ferro. Try and keep up."

Pete nods, agreeing to let me take the lead for a while. I try a more complex step and Pete fumbles, his toes stepping on mine. We both stop dancing and laugh, never letting go of each other's hands.

Between breathy giggles, I say, “I’m totally kicking your ass.”

Pete grins, his eyes never leaving mine. Longer strands of hair flop down on his forehead, almost reaching his eyes, and he flips his hair back with a chuckle.

“Yes, you are. You’ll have to teach me some more of those moves someday.”

“How about now? Let's try it slowly." I slow down our tempo by half. Pete looks down at my feet and studies my moves, then concentrates on his own. We repeat the move over and over again until he gets it. "Ready for double time?"

Pete answers by taking over the lead, doing the same step but at the proper speed. It amazes me how good he is at this and how well our styles match. I feel like I'm Ginger Rogers and he's my Fred Astaire; we were meant to dance together.

The song approaches the end, and he hasn't flipped me over or done any lifts. I'm expecting it at any moment. There is no way he's going to pass up such an opportunity.

It's coming, I can feel it. It's the final notes of the song. He spins me in close. My back is pressed against his front. I close my eyes. He guides my arm above my head to turn me around toward him and I drop, arching backward in his arms.

The last note has played. I'm in a dip, his back to the rest of the room. He’s hovering close to my face, both of us breathing hard. His body is only inches away from mine. We’re in our own private bubble. My hands are clasped around his neck whereas his are on my back, keeping me close.

People start to clap, applauding us. Pete’s gaze travels down and up my body, and he grins.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to flash anyone tonight?”

I remove one hand from his neck to discreetly check my skirt, making sure it hasn't ridden up too far, but I’m safe. The skirt is flowing down nicely, hiding all the bits I want to keep covered.

“Your eyes deceive you, Mr. Ferro. I’m not flashing anyone.” I tease, smiling.

“Really? From here, I have a delectable view. It's a real shame we're just friends.” He moistens his lips, and his gaze darkens as it drops back down. It’s only when I notice he’s staring at my chest that it registers. I feel drafty in places I shouldn’t be.

Everything happens so fast, but it feels like slow motion. As soon as I realize my left boob has popped free of my dress – damn fashion tape – my body stiffens and my face flames up.

This isn’t happening! I want to curl up into a ball and cry. No, I want to move to another state, get a boob job, change my face and THEN curl up into a ball and cry.

Singing off-key karaoke in front of a bunch of partygoers in a rundown apartment is one thing. Showing my breasts off in the middle of a formal business affair, surrounded by the most influential people in New York City is another.

My eyes start to prickle and my view of Pete blurs under a watery film of unshed tears. I repeatedly blink, trying desperately not to cry in public.

Pete’s cockiness changes to reassurance. “Don’t worry, no one can see you but me. You’re fine.” His voice is soft and kind.

He pulls me close to him, hiding me from everyone so I can adjust my dress, but before I succeed, we hear rapid clicking. A wave of unrelenting flashes of light blinds us both.

W
hat was
a happy moment of dancing turns into a nightmare. Within the next few minutes, the pictures will be uploaded to the Internet and the entire world will see me exposed while cradled in Pete Ferro’s arms. Oh, God.

I cover my eyes, and Pete straightens us both into a standing position, keeping me close to him the entire time. He discreetly fixes my top, but the tips of his fingers gently brush up against my nipple. I suck in a jagged breath as my stomach stirs at the unexpected touch.

Pete's muscles cord tightly as the clicking and flashes of light continue. When I look up, his jaw is clenched, and the little vein on the side of his temple looks like a fire hose. He’s staring down the group of photographers next to us. Pete looks down at me, making certain that I’m decent again, then releases me. Before I know it, he’s charging toward the small group of photographers. He doesn’t ask; he just starts yanking the cameras away from them.

Guests are gasping. Some of the Ferro men from the other end of the reception hall are laughing. One of them walks over. He doesn’t have the trademark Ferro blue eyes, but he looks like them—angular features with dark hair and the Ferro stance that says he knows his place in the world, and it’s right on top.

“Pete,” he says walking toward his cousin.

Peter turns and growls. “Not now Bryan. Go back to your mother.” As Pete speaks, he grabs another camera from unsuspecting hands.

“Hey! I was invited here to photograph the party. If you don’t like it, then take it up with your mother.” The photographer is bold as he says it, but then Pete turns on him, livid. The guy shrinks back and disappears into his wrinkled Sears suit.

Peter grabs his collar and pulls him so they’re nose to nose. The muscles in Pete’s neck are corded tight.

“That’s right. You’re here to photograph the party, not embarrass my friend, but that’s exactly what you’re doing. Leave now, or I’ll make you leave. Your equipment will be returned if you comply. If you don’t walk away, I won’t be so kind.” Pete is slowly lifting the guy off the ground as he speaks, then drops him.

