When footsteps approach, I tense in anticipation, knowing I’ll be caught.
But the lid slams shut instead, and the sudden darkness has the effect of a bucket of ice water being dumped over my head.
I’m in the same car as Donatello Vanici.
The knife is in my grasp, and I cling to it so tightly it hurts—but I don’t drop it.
Instead, I channel another set of memories from my childhood. Mischa, shouting at me as we trained in the yard, his warnings unrelenting.
“Never let your guard down, Mouse! No matter how exhausted you are, you fight. You win. Now move!”
With his voice in my head, I feel a strength I’ve never experienced before, giving me the sense of mind to strain through the dark and get my bearings.
I’ll trust this protector over the other two who failed me.
I’ll take his words to heart.
I’ll fight.
And I will win.
8
Willow
We don’t travel far from the manor, though every passing second might as well be an eternity. In the dark quiet of the trunk, there is nothing to ground me but the endless motions of the vehicle and muffled snippets of noise. Eventually, a lone shred of logic seeps through the splintered thoughts circling my brain—we could be headed anywhere.
I can’t hear any coherent conversation from inside the car—just murmured voices. One overpowers the other, deep and rich. My entire body stiffens in response to it, and I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.
He is so close…
He and Vincenzo, a boy I never thought I’d see again. The sight of him hurts the most. Beneath all the festering rage and hate, there is only pain when I think of how our relationship used to be. My Vinny. He is so tall now, embodying his uncle even in stature in a way he never could with his huge eyes and awkward glasses. Does he even remember the little Safy who used to follow him around with the devotion of a puppy?
Did he even care when Don tore that girl away from their world?
I feel strange. Lost. Empty. Like I’ve ripped off a mask I’ve been wearing for so long, I’d forgotten it wasn’t my real face. Without it, I’m someone nameless devoid of a real identity. A waif with her blond hair falling from its elegant coil, draping her shoulders with random strands.
There is no order to my appearance. No retinue of security or staff to reinforce my supposed importance. Willow Stepanova is an untouchable idea in this moment, and though it hurts like hell to admit it…
I will never be her.
Safiya is growling, thirsting for revenge. That scared little girl from my past is scratching at the boundaries of my control, desperate to be unleashed. The longer I’m so close to these snippets from my past, the harder it becomes to restrain her.
I’m sweating with the effort, tightening my grip over the knife. Finally, the car slows to a stop, leaving me trembling in the aftermath. As if from underwater, I hear the doors opening and the slam of them closing again.
Soon my panting is the only noise to fill the silence. I can’t tell if the driver is still nearby, waiting to retrieve the box placed here beside me. Jealousy is an irrational thing to feel, but it crawls through my chest as I make out the professionally wrapped gift. There are no flaws marring it like the presents Donatello once gave me—he didn’t do this himself. So desperate to make an impression on Mischa’s daughter, he procured only the best.
What gift would he think might impress such a girl?
I finger a corner and then rip at the glossy blue wrapping paper. Beneath is a white box, and inside it, a mirror bright enough to reflect what little light there is and reveal my shadowed reflection.
An inhuman creature stares back, her teeth bared in a feral snarl, her once elegantly styled hair a wild mess.
Finally, I hear a low whistle and then footsteps trailing away from the car. The driver?
I scour the inside of the trunk until I find a release that opens it. Cautiously, I lift the lid, blinking as my eyes adjust to a dim source of light coming from above. From what I can tell, I’m in a garage. Rows of luxurious vehicles are parked beside this one. Through a row of windows, I can make out what seems to be an office where several men mill about.
My heart races as I rise to my knees. Slowly, I slip one foot from the trunk, bracing it against the pavement before I leave the vehicle entirely. Straining to keep out of view, I lower the lid as much as I can without slamming it closed.
Low to the ground, I inch my way forward, scanning the area for any hint of an exit. But there are too many, and a parade of vehicles streams in and out. I don’t see Donatello anywhere. With no other options, I stand and approach the office, tugging the remainder of my hair loose. The knife, I tuck within my bra between my breasts, praying that the fall of the material obscures its shape.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” a man demands, calling from the doorway. I flinch as he takes one look at me. Whatever he sees makes him clear his throat, and some of the suspicion in his gaze softens. “Are you lost?”
Relieved, I nod, and he inclines his head toward a silver elevator on the other end of the garage. Above it is a sign reading: To the Grande Hotel Lobby. That explains the suit he wears—a crisp, black ensemble nearly identical to the style worn by the other men in the room. It must be a uniform for the drivers hired by the hotel.
“Guest services are that way,” he says.
I take a step in that direction, only to turn to him and start to sign. It’s random nonsense, but he doesn’t know that, flushing pink with confusion.
“I’m sorry,” he admits with a pained grimace. “I don’t understand sign language.”
I mime for a pen and paper, and he ushers me into the office and hands me both. Crouched over a desk, I embody every bit of what I learned about being rich from my classmates. There is a dichotomy to it one must learn to master. It isn’t enough to be rude; you have to be delicate as well. There’s an art to knowing how to simper and smile with an air of superiority. When to sneer and when to bat your lashes.
In short, you perform no differently than when playing an instrument.
I lost my card key, I write. My uncle is staying at the hotel, and we got separated. Can you tell me what room we’re in, please?
“You haven’t tried the front desk?” He eyes me warily and sighs when I shake my head. “Name?”
My hand trembles so badly I can barely form the letters. In the end, I press down hard enough that the nib of the pen tears through the page.
Reading the name, the man raises an eyebrow. “Donatello Vanici?”
“I drove him tonight,” another man pitches in from across the room. Seated at a desk with his feet propped on the edge, he eyes me with a raised eyebrow and shrugs. “He hired full service, and there’s a package I was supposed to deliver for him tonight. I could take her up.”
I don’t mind. Thank you, I scribble.
With a grunt of acknowledgment, the man rises to his feet. “Wait here, Miss.”
He leaves the office to enter the garage, and sweat drips down the back of my neck as I wait.
Eventually, he returns with a questioning frown and an unwrapped gift box tucked beneath his arm. “Damn kids,” he grumbles, tugging at the gray tie accenting his black suit. “Someone went through the trunk.”