Status: work in progress!

Genevieve

002

allure [noun]

1. the quality of being powerfully attractive and/or fascinating


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Gina and I arrive at dinner at around eight o’clock, and by the time we get there the guests are seated and waiting. Daddy’s at the head of the table, making cheerful small talk with what looks like the eldest of the four surrounding him, a man in his late sixties with graying hair and a puckered, rosy scar that runs from his left brow to the corner of his mouth. At first it’s faint; imperceptible, even, but as he turns his head toward us the scar catches the light in such a way that the entire thing seems to glisten, twisting his face into a gleaming, lopsided sneer.

The rest look similar save for that bizarre wound; tall, honey-skinned, with pale green eyes and god-like faces, as if they’ve been carved from some consecrated and lucent marble. They’re all impeccably dressed in slim, black suits and stone-colored oxfords. And as they appraise us with those startlingly savage, wolfish eyes, it’s the youngest of the four that I notice: the only one who’s smiling.

“He’s young.” Gina murmurs, apparently echoing my thoughts. She’s standing next to me with her hands propped on her hips, returning their ravenous gazes with that coquettish and impossibly alluring confidence that only Gina is capable of. “Jesus, Genevieve, the kid could almost be your age.”

And she’s right; he could be. The boy looks no more than twenty, a good decade younger than any of his company. He’s handsome, with dark, curly hair and golden skin, and as I stare at him I can’t help tracing the soft curve of his lips, the five-o’clock shadow outlining those curved cheekbones, that taut jawline. There’s something impossibly kind about his eyes, something warm and promising and full of hope. And suddenly, I realize that for all the time I’ve been staring, he’s been staring back, his lips curled into a knowing smile.

“Girls!” Daddy interjects, as I tear my gaze away from those wild and piercing eyes. “Come, come! Please!”

Daddy’s grinning a wide, pearly-toothed grin, a lit cigar pinched between his teeth. He’s dressed up for the occasion, wearing a pinstriped gray suit and a tie to match, diamond cuff links and slicked-back hair and newly polished shoes.

And from all this, Gina and I can tell, almost in an instant, that these gentlemen mean big money. And that Daddy, who has no doubt informed these gentlemen of a more - ahem - physical incentive to invest in the family trade, expects us to ensure their investment at all costs.

So, Gina and I do what we always do; we lick our lips and flutter our lashes and saunter toward the table, our hips swaying provocatively to the click-click-click of our stilettos on marble. Their gazes fall upon the teasing bounce of our little breasts and linger there. But not the youngest; instead, he’s studying my face just as I’d studied his, with that same odd smile on his lips. I can’t place the reason why, but the look in his eyes is something I want to wake up to, always.

“These are my lovely girls,” Daddy introduces us with a smile, and then adds for emphasis, “Aren’t they something? Aren’t they simply divine?

The eldest of them grins, catlike, his fleshy scar curling and folding into his wrinkles. Gina winks, and he grins wider. I’m staring at the boy and wondering when he’s going to look away, and after five seconds of unimaginably fervent eye contact, I can feel heat rushing to my cheeks.

“Such stunning creatures,” the eldest replies, in a thick and lilting italian accent. “Are they yours?”

He turns to Daddy, who laughs warmly and slaps a broad hand onto his colleague’s shoulder. “Great heavens no, Giovanni,” he says, then ducks to whisper something unintelligible into his ear, before resurfacing and addressing Gina and I. “Darlings, meet Signore Ambrosino and his wonderfully handsome sons; Ludovic, Marco, and Christof.”

Daddy addresses each from eldest to youngest, and the men politely nod in turn. Christof Ambrosino, I think to myself, as his eyes bore little holes into mine.

Gina and I chirp a practiced “Buona Sera” before taking our seats at the table. Gina flanks Ludovic, the eldest son, and almost immediately one hand snakes around his knee and she begins to whisper something in his ear, her cherry lips brushing his lobe. From the look on his face I can tell it’s something positively obscene, but I can’t be bothered at present because I am sitting beside Christof. I have never seen eyes so wonderful, and from up close I can make out little flecks of silver in them, like shards of moon and stars, like a little universe.

“Good evening,” he says in a faint italian lilt, just like his father. He leans in a fraction. “I think you are beautiful. I think you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

Christof stares at me with deadpan sincerity, and to my utmost relief the rest of the table is mid-chatter and pays no attention. For the first time in a very long while I’m caught off guard. I manage to choke out a surprised laugh at his earnestness, but he continues. “I would give my life to kiss those lips. They are the color of my Italia at sunset, you know, the color of the light on the clouds. And your eyes, they are like espresso in a porcelain cup.”

No, hotshot, they’re shit brown, I reply in my head. But his voice is so soft, and his eyes are so tender, I can’t help but smile.

“Your face, mio bella, it is like home to me. So very precious.” Christof leans in further, very close, until I can feel his warm breath on my lips. “And that is why I must tell you this.”

Christof pauses for a beat, and for a moment we are suspended in a breathless, anticipatory silence. I can feel the heat radiating off of him, almost electric, every inch of him alive and hungry and all-consuming.

“What is it?” I whisper. He smiles, his hot, rough hands folding around mine, pulling me suddenly into his chest.

“Duck,” he says, just as the first bullet whizzes past.
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Excited to continue writing this story. Comments and suggestions are very, very welcome!