The photographers that have been stripped of their cameras stand there stunned. A few walk away without a word, unwilling to lose thousands of dollars of equipment, while others stand their ground. It’s those people that worry me.

Pete grabs another camera, ripping it from the man’s hands. The next fellow isn’t so lucky. When he fails to hand it over, Pete describes exactly what he plans to do to him, and it’s not pretty. He reaches for the camera and jerks it away.

I can’t let him do this. I’m nobody. My puny boob and I will be yesterday’s news in no time; there’s really nothing to see anyway. Pete, on the other hand, is a whole other ballgame. Pictures and videos of this fight will be plastered everywhere, and I know what his hands can do. I don’t want him to be the cause of another tragedy, especially not on my account.

“Try and take it, Ferro.”

Pete’s fingers ball into fists. The guy refuses to hand over his camera. Pete refuses to make it look like a struggle. The fastest way to take something you want is a fist to the face. The veins in his neck are ready to pop. He’s going in for a swing. If I don’t act now, the photographer's face will be pudding. I run.

Pete pulls his arm back, ready to punch, and I squeeze myself between him and the photographer. The man is a little taller than me and taken by surprise. Everything happens in rapid succession, too fast to tell what would happen next.

“Don’t!” My voice leaves me in a rush as something hard crashes into my cheek. For a second I think it’s Pete’s fist, but it’s cold and hard. I blink once and touch my hand to my cheek. Holy shit. It was the camera.

The photographer turns pale and steps away from me. He took a swing at Pete and hit me instead. I ran right into his fist with his camera still attached. The guy keeps stepping back, hands up, trying to apologize.

“I didn’t mean to hit her. She ran right into me. I swear to God!”

Pete is seeing red. His gaze narrows as his jaw locks. He’s done talking. Pete rips the camera off the guy’s hand and throws it. The equipment goes flying through the air and then crashes to the floor. The glass in the lens shatters on contact.

Everyone is watching. Cameras are clicking. Cell phones are recording. And the scariest monster of all is making a beeline directly for her son. Constance Ferro has a look on her face that could castrate an army.

This has to stop now. Before the crazy cousins jump in, because they’re headed this way too. The entire family is going to get into a brawl over my boob. It’s like a flash mob—a real one. This will ruin the merger, destroy my parents, and slaughter Pete’s image in the process.

I move without thinking, just wanting this to stop.

“STOP! PETE! DON’T!” I rush between them again and reach for his arm. “STOP!”

For a fraction of a second, I’m the target of his wrath. It's both beautiful and frightening all at once. All pure, raw emotion with nothing held back. His crystal blue eyes, normally filled with flirty amusement, cloud with hatred and hurt. His hands, normally gentle and sensual, are clenched tightly into weapons.

My arms fly up, instinctively protecting my face in case he doesn't have time to pull back his punch.

Nothing happens. I don’t see stars and I’m not plastered against the ballroom floor. I chance a peek. His fist is still up in the air, but he’s stopped his swing, holding it there.

“Gina, get out of the way.” Pete says through clenched teeth. His whole body is trembling with the effort of holding himself back, his eyes focused on the man behind me.

“No, Peter. I can’t let you do this. Let it go. Please!”

“I won’t let these sons of bitches do this to you.”

Stepping closer, I rest my hands firmly on his chest, gently pushing him back.

“It’s okay, Peter. It’s not worth it.” I’m begging now and mouth the word, ‘please.’

Pete lowers his fist and looks at me, not understanding. He takes a step back and turns around, running his hand through his hair. He stomps his foot down and lets out a frustrated growl-like scream before punching the air. My shoulders slump in relief. He’s letting out steam, but I still have work to do. I need to get rid of dipstick behind me before Pete pounds his ass into the floor.

Turning to the stunned photographer, I see him reach for his camera on the ground. He squeals like a girl as I stab his hand with the heel of my stiletto.

“I just saved your face, asshole, now you’re going to save mine. Forget the camera and LEAVE!”

His fingers stretch, trying to reach once more for the camera, and I twist my heel further into his hand, making him whimper and cry out in pain. I remove my foot from his hand.

“You two deserve each other," he mutters angrily. "Pair of fucking lunatics.” He scrambles for the exit, leaving the camera behind.

You don’t know the half of it, buddy.

But my victory is short lived. Pete is still trying to come to grips with his anger, and I have to make sure he won’t do anything he’ll regret later. His mother parts the crowd of onlookers like it’s the Red Sea.

“Peter Ferro.” She says his name like she’s scolding a toddler.

I cut in front of her and take Pete by the arm. “Lovely party, Mrs. Ferro. The most exciting I’ve been to in ages. I'm certain news of your merger will be sprawled across the front of every newspaper in the country by morning. Odds are HuffPo already has something up.” I talk swiftly and with confidence I don’t feel. “If you’ll excuse us.”

