I pause as she shuffles into the den and selects the seat to the right of mine. She lets out a relaxing sigh as she sinks down onto the sofa. Her silvery gray hair floats along with her like a cloud.
The passages of time line her face. Markers that show she’s been a part of this lifestyle for decades. Caelian said he’s known her since she was a boy.
Suddenly, the no-nonsense, sharp-as-a-whip caretaker of the manor looks exhausted and worn down. I feel a sense of sympathy pit inside my stomach that makes me frown.
There’s no way Ms. Poitier is the saboteur—and if she is, surely there’s something we can do that doesn’t involve gruesome violence. What if she simply needs a listening ear? Someone to be understanding of what might’ve made her turn to another side?
“Well…” she sighs. She pops one eye open to sneak a sidelong glance at me. “I’m waiting for you to tell me, honey.”
“It’s really not anything, except…” I bend the corner of the page in the book I’m reading. Nervous habits that briefly distract me. “I don’t know much about you, Ms. P. You’ve mentioned working for Caelian’s father and knowing him since he was a boy. But I don’t… know much else…”
“You want to know about me?” Skepticism drips from her voice. An arched brow accompanies the doubtful tone.
I nod. “Have you ever been married?”
“Once. A long time ago. He wasn’t very good.”
“And then what happened?”
“I left. I didn’t have more than a few dollars to my name.”
“Is that when you started working for Mr. Ziccardi?”
“Something like that. I hope you’re not up to anything, Nevaeh honey,” Ms. Poitier says with a flash of warning in her dark eyes. “You’ve gotten yourself into too much trouble as it is.”
“I’m not up to anything. Just curious.”
Ms. Poitier stands up and then smooths the front of her apron. Only a wrinkle or two existed before. “My life’s been a damn interesting one… to a degree. Working for a mafia boss isn’t your standard 9 to 5. But I’ve always kept my head down and done what I was told. How else do you think I’ve lasted so long?”
“You’ve done what you’ve had to do,” I whisper.
“You get it. And you’ll do what you have to do too, right? What did I tell you on that first night you were here? Things will be easier for you if you go along with the program and use it to your advantage.” She sets course for the exit. “I better go check on dinner. The kitchen staff on shift tonight doesn’t know a butter knife from a paring.”
I’m no less assuaged after our short conversation. No less certain I know what’s going on than I was earlier after Matteo showed up in my dance studio.
I get up off the armchair and go to the window, where outside the sky purples and drizzle comes down. The unease creeping inside me has grown worse.
“Cael, come home,” I whisper to myself.
I watch on from the den window as Matteo and a few other men on evening security patrol the grounds. I can’t help thinking about the footage that had caught Ms. Poitier wandering so late at night, and I can’t help wondering if there’s a piece of the story I’m missing.
NINETEEN
Nevaeh
“You’ll findshe’s one of the most exquisite dancers we have to offer,” Ignazio boasts.
The trio of men turn their heavily lidded gazes on me. Dark hair, average builds, flat faces, they could be triplets if only at a glance.
I stand before them in wait for their judgment. My heart’s never beat so fast. I remain in the preparatory position, my arms rounded, hanging down toward my hips. Both ankles touch, my knees turned outward.
This visit is so impromptu, I’m still in my tights and leotard. The rest of the dancers have been dismissed.
My limbs ache and muscles burn. But I keep form, staring vacantly ahead, as if I’m the little figurine trapped inside a snow globe. The glass dome that surrounds me may be invisible, but it’s there—I’m under no illusion any of these men have good intentions.
They perceive me as delicate and docile. Their toy to play with.
Possibly true, considering the imbalance of power.
