Chapter 2

The mirror on the vanity reflected a face so pale it bordered on translucent. The swelling on the left cheek had subsided somewhat, but a faint, bluish-purple bruise remained—a flaw marring an otherwise perfect piece of "porcelain."

Expressionless, Clemenza dipped her fingertip into a pot of Chanel concealer and dabbed it gently onto the bruise. Once, twice, three times. As the cream blended in, the evidence of violence vanished, replaced by a flawless, yet lifeless, mask.

She looked at her reflection, the eyes staring back at her seeming like a stranger's. The girl who would stitch her pointe shoes on the subway, who would be ecstatic over a perfect arabesque, seemed to have died in the study last night. The woman who remained was the eldest daughter of the Rossi family, a tribute about to be sacrificed to the Costas.

"Cle, my sweet, are you ready?"

The bedroom door opened, and her mother, Maria, walked in. She wore a deep purple silk gown and held a dark blue velvet jewelry box. Seeing her daughter sitting so quietly before the mirror, a complex mix of emotions flashed through Maria's eyes—the relief of a burden lifted, and the sorrow of shared experience.

"I'm ready, Mama." Clemenza's voice was calm, without a single ripple.

Maria walked up behind her and opened the box to reveal a dazzling diamond necklace. Tony Rossi had bought it from Tiffany & Co. specifically for tonight's engagement party; even with the family's capital chain on the brink of collapse, keeping up appearances was the last stubborn stand of a Sicilian man.

"This was left by your grandmother... oh no, your father bought it new." Maria corrected herself incoherently, trying to mask the slip. The cold diamonds touched Clemenza's warm skin, feeling like an icy snake coiling around her throat. "You will be the most envied bride in all of New York. Carmine is a capable man. With him, you won't have to worry about money for the rest of your life."

Clemenza looked at her mother's ingratiating face in the mirror and suddenly felt a profound pity. This woman had lived in the Rossi mansion for thirty years, learned how to bake the perfect lasagna, learned how to vanish like a shadow when her husband was angry, yet she had forgotten the one thing that mattered: how to be an independent human being.

"Mama," Clemenza spoke suddenly, her fingers lightly stroking the expensive necklace. "When you married Papa, did you have dreams, too?"

Maria's hands froze as she fastened the clasp. She avoided her daughter's sharp gaze in the mirror, lowering her head to smooth the pleats of her dress. "Dreams are for children, Cle. A woman's most important dream is to keep her family whole. When you reach my age, you'll understand that stability is more important than anything."

"Stability." Clemenza chewed on the word, the corner of her mouth hooking into a sarcastic arc. "Stable like a canary locked in a cage?"

"Don't talk nonsense!" Maria glanced panic-stricken at the door, lowering her voice. "Tonight is the most important day for your father. If you ruin it, you know the consequences. For the sake of this family, and for yourself, be obedient."

"Don't worry, Mama." Clemenza stood up. The black evening gown outlined the long, slender figure honed by years of dance. She turned around, her eyes revealing a coldness never seen before. "I will be very obedient. I will play my part well. After all, I am a professional dancer."

...

The black Cadillac glided like a massive hearse across the Brooklyn Bridge, heading silently toward Manhattan.

Tonight's engagement party was held at the "21 Club" in Midtown Manhattan. It was a legendary establishment, once a speakeasy during Prohibition, now a nexus of power and wealth. Toy trucks donated by tycoons lined the walls, model planes belonging to major corporations hung from the ceiling, and the air reeked of aged whiskey, cigars, and rotting money.

Tony Rossi sat in the car, constantly tugging at his tie, visibly agitated. He glanced at his daughter through the rearview mirror every few seconds, seemingly worried she might suddenly jump out of the car or make a scene at the banquet.

But Clemenza just stared quietly out the window. Manhattan's glittering nightscape flowed across the glass—lights that once illuminated the stage of her dreams now transformed into eyes scrutinizing her.

The car pulled up to the restaurant entrance, and a valet respectfully opened the door. Flashbulbs popped instantly as a few tabloid reporters, having sniffed out the news from somewhere, rushed forward, only to be immediately blocked meters away by burly bodyguards in black.

"Take my arm," Tony ordered in a low voice, quickly plastering on his signature Godfather-esque smile.

Clemenza obediently took her father's arm. Her fingers were ice cold, but her steps were unusually firm. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin slightly, adopting the posture she used when playing Odette, the Swan Queen—noble, elegant, and inviolable.

The moment they walked into the private dining room, the noise ceased abruptly.

The long table was already packed. The core members of the Costa family were all present. Sitting next to the head of the table, dressed in a white suit and surrounded like a moon among stars, was the man himself—Carmine Costa.

Seeing Clemenza enter, Carmine set down his wine glass and slowly stood up. His gaze roamed unscrupulously over her body, from her delicate collarbones to her slender waist, finally resting on her expressionless face.

"Good evening, Uncle Tony." Carmine stepped forward, ignoring Tony's outstretched hand to take Clemenza's hand instead, planting a light kiss on her knuckles. "You are breathtaking tonight, Clemenza. Black suits you. Like a... Black Swan."

"Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Carmine." Clemenza did not withdraw her hand, nor did she show the fear she usually would. She looked directly into Carmine's eyes, the depths of her pupils a dead, silent black. "Black is the color of mourning. I am mourning my lost girlhood."

The air in the private room froze instantly. Tony's face turned deathly pale, and Uncle Paulie's hand moved toward his steak knife.