Page 39

Rolling my eyes, I sign, “It’s my house, too.”

He pokes my forehead roughly, and I wince. “Words, bimba. I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Stubbornly, I cross my arms. He’s not going to bully me into this tonight.

He rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. I expect annoyance, maybe rage, but this calm indifference is unnerving.

“Whatever. I told you, you dance beautifully.”

I nod, cautious of his compliments as he stalks forward. His silk blouse ripples over his superficial muscles, and I sigh. It’s a shame. If he had anything in his head, he’d be a pretty trophy.

“Your mother danced.”

I tilt my head. I must have misunderstood; my mother didn’t dance.

He smirks slightly. “Oh no, she did. She danced all over Italy. Your father saw her perform one night and decided that was it.” He snaps his fingers. “Snatched her up.”

Blinking, I wave my hand for him to repeat, which he does. No, I didn’t misunderstand. He said my mother danced.

It’s not impossible, but… she never told me. And we spent every day together, soaking up her presence as if it was all I needed in life. When I took up ballet, she was my fiercest fan, but never said she danced. Certainly, not professionally.

Turning my back on Freddie, I turn both of my implants on and use a towel to pat my face. I brace for the noise, then glance back at him.

“How do you know?”

He shrugs, grinning. He’s triumphant in his win to get me to speak, but it’s for my benefit. I need to know.

“Your father offered you to my father when we were kids.” Freddie reminds me, looking around. He wets his lips, and I cringe. “A big selling point was your mother’s previous skill and her beauty. You look like her. Especially when you dance.” He twirls his finger in the air. “A perfect ballerina.”

The words sink deep. My mother danced… and I look like her? As a child, I never saw the resemblance. She had deep brown eyes and pale honey-blonde hair, so fair compared to my dark complexion. Next to her, I felt like a grumpy old troll.

“Is there footage of her?” I ask. “Maybe taped performances?”

He shrugs. “Fuck if I know.”

Narrowing my eyes, I jerk my chin. “Why tell me this?”

His grin turns sinister and hesitate, glancing to the door for an escape.

“Just wanted to remind you, though you think you’re free, you’re not.” He steps close, gripping my chin, smelling of old perfume and cigars. “Even with all her skill, your mother was caged. And you will be soon, too.”

Pulling away, I snarl at him, “You’re not to touch me.”

He grabs my hair, yanking me close, so ours chests press. Disgust rolls in my belly, but it’s short-lived as his hand tangles in my locks.

Strong fingers catch on the pins there, and he jerks, pulling on the left cochlear implant. There’s a bite, a hard pinch, as pain explodes over my skull. The magnets holding the pieces dislodge and the feed disconnects. Sound cuts off, and there’s only blessed, jarring silence.

“No? I’ll touch you whenever—wherever—I like, bimba.” He pets my cheek. “Anyway. Because you’re going to be my wife.”

“Pezzo di merda,” I curse, fighting back tears, and he chuckles.

“Little Deaf girl with a filthy mouth. Don’t worry, I’ll fuck it into submission,” he says, tossing me away. I stumble against the chair, glaring up at him. My heart pounds in my chest and my fingers shake, but I don’t dare move. “Once my father gives his blessing, it’s over.”

“And Roman,” I sneer. “He won’t give the blessing until all his demands are met.” Standing, I lift my chin, bravery false. “And so far, Marco hasn’t held up his end of the deal.”

I might not know everything about the family—but Freddie doesn’t know that.

And I can bluff better than most.