I peel off my sweat-soaked leotard, sighing as the cool air kisses my overheated skin. Another long day.
Milena and Naomi are beside me, moving through their own post-rehearsal routines. I stayed behind in the studio for a while, working a troublesome transition, so they’ve both already showered. Milena is pulling on her clothes, while Naomi leans against the lockers, lazily sipping from her water bottle.
“So.” Milena shoulders her bag, giving me a pointed look. “How’s life as a Barone?”
Naomi snorts. “Yeah, what’s it like living with him?”
There’s a note of sympathy behind their words, as if they’re waiting for me to tell them I’m miserable, drowning under the weight of a life I never wanted, bound to a man I didn’t choose.
Instead…
I smile. Shyly. Worse, I blush.
Naomi’s water bottle stops midair, her mouth open, ready to take a sip. Milena slowly turns, her sweater half-on.
“Oh hell no.” Milena wriggles into her top, stepping closer. “Did you just blush?”
Naomi’s eyes scan my face like she’s trying to crack a secret code. “Oh my God,” she gasps quietly.
Milena lets out a slow exhale, clearly reevaluating everything she thought she knew about life. “Well…huh.”
I roll my eyes.
“Seriously though…” Milena frowns. “You’re good?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“With…Carmine.” Naomi gulps. “Barone.”
“Are you seriously struggling this hard with the concept of me being happy with him?” I ask dryly.
“Yes,” Naomi and Milena say at the same time.
I sigh.
Naomi eyes me dubiously. “It’s just…” She shrugs. “You hear stories about him being kind of on the edgy side…
You don’t know the half of it, my friend…
“Like, classic mafia prince but also he’s hiding something.” Naomi makes a face. “I dunno. This girl Kelly that I know used to cocktail waitress at a club he’d go to all the time. Said she got serious serial killer vibes from him sometimes.”
“Serious serial killer vibes,” I deadpan back.
Naomi nods, paling slightly.
“As opposed to casual serial killer vibes.”
Naomi rolls her eyes before she chucks her wet towel at me. “Don’t be mean. You know what I’m saying.”
“So… What’s he like, then?” Milena cuts in.
I hesitate. How the hell do I explain Carmine?
How do I explain that he’s still terrifying, but doesn’t scare me anymore? That I feel safer in his hands than I ever have in my life?
“He’s…” I search for the right words. “Intense.”
Milena snorts. “Understatement of the century.”
Naomi grins hopefully. “Intense in a good way?”
My stomach flips, and I look away. God, I’ve got it bad.
“I should shower,” I say quickly, reaching for my towel. “You guys heading out?”
“We’ll wait for you,” Naomi chirps.
I shake my head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”
Milena snickers. “She needs some time alone to flick the bean thinking about her psycho husband.”
I throw Naomi’s towel at Milena’s head as Naomi giggles. “You done?”
Milena squints at me, fully aware I’m running from this conversation. “Yeah. But only for now.”
I roll my eyes again, laughing as they gather their things and head out, their voices echoing down the hall. The shower is a relief, washing away the sweat, the exhaustion, the lingering thoughts of Carmine that haunt my every waking moment. By the time I’m done, the changing room is empty, the rest of the theater quiet.
Then, I hear it.
Classical music, threading faintly through the silence like a ghost.
I pause, towel still in hand, listening. Then curiosity gets the best of me.
I slip on my clothes and shoulder my bag, then follow the sound to the small rehearsal studio room. When I get to the door, I pause when my eyes lock on the single dancer inside.
Dove Marchetti.
Fuck.
She’s really good. I stand there, awestruck, watching her move with precision and total control, her line flawless. Her movements aren’t just technically perfect, they’re like little individual displays of creativity and physical poetry.
I keep watching until suddenly she pirouettes and ends up directly facing me—and here I am being a total psycho, lurking in the shadows right outside the door.
Shit.
She jolts a little when she sees me, her chest rising and falling with exertion. I hesitate for half a second before I step into the studio. “Sorry,” I say, wincing. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Or, you know, be a total creep like that.”
Dove shrugs, rolling her shoulders and running a hand over her silver-pink hair up in its bun. “It’s fine. I was done anyway.”
She’s closed-off, but not necessarily in a snobby way. More armored than anything. Maybe a little distant. Like she doesn’t trust easily.
“You’re really good,” I tell her.
She frowns, like she perceives it as a threat, not a compliment. “Look, I’m not trying to steal your friend Naomi’s part,” she says curtly. “I don’t even know why Madame Kuzmina cast me as her understudy.”
