“Oh, well, yeah.” He laughed. “I just assumed—”
“My brother—” I slapped Rocco on the shoulder. “He’s going to make Nemours an offer he can’t refuse.Digli che è vero, Rocco.”Tell him that it’s true, Rocco.
Rocco sat forward, his hands together, tucked under his chin. “Sì.”
John noticed the tattoo on his arm but didn’t react. “Olivier didn’t tell me Italians were bidding for the contract.”
“He wouldn’t want to scare the competition.”
“Scare?” He looked between Rocco and me.
“I am not a man accustomed to losing, Signor Taylor.” Rocco met his eye, nothing pleasant about the set of his face. There was a reason my brother was one of the most feared men in the world. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill. If the opposition wouldn’t bow, he was trained to seize and control, even if that meant the loss of life.
Rosaria gave John a mischievous smile and winked, running her hand along Rocco’s neck. Violet excused herself back to her seat.
“Just out of curiosity,” I said. “What are you planning to do with her? The dancer?”
“If he is able to get the contract.” Rocco sneered. Rosaria threw back her head and laughed.
“If.” I grinned.
John’s eyes lowered to slits. “Whatever I want. Have her dance for me—only me, when she has to. Maybe some of my buddies from time to time, so I can make some money back. Not that I need it,” he tacked on at the last minute.
“Good luck with that.” I winked at him and offered a smile that came slow.
He took a step back.
“I’ll be sure to tell Scarlett that you came all this way to watch her perform in this beautiful ballet.”
“Yeah, you do that,” he said, and then turned to find his seat.
We had ruffled him. He kept fidgeting, running his hands through his hair, every so often glancing our way. On one such glance, I caught and held his eye, refusing to withdraw mine.
What he planned to do was more personal than what she did in the secret clubs. John Taylor and his roided-out buddies would watch my wife dance in the comfort of his home. He knew the woman behind the mask—or he liked to think so. My wife. He wanted her for himself.
Not a chance in hell and over my dead body. I’d see his body in a slaughterhouse somewhere, his heart in a jar, before she danced for him in that way.
The entire theater went quiet, a sense of anticipation rising in place of the lights. John Taylor looked away, not meeting my eye again.
* * *
The entire theatre was held rapt by her performance. I glanced at Maggie Beautiful during the kissing scene. She grinned at me, patting my hand. Maggie Beautiful had only seen her once in this light, on opening night, and she was no less proud to watch her tonight. She leaned over, putting her mouth close to my ear. “She is so wonderful! I just can’t get over it. That’s our Scarlett dancing that way! And this is my favorite story. She’s the perfect Juliet.” She sighed.
I grinned. Maggie Beautiful seemed truly struck, as if she had never seen Scarlett dance before. It was something of a novelty, though I preferred to watch her practice instead. It was less to-do and more raw, up-close and personal with living art.
There was something about my wife tonight that put me on edge, though. Although the audience couldn’t pick up on the subtle differences, I could. She seemed off. I caught the faces she made, how pinched they were, the way her hand floated to her stomach for the briefest of moments, and the way she moved differently than she had in practice. I even noticed the occasional indistinct looks Riccardo Bacchi gave her. He must have noticed too.
I would have blamed it on our argument, but rarely did Scarlett allow what went on in her personal life to come out on stage with her. If anything, she fell deeper into the role, putting enough distance between her performance and real life as much as possible. She used dance as an escape. She became the dance, forgetting everything but the steps.
By the last scene, Maggie Beautiful and a few others were in tears. I was ready to leap out of my seat.
The end came, and the theater roared with applause. She received a standing ovation that seemed to go on for an eternity.
She did the ballerina walk, bowed gracefully, Riccardo putting out both arms to her, giving her all the credit, but when she rose, she was as pale as milk.
I hustled past the cheering crowd, and then pushed my way through the throngs of people backstage and went straight to her private dressing room. Empty. Her bag was still on the floor, her makeup and things on the counter, and her blanket on the small sofa.
I stopped a few people, asking if they had seen her.
