Page 142 of Dance of Deception

“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 helike, 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 agoodway?”

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.

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