The Heir

The reception tent glowed against the dark New Jersey sky, white silk and a thousand tiny lights that made Isabella think of fireflies trapped in glass. She stood near the entrance with a champagne flute she had not touched, watching the Caruso family orbit around her like planets around a sun she did not feel. The ceremony had been a blur of incense and Latin and Dominic's hand steady at her elbow. Now the music swelled, strings and piano, and strangers pressed close to offer congratulations she did not want.

Dominic appeared at her side, his jacket discarded somewhere, his shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked like a man who had survived something, which she supposed made two of them.