And the people . . . The men who could signal a waiter with a look instead of the roughly barked orders Torrio used and the ladies with their pretty manners and their tinkling, girlish voices all served to remind Viola of exactly who she was—and who she would never be. She hated them all almost as much as she hated the full corset biting into her skin and the ruffled flounce at her shoulders that pinned her arms down at her sides.
Worst of all, the longer they sat, the more she began to think that the entire evening had been pointless. Paul had been confident in the intelligence he had from his network of busboys and cooks that R. A. Reynolds dined at Delmonico’s on Thursday nights at seven thirty. Reynolds always sat at the same table, a private corner booth, and Paul had arranged for Viola and Torrio to be seated at a table across the room with a clear view of the booth.
But seven thirty had come and gone, and there had been no sign of R. A. Reynolds or anyone else. The whole fiasco had been an absolute waste of time. As Torrio downed another glass of the expensive scotch that Paul was paying for and cut large pieces of beefsteak to shovel into his mouth, Viola picked at her food and counted the moments until she could go home and take off the ridiculous dress.
It was close to eight when a flurry of commotion erupted behind them. Viola turned to look and saw that a young couple had just arrived. They weren’t much older than Viola herself, but they were clearly favorites. The girl, especially, seemed to know almost everyone, because she stopped and chatted at nearly every table they passed.
In a sea of lavish gowns, the girl stood out like a peacock among pigeons. She was dressed in a gown that looked, even to Viola, who knew very little about such trivial things, expensive. It was perfectly tailored to the girl’s lithe body, and its color—a light blush that matched the flush of the girl’s cheeks—would have looked ridiculously frivolous on anyone with less confidence. Instead, the pink hue only served to accent the glow of the girl’s creamy skin and the dark fringe of lashes around her eyes.
She was as slender and delicate looking as a reed, with polished fingertips that had clearly never seen a day’s worth of work. Her blond hair had just a touch of copper when the candlelight hit it, and the long, graceful column of her neck was ringed with a simple strand of pearls that lay against the fragile notch at the base of her throat.
Her skin would be soft there, fragile and fragrant with whatever scent she wears. Lilies, maybe . . . or roses . . . something floral and as pink as she is.
Viola’s cheeks felt warm suddenly, as she realized the direction her thoughts had gone. She’d been staring openly. She glanced at Torrio to make sure he hadn’t noticed, but he was still busy shoveling the last of his potatoes into his mouth. Confident he wasn’t paying her any attention, she allowed herself one more peek at the girl. At the very moment Viola looked up, the girl’s eyes met hers. Dark blue, the color the sea had been in the middle of the Atlantic, and just as dangerous.
Viola looked away as a wave of shame crashed over her—it had been only a few weeks since she had lost Tilly, and there she was, so easily distracted by a girl whose every breath screamed of wealth that Viola could never begin to dream of. And to be distracted here, of all places, when she was clearly being watched by her brother’s escort?
Merda. If Paul heard of it . . .
She knew exactly what would happen if Paul heard of it. He’d make sure Viola was either married or dead, because everyone knew her soul was already too blackened for the convent.
But Torrio hadn’t noticed the entrance of the couple or the direction of Viola’s thoughts. As he signaled the waiter for yet another drink, Viola couldn’t help herself. She chanced one more peek at the girl just in time to see the maître d’ pull back the curtain to open a private booth—the Reynolds booth—and let the couple in. The girl had already disappeared behind the velvet curtains, but her escort had stopped to speak with the maître d’.
Viola didn’t allow herself to wonder about the way her heart sank the moment the girl was out of sight. Her focus was on the girl’s escort, R. A. Reynolds. The man she was supposed to kill.
Viola pulled on her affinity and sent it outward, searching for the link to this R. A. Reynolds across the room. She found him easily, his heartbeat steady like the ticking of a clock, pulsing nearly in time with her own.
She could do this. It would be so easy to simply slow the flow of blood, to call to that living part of him and command it, to stop it.
Why should she care that Reynolds was so young?
Why should she care that he looked the maître d’ in the eye when he spoke to him—as though they were old friends? Or that the girl in the booth would have to witness her escort crumpling into a lifeless heap?
She shouldn’t care. She didn’t.
Who was this Reynolds to her? Un pezzo grosso. A rich boy living off his father’s money and name who had never worked—had never slaved—a day in his life. His hands would not have calluses beneath the gloves he wore. His stomach had never known the carving pain of true hunger. There were a hundred more like him, each less important than the one before. The world wouldn’t miss this one.
Still, Viola hesitated.
She’d killed many times before, and her soul was, surely, already stained beyond reckoning with the blood of her victims. It shouldn’t have mattered.
Viola was still staring at the velvet curtain of the booth long after the man had disappeared behind it and the tether she’d had to the steady beating of his heart went slack.
Torrio’s foot nudged hers beneath the table. “That’s them, ain’t it?” Torrio asked. “Why didn’t you . . . ?” He waggled his fingers at her.
Yes . . . why didn’t I? Viola realized that Torrio was looking at her, his dark eyes sharp and far too suspicious. She’d just done exactly what Paul had been afraid of—she’d missed her opportunity to take out Reynolds when she could have. Now he was behind the velvet curtain, hidden from her sight and out of reach of her affinity.
“Paul didn’t tell me Reynolds dined with other people,” she told him, trying to pull herself back together. It was a feeble excuse, and the look on Torrio’s face told her that he suspected what had happened. “I was thrown off by the other one.”
“The girl?” Torrio’s brows drew together.
“She’s a witness,” Viola said, knowing that the excuse was ridiculous. A witness to what? It wasn’t like her magic could be seen.
“So take her out too,” Torrio said with a shrug. “What do you care?”
“I don’t,” she lied. “But Paul might. We don’t know who she is. What if she’s the daughter of someone important? It could cause a lot of problems for Paul, killing the wrong person.”
“It’ll cause more problems if you don’t take care of the right person. You had a clear shot there.”
“It’s not so simple.”
He frowned as though he could see straight through the lie to the truth of her, and for a moment Viola wondered if he knew what she’d been thinking—if he understood the real reason for her hesitation.
Torrio leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his expression menacing. “Well, what are we supposed to do now?”
“We wait?” she offered, even though the last thing she wanted to do was spend another minute sitting across from Torrio in that oppressive restaurant. “Maybe the girl will leave. Or maybe it would be better to go.”