"Now I want him to look presentable to the guests," said a brown-haired woman, her appearance reflected through the boy's mirror as the blonde-haired stylist did her work on him. He grimaced when the sponge lightly touched his cheeks, and then he felt his mother's touch on his shoulders. "And get this… whatever, it is, covered. I don't want my son's reputation plummeting due to his shenanigans."
"They're boys. Boys fight." His uncle's voice intervened from a corner in the room
"Ah, ah. We're not in some backward country like Italy, Marco." She argued. "My son won't grow to be the same as you and our cousins."
"Traditrice, not an ounce of Italian in you, American woman."
Silence followed soon after, prompting him to curiously glance behind, then he saw her pale blue eyes staring at him. His mother, a foreign word he used to know, a mother. The thought put a smile at his face. "What are you smiling at, mister?" She asked. Though, whatever caused his smile didn't matter, as it somehow made her lips curl slightly upward.
"I'm just happy for you, mom"
His words might have caught her by surprise, and in turn, she caught him by surprise when her arms wrapped around him from behind. Warmth, something he rarely could feel in… his past life. Then it came again, a glimpse of what he once was, of a life far from here, a life different from what he currently has.
"I love you, cocco." She whispered.
It pulled him from his trance. Then his smile widened further as he realized what he had heard. Her loving words. And a weird endearment for him, perhaps, but he could never get bored hearing his mother say it. "I love you too, ma." He whispered in return.
"Oh dear, I need to have the guests seated." She said, her voice tinted with concern. He could see her arranging her in order with a comical panicked face. "dear, I believe you'll have a classic opening act again for this reception tonight."
"I won't disappoint you, ma." He replied. "Can't say the same for the jew though."
"Richard Nicola Martin! Haven't I told you to resp—" She looked at her watch, then sighed before leaving hurriedly.
Well, more time for himself while waiting for Betty, the blonde stylist, to finish butchering his face. It was boring, however, as silence hung once more. Well, he wanted to talk to someone, even considering Betty with her usual lame theatrics just to relieve his boredom. There was his uncle in the room as well, but it was highly unlikely to have a conversation with the guy whenever he was sipping his whiskey and ogling the stylist creepily. Maybe, that's his way of distracting himself from that criminal life of his, being a gangster and all.
Though he might need to muse at himself for thinking of that. What he did to that boy would land him quite a lot of time in jail, if he weren't, a boy himself. There was a nagging feeling of guilt, knowing that he was mentally older, and he had let himself get enamored by that adrenaline. Who won't? God gave him another chance to live again, in a much better circumstance, where he won't be beaten black and blue because of a scrawny physique, and looked upon with pity and wary just because he was poor and to top it all, an orphan. As for the guilt in beating the boy half dead? To hell with that, the boy insulted his mother.
Half an hour later, Richard found himself standing with a mic in front of a crowd, with all the lights dimmed whereas he stood at the only lighted spot. It was nerve wrecking to be exact, a feeling so easily acquired even as he did such things numerous times due to his mother's standing, even when he thought he had gotten used to it, that nerve-wrecking though would still keep coming back whenever he returned to this— imaginary stage.
Looking at the crowd, he had spotted familiar faces, usual attendants in his mother's parties, and some were very unfamiliar. First timers. Yet they had a rich and powerful flair in them, different from the typical Hollywood attendees. You can do this, he thought. A little pep talk won't hurt, and it might even do a miracle— and so it did.
"Now, before I start, I'd like to congratulate my mother for her engagement and as I quote 'finally settling down'." That garnered some laughter from the crowd, genuine or fake, he didn't know. "And to Larry, I believe we have much to talk about how'd you reign in my mother to her biggest fear." He gestured a toast to the middle-aged Jewish man sitting besides his mother, the man had kind eyes peering over the rim of his glasses, his distinguished, slightly crooked nose, and lips curled widely upwards.
"Insane feat, I tell you." Another batch of laughter followed suit again.
As the laughter died down, he continued."Well folks, I hate to stop but you didn't come just to hear me talking, didn't you?" He tapped the microphone and slowly, he could feel everything stop in that moment.
"So marry me beneath the quiet stars
Where promises don't need to shout who we are
No crowns, no gold, just your hand in mine—"
And the crowd was enamored with his voice, with him, and his ocean-blue eyes. He continued singing, with a young baritone voice that somehow matched the song, his eyes flickered through each of the crowd, sometimes his gaze would land at girls of his age; amused at such intense stares along with their blushing cheeks.
"So marry me, no need to run
We've already won, we've already won
If roads grow dark, if days grow long
We'll hum our way through right and wrong
If this old world forgets our names
Let it—
I'll still know yours the same"
Thunderous applause followed suit as he finished singing and it was time for him to step down and pass the mantle to the host hired by his mother, a Hollywood TV show host, to be exact. As for the guy's name, he wasn't interested. After that, the sweet old lavish cuisine, oh how he had longed to taste such things in his past life, so such a moment was considered a blessing for him now. Nevertheless, the pasta al pesto did not disappoint.
Soon enough, he found himself once more beneath the warm glare of the lights, his voice carrying over the crowd as the tempo shifted into something livelier—music meant for laughter, spinning skirts, and careless feet. The dance floor filled quickly, bodies swaying in loose rhythm, joy spilling out in unrestrained motions. Yet his focus faltered, drawn again and again to the sight of the revelers before him: rotund men with flushed faces and overfed bellies, juggling drinks and jokes with equal clumsiness, weaving through the dancers as though the night itself had grown drunk. Their antics skirted the edge of absurdity, and more than once a laugh threatened to escape him mid-verse. Still, he prided himself on discipline. A man of will, he reminded himself, and so he mastered the urge, reining in both voice and expression until the final note rang clean and composed.
