Savage Pride

I am my father’s daughter. From his matching set of dimples to his wry sense of humor, I am more like my father than any of my three sisters. Should scientists attempt to genetically engineer a female version of him, I’m not sure they could do a better job than my own DNA, except for my blue eyes and one other critical component—my lack of patience. My father was gifted an eternal wellspring of patience that gives him the ability to shrug off annoying roadblocks to his day and find amusement in otherwise infuriating circumstances. Today is not the first day I find myself questioning why I couldn’t have acquired a fraction of his even-tempered tolerance. “I told you, I don’t know why I’m not on the approved visitor’s list. My name is Luisa Banetti. My parents run the Hardwick house and live in a cottage on the property. Just call them and ask.” I stare expectantly at the new security guard stationed out front of the Tuxedo Park gated entry. We’d spent the past ten minutes talking in circles about the absence of my name on his guest registry. Tuxedo Park is one of the most exclusive communities in New York. An hour from Manhattan, the priceless estates are nestled in the thickly wooded hillsides around Tuxedo Lake—a serene oasis fervently protected by its wealthy residents. Unlike many security guards, those stationed at Tuxedo Park are paid enough to care who enters and who doesn’t. For most of my life, a man by the name of Cleatus welcomed guests during the daytime hours with a smile and a helpful nature. Of course, he’d known me since I was in diapers, so there was never any issue when I came for a visit. However, Cleatus retired six months ago, and now I’m stuck arguing with Sergeant Protocol, who can’t seem to grasp concepts outside of a pure black and white palette. “I called the cottage, ma’am. No one answered.” His eyes trail yet again to the black SUV stuck waiting behind my Uber. “I’m going to need you to move so you aren’t blocking the entrance while we sort this out.” “This is ridiculous,” I grumble under my breath, jabbing my phone to complete the payment for my ride. Using more strength than necessary, I fling open the passenger door and ask my driver to open the trunk. “What are you doing?” the guard asks warily. “I’m getting my bag and waiting here with you. If you won’t let me in, then you’re stuck with me until my family can come pick me up.” I haul my scarred black suitcase from the trunk with a grunt when the car door shutting behind us announces that we’ve drawn yet another party into our little contest of wills. Making a scene wasn’t my intent, but it’s looking more inevitable by the second. “Do we have a problem here?” The masculine voice at my back sends a shiver of familiarity down my spine. Zeno De Rossi. We don’t speak often, but I’d know that commanding tone anywhere. Of all the possible people who could have pulled up behind me, it had to be Zeno. He’ll probably pretend he doesn’t know me just to make my life more difficult. My eyes take a long, heavy blink before I turn to face my childhood neighbor. “Hello, Z,” I say with forced calm. “Luisa,” he responds curtly, his deep blue eyes locked on mine. The guard looks back and forth between us. “Uh, Mr. De Rossi. I’m so sorry for the delay. Miss Banetti here isn’t on the registry, and we were trying to get things sorted.” Zeno ignores him, choosing to stare me down instead. “I wasn’t informed you were coming.” “I wasn’t aware my family had to inform you of my visits.” Is he honestly going to keep me from going home? He may have pushed me away through the years, but refusing me entry to the Park would bring him to an all-time low. Incredulity primes my tongue with fighting words. “Considering the circumstances, the information would have been appreciated.” He finally severs our connection with his brusque retort and turns his attention to the Guardian of the Gate. “Luisa is a member of the estate. You can put her on the list of universally approved.” He stalks back to his car without another word. Thanks, Z. It was good to see you, too. Zeno De Rossi was one of my childhood best friends, but you’d never guess it now. That bridge burned long ago. I suppose he must be visiting his parents as well. Both of us live in the city, but we only see each other a couple of times a year if we happen to be at Hardwick at the same time. Hopefully, that will be the one and only run-in I have with him during my visit. He tends to make me grumpy, and I’d just assume not. “I appreciate your patience,” the guard says, suddenly all smiles. “Let me help you get your bag back in the car.” “Yeah, thanks,” I mutter. Opening the passenger door of my Uber, I peer questioningly at my driver. “I’m so sorry about all this. You okay to drive me to my house?” “Absolutely. After all the fuss, I gotta see what’s in here.” I slide into the passenger seat with a weary chuckle. “Happy to oblige.” The gate in front of us coasts open, permitting us entry. “I had no clue this place existed. If you live here, why on earth don’t you have your own driver or like, a car that drives itself?” I choke on a laugh. “I wish. My parents manage an estate. We’re just the help.” “Still, I bet you see some crazy s**t in here.” “I guess that depends on what you consider crazy. If you mean obscene displays of wealth, then yeah, all the time.” People here may be as varied as those in the city, but they keep it under wraps better. The freak flag isn’t so much flown as kept rolled up in the closet only to be displayed at extravagant private functions.