Page 55 of Pas de Trois
I was a slave a little more than a day ago.
There’s a catch in my heartbeat that feels for her, for the fact that I’m only here and in this position because of sheer dumb luck—the same reason she’s a slave. I wonder if they’re going to take better care of her now that Vigo’s gone. Perhaps they’ve brought her up to have dinner with the family.
My wondering is settled quickly as Lorenzo directs Bianca to the harp in the far corner of the room. She sits behind it and sighs as she stretches out her fingers.
“Play for us,” Lorenzo tells her, “and don’t fuck it up. Do well and you’ll be our new talent slave.”
Olivia was the talent slave before, a pianist. Olivia had the same turn of luck as I did. We each had a monster fall in love with us.
As Lorenzo turns toward the table to bring Olivia to sit, he sees me and I straighten in my seat. I feel my blood run cold with fear and I let it wash through my veins, an icy stream that slows my heartbeat and freezes over my soul. It helps me become the cold, hard, dominant bitch I have to be to protect myself.
I nod at him as he holds out a chair two seats away from me for Olivia. Then he sits beside her, in the chair just to my left.
“That seat belongs to Renata,” he says matter-of-factly.
“I guess it belongs to me now,” I reply.
Lorenzo raises an eyebrow and smirks, amused. “If you say so.”
He turns his body sideways toward Olivia, grabbing her face in his hands and catching her off-guard with a passionate kiss.
My iced-over heart thumps an extra beat in jealousy.
Will I see Ezra tonight?
Is he okay?
When will I kiss him again?
I don’t have much time to let my mind wander as more people enter the room. There’s an older man Lorenzo introduces to me as his father and he immediately questions who I am and why I’m sitting in Renata’s chair. Lorenzo speaks to him in Italian, saying something that seems to calm him enough to sit without saying another word. Two others are introduced as cousins.
I’m taken by surprise when Kostya enters. He looks like he’s been through hell. Obviously, he’s recovering from the gunshot wound to his shoulder, and that’s partly why I’m surprised to see him tonight. But he also has a black eye, stitches along a gash in his cheek, and he’s limping. He looks as though he’s been mauled.
I push to my feet, somehow feeling compelled to go and help him to the table, but his eyes widen and he practically shouts when I do. “Stay.” The insistence in his tone is jarring and it freezes me in place. I give him a nod as he hobbles in my direction.
When he reaches me, he leans in close, whispering in Russian. He tells me to stay in my seat and refuse to give it up if asked. He tells me to be headstrong with Renata, to show the extended family my assertiveness and demonstrate my authority. He tells me to keep my head held high, and when he pulls back to look at me, he taps two fingers beneath his chin with a small smile.
Chin up.
I watch him as he moves to sit along the long edge of the table. Strangely, I feel comforted by his presence.
Soon after, the room begins to fill with family. Too many of them come in at once for introductions, one filing in after the other. In moments, the table is full—except for one seat directly opposite mine—but the deluge of people continues to flood the room.
Within minutes, the open space around the table is nearly filled as members of the family crowd into the room. They came here for the Vittori family’s talent show and reception, but they stayed because of Vigo’s death. I glance around the room and see faces filled with sadness, anger, and confusion. Their questions are about to be answered, and I don’t think they’ll be pleased to learn the truth.
I grow more uncomfortable as moments pass, as familiar family chatter continues, mostly in Italian. It’s a fight to control my breathing, to keep from hyperventilating when I feel like a fish out of water.
I’m an impostor.
I don’t belong here.
I can’t pull this off.
Why did I sit here?
My racing pulse hisses through my veins and I feel my heart slam against my ribcage with every pounding beat. I twist the rings on my finger with my hands on my lap, hidden beneath the table. My fear climbs a mountain and reaches the peak.
But then the currents of anxiety that ripple from my chest come to a sudden, stomach grinding halt. My hands still and I press my palms against my thighs. My hissing pulse slows to a steady thrum. Awareness makes my heart skip a beat before forcing the insistent thrashing to dull into a calm, steady rhythm. A gentle prickle at the back of my neck sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.