Walking up to Pete, I place a firm hand on his shoulder. He's so on edge that he flinches upon contact.

“Pete, follow me.” He looks up.

His face is a tangled mess of emotions; I can’t tell what’s going on in his head, but he does as I say and takes my hand. I need to move him away from the crowd. Too many people are watching us; among those people are a protective brother, pissed off cousins, and a mother that’s growing horns.

When we get to a remote corner of the room, I push through a set of doors that lead to the stairwell. There’s someone sneaking a smoke. There’s a no smoking policy in this place and from the looks of it, this waiter can’t afford a fine. He flinches and I smile at him.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Done." He puts out his cigarette and nods. "I wasn’t here and I have no idea where Peter Ferro is. If you’ll excuse me.” The waiter walks past us and back into the ballroom.

We’re finally alone.

“Are you all right?”

I start to ask him more, but a tap on my shoulder interrupts me. Pete looks over my shoulder and scowls. I turn around. It’s Philip.

“Gina, are you okay? What the hell happened out there?” He places both his hands on my shoulders. Oddly, I don’t want him touching me in front of Pete. It feels wrong. I politely remove his hands and let go of him, but he holds my hands tighter, possessively.

“Just a wardrobe malfunction. Some photographers got a good view. No biggie.” I'm downplaying it. It is a huge deal for me, but I don't want to get Pete all riled up again.

Phil sighs, “Damn those fuckers, always trying to get their shots." He nods toward Pete. "Thanks for looking out for her out there."

I look between the two men, utterly confused. Phil is still holding my hands and Pete's eyes zone in on the simple touch. He releases one hand and lifts my chin up with a finger to study my face.

"What happened here?” Pete tenses beside me, and it’s only then I notice the throbbing pain on my right cheek. When I press my fingers to it, they come back wet. I’m bleeding. Great.

“I got in the way of a flying projectile. When cameras have wings, right? Or is that pigs?” I shrug, hoping to not make a big deal out of it, but Pete turns his back to me like he can’t stand to look at my battered face.

I can't figure out why he behaved the way he did. The old Pete would have posed for the camera. The new one went Godzilla on their asses.

“Let me get something for that cut," Phil says, removing his finger from my chin. "I’ll be right back.” He drops a small kiss on my uninjured cheek. I nod, and Phil heads toward the bar.

“So. You and Gambino, huh? Was he the reason you were so happy last week?” Pete says.

I turn toward Pete. He’s leaning up against the wall, hands in his pockets. I shake my head and take a step closer to him.

“No. Yes. No. You know as well as I do that a relationship between me and Phil isn’t possible.” I look back at the fire door, wondering when he’ll be back. I kind of wanted some time alone with Pete.

“He’s a good man, Gina. Clean cut, good looking, from a good family with good values, well educated, promising career and the way he looks at you...”

My mouth quirks up to one side. I can't help but tease him.

“Wow, you paint a pretty picture of him. Do you have a crush perhaps, Ferro? I don’t think you’re Phil’s type.” It’s meant as a joke, to get a rise out of him, but his face remains somber.

“No, but he’s most definitely yours.”

I got nothing. He’s right. Under any other circumstances, Philip would be my type. I like him a lot and, when we talk, it feels natural and right.

Pete and I stay silent for a while, just looking at each other. So many unspoken words beg to come out. I hate that I’m still not free to make my own choices. At the same time, though, Pete has become such a huge part of my life that if it were possible to cut all ties with him, I can't say for certain that I would.

Part of me has grown attached to him somehow. Regina Granz, befriending a ruffian. Odder things have happened, I suppose, like being besties with a 'libertine', as Erin likes to call herself.

Phil comes back with napkins, a glass of water and a plastic baggie filled with ice. When he starts to dab the blood off of my face, I take the napkin from him and do it myself.

Pete pushes himself off the wall and clears his throat. He unrolls his sleeves and buttons the top button of his shirt.

“Now that you’re in good hands, I’ll leave you two alone.” Pete stares Philip up and down. “Hurt her and you’ll wish you didn’t.” His eyes focus on the door that leads to the ballroom and his entire demeanor changes. His lips twitch up into a crooked smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I saw a long pair of golden legs that need spreading.”

My lips curl in disgust. Pete, the player, is back. He pushes past us and walks into the ballroom. We follow him, watching. He heads toward a group of glamorous, high-maintenance, long legged women that have been begging for his attention all evening. He ignored them until now.

For me.

But that's not completely true. A nagging memory reminds me this is all an act. He did it for himself. He made sure this event would be covered in every single media outlet--as efficiently as possible.

Phil puts the ice pack on my cheek, and I suck in air through my teeth like a hiss. A single tear rolls down my cheek. I didn’t even realize it was there.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” His voice fills with concern and his thumb brushes my shoulder delicately.

“No, you didn’t hurt me. It just stings.” I don’t lie to him, not really. It does sting.