A DEBT PAID IN VOWS

POV: Grace Coleman (Gianna Falcone) ************************************************ About six hundred people are in the ballroom, all dressed in black and gold, raising their glasses to Marchetti Construction's newest tower. I am the event planner. Tonight, I feel so proud of myself seeing Grace Coleman as a person, not just a name I wear to survive. The whole night fell apart when I looked up from my clipboard. His face is the first thing I set my eyes on. “How did he get inside?” I am the one in charge of inviting guests and the event is strictly on invitation. Antonio Carbone Jr. is standing beside the champagne table in a black suit, laughing at something I think a waiter says, as if he is the owner of the event. The glass of champagne in my hand shakes and the champagne spills across my fingers out of anxiety. I turn away from his direction before he will recognize me. Maya Chen, my closest friend at the company, stands near the stage, watching me across the crowd with an expression I really can't understand. But she seems to be putting on the expression of a worrying and confusing woman on her face. I do not have the time to think about it because my five years of careful planning, being a nobody and remaining invincible to people that know my true identity is already at risk. He is already in the same ballroom with me, close enough to touch me and destroy all I have been building over the years. I place my glass of champagne on a passing tray and move toward the exit door with my heart beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. As I was heading toward the exit, a man hit my shoulder. He is putting on a gray suit but I am unable to recognize his face. "Careful," he murmurs close to my ear, his voice low enough that no one else can hear it. I turn around to see if I can see his face but he is already three tables away from me. He disappears into the crowd as if he doesn't want me to know who he is. Prior to today, Grace Coleman smiles, does not walk away, says goodnight and leaves an event like a woman with nothing to hide but tonight is the opposite. I am very close to the door when someone calls my real name. "Gianna." The voice is so familiar that I think it is the voice of Antonio. I turn around and realize that it is not him. It is the voice of Alessio Marchetti standing and looking at me the way he usually looks at a bad contract, as if he already knows every weakness in it. The relief is just for one second before it turns into something worse. "I'm sorry," I say. "I think you have the wrong person." His voice changes as if he wants to give me bad news. "I don't," he says. "I have been observing and studying you for three weeks but this morning I found something disturbing about your father's business." "I don't know what you're talking about," I say, but my voice came out thinner than it is. "Gianna Falcone," he says quietly, in a way that I can be the only one to hear him beneath the music. "The only daughter of Vincenzo Falcone and promised at age nineteen to Antonio Carbone Jr., the man standing over there. You reportedly drowned in the East River five years ago and no one finds out that you are still alive." His eyes move over my face as if he is comparing it with a photograph in his mind. "You did a good job disappearing, Grace." The room suddenly felt very far away, music, laughter, and the sound of glasses becoming nothing more than a dull noise behind my ears. "What do you want?" I ask. Because men like him never say a name like that just to be kind. "This is not the right place to say what I want," he says, lifting his hand without touching me and close enough to guide me without creating a scene. "Walk with me, smile if you can to avoid creating a scene for yourself. And Grace, I'm not the only reason you are smiling right now." "What does that mean?" I ask. "It means Antonio isn't looking this way," he says, "yet." I don't want to walk with him because my instinct is telling me to run. But seeing Antonio still standing beside the champagne table, and realizing that Alex Marchetti is the only man in the room who can destroy me with one phone call, I choose to smile, and I walk with him. He leads me down a hallway lined with framed blueprints, away from the noise, and into a small private room that smells of fresh paint. He closes the door behind us, and for one full second neither of us says anything except looking at each other. "You have five years of very careful work," he says. "You got yourself a name, apartment, job and you are working for me, which I'm guessing isn't part of the plan." "It isn't." My hands are shaking again. "I looked into you the day your promotion file crossed my desk," he says. "Something didn't add up. Your resume was too clean and your references were too new. So I dug into your file." He crosses his arms. "I found a dead girl with your eyes. And then, this morning, I found something that doesn't make sense at all, a shipping ledger with your father's signature on it, dated eight months ago instead of five years ago." It is a surprise for me to hear the news. "That's not possible. My father and the Carbones haven't spoken in years. There's a war between our families. Everyone knows that." "That's what I am thinking, until the date on that ledger says otherwise," Alex says, "the date is sitting beside a signature belonging to a man your family is at war with." "Are you going to hand me over to the Police?" I ask, because if he is going to destroy my life despite everything else, I want to hear it clearly. "No," he says. "Then what do you want from me?" "I want your name," he says. "Gianna Falcone.” “The one reported dead years ago, once engaged to my enemy's son and the one standing in my office building the same week I found proof that my enemy and her father are still doing business.” “I am offering you a fake engagement, long enough to draw Dominic Carbone into the open to find out what my father really died for." "I'm not going anywhere near Antonio Carbone." "I'm not asking you to do it but I'm asking you to come closer to me." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a plain white card. There is no name on it, only an address and a time. “Tomorrow, eight in the morning.” "Come alone," he says. "Or I make one phone call. Remember to bring anything your father ever gave you to keep." He places the card in my hand and walks out. I am still standing there when I reach into my purse for my phone, and my fingers touch something that is not supposed to be there. It is a second card, plain and white, tucked behind my wallet. It has no address and no time. Only three words, written in handwriting I do not recognize. He's lying too.