As the applause swelled, he dipped his head and offered a practiced smile, already reaching for the words that would release him from the stage. "And that," he said lightly, allowing a beat for effect, "is all, folks. To Mom and Larry." Almost as if conjured by the declaration itself, a glass of champagne was handed to him by a waiter, cool against his palm, the bubbles racing upward in quiet celebration. He raised it toward his mother and her fiancé, ready to toast, to play the part expected of him. But what met his gaze made his smile stiffen. Her eyes were fixed on him—sharp, cold, and unblinking—flicking briefly to the glass and back again, heavy with meaning he couldn't quite name but felt all the same. The moment stretched, brittle as thin ice. He cleared his throat and let humor come to his rescue. "Well," he said, lifting the glass a fraction higher, "I suppose that's my cue to make an exit." Laughter rippled through the room, warm and unknowing, while he stepped back from the light, already feeling the distance grow.
"Amazing as always, my dear boy," the host greeted him from the wings, clapping appreciatively as the band eased into a jaunty instrumental number behind them. Brass and piano filled the air, bright and buoyant, giving the moment a sheen of celebration. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "You know, Carl's been pestering me relentlessly—practically begging—for weeks now, hoping I'd be the one to convince you." His eyes sparkled with mischief as he studied Richard's reaction. "Your mother, on the other hand, has been… well, a little less persuaded. Still," he added with a shrug, "she did say she'd leave the matter to your own discretion."
Richard let out a short laugh, shaking his head as though the very idea amused him. "Are you absolutely sure we're talking about my mother?" he said, his tone thick with mock disbelief. "That's a first, truly. I ought to write it down—add it to my journal of Unusual Things Mother Does." He grinned, the edge of mischief sharpening. "Marrying a Jew's already sitting proudly at the top of the list, by the way."
The man's reaction was immediate and visceral. "Oh—shhh, shhh!" he hissed, hands fluttering as he made an urgent shushing gesture, his face blanching with sudden alarm. His gaze darted instinctively toward the nearby guests, as though the walls themselves might have ears.
"Oh, don't shush me, Steph," Richard replied, unfazed, his smile widening. "You make jokes like that all the time. I'm practically quoting you."
"Not here," Steph insisted, his voice now a strained whisper. "Not tonight. If even one person hears us, we'll be splashed across the papers by morning—labeled tasteless at best, antisemitic at worst." He glanced around once more, shoulders finally loosening when he saw no sign of attention, and released a slow, weary breath.
"I'm only joking," Richard said at last, his tone softening as he lifted his gaze toward the ballroom. "I've no issue with who—or what—my mother chooses to marry, so long as she's genuinely happy." His eyes found her across the room, radiant beneath the chandelier light, laughter easy and unguarded in a way he rarely saw anymore. The sight tugged a smile from him, small but sincere. The remark had never been meant as anything more than a running joke among their circle—a bit of sharp-edged wit traded freely among the elite, stripped of real malice. There was no bitterness in it, no hidden prejudice. He'd even made the same joke once in Larry's presence, half-expecting offense, only to find the man laughing along with him, unbothered and good-natured. Larry was a good sport, he had to admit. And though Richard would rather choke than say it aloud, there was a quiet relief in knowing his mother was engaged to someone like that.
As for whether the engagement would truly become a marriage, well—that remained to be seen. High society men, in his experience, had a remarkable talent for disappointing expectations. Fidelity was often treated as an optional virtue, something applauded in speeches and ignored in practice. If Larry proved himself different—if he could keep his impulses neatly confined, as decorum demanded—then perhaps the union might last. Richard wasn't naïve, just cautiously hopeful.
"Oh, you sweet boy," Steph said suddenly, stepping forward with arms open wide, emotion overtaking his usual restraint as he moved in for an embrace.
Richard raised a hand at once, stopping him short. "And we'd rather not see Pedophile Scandal Rocks High Society splashed across tomorrow's papers, wouldn't we?"
A few seconds passed, just long enough for the awkwardness to settle and then dissipate, before Steph spoke again, his voice returning to its usual professional cadence. "On a more practical note," he said, lowering his tone, "an executive from Abel has been asking after you. Quite persistently, in fact. He's eager to make your acquaintance."
Richard arched a brow, interest lighting his expression. "Acting or music?" he asked, already bracing himself for either answer.
"Music," Steph replied without hesitation. "We'll discuss acting when the time is right. One thing at a time."
"That's fantastic," Richard said, unable to contain his grin. There was a spark of triumph in his eyes, a long-awaited validation finally taking shape. "It's about time someone realized my voice is good for more than background charm."
"Well," Steph said carefully, choosing his words as a man accustomed to navigating egos and expectations, "they felt you needed a bit more maturity. And, of course, your mother was adamant about keeping you out of the harsher glare of the spotlight until now." He paused, then reached for his phone. "Shall I text you the details?"
"Yeah—later," Richard replied easily, lifting a hand in dismissal. "No more serious talk tonight. Let's enjoy the evening for what it is." He glanced across the room, then turned back with a mischievous glint in his eye, flashing Steph a grin that spelled trouble. "And Steph," he added sweetly, "would you be so kind as to introduce me to that teen star you were chatting with earlier?"
Steph let out a long, weary sigh, the sound of a man who already knew he was about to regret saying yes.