Elsa
When I come back from the vineyard, it was already getting dark. I just found out today that they make there own wine here at the estate. How big is this estate? I did some wine tasting, trying very hard not to get myself drunk so hat i can be sober for Marcello’s party and not end up embarrassing him.
I spent the morning trying to convince him in vainto turn down his invitation. I dint have any good memories from the last two parties i attended. I still have some kind of trauma attached to these formal mafia parties. But Marcello was not willing to listen to any of my concerns. He assured me that nothing will happen to me and then reminded me of how i accused him for blocking me from the real world. I was left with no words against him.
“The hairdresser and the makeup artist are waiting in the lounge by the Jacuzzi. Would you like me to serve dinner?” I hear Dominico saying.
“A hairdresser? Why?” I ask, surprised.
“You’re going to a banquet. There’s an international film festival in Rome, and don Marcello is the majority shareholder of one of the film companies. Unfortunately, you only have an hour and a half to prepare, what’s with you being so late.”
Great, I thought. I have been on the farm the whole day thinking it was some simple party I could throw on a simple dress and comb my hair and be ready to go. That’s why i didn’t think much about it. Shit! Now it is starting to sound hell of important.
I shake my head, wondering if the day when I’d know the plans in advance would ever come. Not to mention making those plans on my own. I head upstairs.
Poli and Luigi are a pair of stereotypical gays. Wonderful, fantastic guys-a woman’s true friends. And more feminine than most ladies… In an hour they manage to get the bird’s nest that my hair has become and the flaking-dry skin on my face in order. When they are finished, I go to my room to pick some clothes for the evening. I entered the bedroom only to notice a Roberto Cavalli evening dress, hanging on the bathroom door. It has a small card attached saying Wear This One. Well, at least I know the answer to the question of my evening outfit. The dress is amazing, but also very revealing. It is made of black, see-through material-a bit like a mesh-with inserts that look like zippers or lacing. Its long sleeves make my arms look thinner, but the pièce de résistance was the back-or rather lack of it. The dress has only a thin strap at the shoulder blades, then a long, wide cutout all the way to the derriere.
I can’t wear underwear with this, I think, grimacing, looking at myself in the mirror.
Roberto Cavalli had foreseen this, though, and in strategic places, the dress lost its translucence. It didn’t change the fact that I simply would have felt better with at least a G-string on.
I grab my bag, spray on some perfume, slide my feet into a pair of elegant sandals, and go to the door. I stop by the mirror for one last time. I look mind-blowing. The incredible, smoky, black-and-gold makeup complements the tan of my skin perfectly, and the chignon on the top of my head made me look slimmer and classier. The heap of faux hair was worth it, I thought, running my hand along the intricate structure on my head.
I go out and took a look around. There is a bottle of champagne and a glass-already filled-on the table. I can get used to this. So Marcello must be somewhere close. I walk over to the table and pour myself a glass.
“I knew that dress would be perfect. You look absolutely stunning, Elsa.” Gabriele welcomes me, plating a kiss on both my cheeks.
“Where is don Marcello?” I ask, taking a sip. Gabriele sends me an apologetic look. I hadn’t noticed before that he was wearing a tuxedo. That could only mean one thing-has Marcello bailed out on me? But that wouldn’t make sense.
“He had to-”
I raise a hand, silencing Gabriele. “Let’s just have some fun tonight,” I say, tilting my glass and downing it in one gulp.
We take the jet. I can’t stop thinking about Marcello. He literally forced me to attend this party. I didn’t want to go in the first place. What am I supposed to do there. What am I going there as? Gabriele’s escort?
Whatever the case, I will make the most of the little time I get out of my luxurious prison and have some fun. Maybe I can finally break away, get a phone and call someone. Or I can find a way and finally escape. Rome is a good distance from Palermo but I can device means if I get a phone.
“We’re nearly there. Are you ready?” he asked, offering me a hand. We have finally landed.
I look out, but the sight of all those people, lights, the pomp and splendor suddenly terrified me.
“No, I’m not. I’ll never be. I don’t want to be ready. Why are we doing this, Gabriele?” I ask, eyes wide with fear.
“For me, of course.” I hear the familiar accent and feel a warm wave flood over me. “Sorry for the confusion. I didn’t think I’d get here on time, but we arrived at an agreement fairly quickly, so here I am.”
I raised my eyes, seeing my resplendent captor waiting on the quay. He is wearing a double-breasted black tuxedo and look straight out of a fairy tale. I am overawed. His white shirt brings out the color of his skin and the elegant bow tie is so classy. He looks so dignified.
“Come.” Marcello offers me a hand, and a moment later I am standing next to him on solid ground.
I smooth down my dress and lift my eyes, meeting his gaze. He holds me tightly by the hand, looking as dazed as I am.
“Elsa…” he says, then trails off, frowning. “You look so ravishing tonight, I don’t know if I want anyone else but me to see you like this.”
I smile at those words in mock modesty. Who bought this dress?
“Don Marcello!” It is Gabriele “We have to go. They’ve seen us already. Please, your masks.”
Who has seen us? Why dowe have to go all of a sudden? I take the beautiful lace mask offered to me.
Marcello turns to me, ties it over my face, and purrs, brushing his nose against its rim. “I love it,” he whispers, planting a gentle kiss on my lips.
Before he manages to pull away, the flashing lights of the paparazzi illuminate the night. I start to panic. Marcello slowly takes a step back and turns toward the photographers with his arm around my waist. He does not smile, instead just waiting until they were done. The crowd of paparazzi reverberated with calls in Italian, while I just tried to look as dignified as I can, though my legs are shaking.
Marcello waves a hand as if signaling that this was enough, and we head toward the entrance along the red carpet. Having crossed the hall, we reach the ballroom lined with monumental pillars. There are candles and white flowers on round tables. Most guests are masks, which suites me-my own mask gave me the illusion of anonymity.
We sit down at one of the tables. We arr the last people to join that particular table. Waiters arrive a moment later, serving appetizers followed by other dishes.