I smile warmly. “Because you’re a beautiful dancer.”
Dove watches me a second longer, then relaxes just a little, giving me a half-smile. Her brows knit. “You’re married to Carmine Barone.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She tilts her head. “Arranged?”
I grin. “Forced.”
She sighs, rolling her eyes. “Let me guess, long story?”
I nod. “Pretty much. And complicated.”
“Yeah, mafia families are like that,” she says quietly, looking away.
She stretches her arms over her head, then adds casually, “I think my sister Ciara actually had a thing with him a while back. Carmine, that is.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
I don’t flinch, but something tightens in my chest. I feel it in my spine, in my fingers, coiling and curling under my ribs.
Jealousy. Sharp and sudden.
Dove notices immediately and lifts her hands. “Shit,” she says, watching me carefully. “You said it was a forced thing. I didn’t realize you and he were…” She frowns, her mouth twisting. “I’m sorry. I’m an okay dancer, but I’m an idiot socially.”
I exhale, forcing myself to relax. “No, it’s fine.”
She frowns curiously. “So, you two are like…real?”
I feel the heat creep over my face. Dove’s lips curl a little at the corners.
“Well…huh.”
I give her a curious look. “Huh?”
“It’s just… Most of the time these arranged things are fucking train wrecks. I mean, Ciara’s in an arranged marriage, and I’m pretty sure she would legit kill the guy in his sleep.”
Maybe she should. And then she can go to prison, that fucking CUNT.
My conscience almost gives itself whiplash, staring at me like I’ve completely lost my mind.
“I’m…” Dove makes a face. “Seriously, sorry. That was a total dickhead thing for me to say.”
“It’s really fine,” I shrug as casually as I can right now. “We’re not…”
I pause.
We’re not what? Serious? A real couple? I don’t even know how to answer that question myself, so I shrug it away.
“All good,” I smile at her.
Dove shakes the last remnants of exertion from her muscles, pulls on a hoodie and track pants, and then exchanges her pointe shoes for sneakers. “I’m done for the night,” she says, shoving her gear in her bag. “You heading out too?”
I nod, and together, we make our way toward the back door. It’s late, the halls are dark, and the echoes of our footsteps bounce off the walls.
Just as we reach the exit, I groan as my hand slips into my pocket, finding it empty.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Dove glances at me. “What?”
“I keep leaving my phone in the change room.” I sigh, rolling my shoulders. “You go ahead.”
“You sure?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
She gives me a small smile. More genuine than the earlier ones, like she’s finally warming up to me. “It was nice talking to you, Lyra.”
I smile back. “You too.”
Dove pushes open the door and steps out, the night swallowing her up. Then the door clicks shut behind her.
I turn on my heel and make my way back to the dressing room. The hallway feels longer this time, and a strange, uneasy feeling prickles up the back of my neck. I push it down. It’s just the late hour and the fact that I’m here alone.
I sigh when I spot my phone right where I left it. But something’s different.
My pulse skips.
My phone is sitting on top of a manila envelope that wasn’t there before.
…With my name written across the front.
What. The. Fuck.
No one else is here. It’s just been Dove and I talking in the studio, and the doors to the building are locked.
And yet, the envelope is here.
Haltingly, I force my feet to move. My fingers shake as I reach for my phone, lifting it gently and carefully, as if touching it might set something off.
I stare at the envelope for a moment, willing myself to pretend I never saw it, to turn around and leave. But I don’t.
I can’t.
With a deep breath, I finally pick it up, unseal it and tip out the contents.
It’s photographs: a whole stack of them, thick, glossy prints. I focus on the first one, and suddenly my stomach drops as my blood turns to ice.
They’re photos of my father’s crime scene in our basement.
I drop them like they’re on fire, my hand flying to my mouth to muffle the scream threatening to spill out of me. The photos scatter across the bench and the floor, black and white images of things I’ve spent my entire life trying to forget.
Cages.
Chains.
Bloodstains. Fingernail marks on the wall.
The pretty dresses, hanging neatly in a row on a metal rack.
I clench my eyes shut, my body locking up, my breath coming in sharp, panicky bursts.
No.
No. No. NO…
My vision blurs, my pulse hammering so hard it feels like I’m going to split open.
A shadow I thought I’d buried long ago shifts inside me, uncoiling and wrapping itself around my heart, dark and suffocating.
The walls feel like they’re closing in, pressing, crushing, swallowing me whole.
I want to run. But I can’t.
I’m trapped in his past.
Trapped in mine.
And there’s no way out.
