Page 7 of Devil of Vegas

When the door opens again, I expect it to be Vincent. Instead, a different man stands in the doorway this time. He has a broom in one hand and a gun affixed to his waist.

“Hello, Ms. Hart,” he says with a surprisingly gentle smile. “My name is Marco, and Mr. Moretti has assigned me as your bodyguard.”

“Who?” I ask, realizing that thus far, I’ve only been given first names.

“Mr.VincentMoretti,” he clarifies as he sweeps up the broken glass and the spilled breakfast tray.

“Do you double as a housekeeper?” I joke.

“Not usually, but Mr. Moretti warned me you’ve got a bit of a hot temper.”

“Did he now?”

Marco laughs with a sort of boyish charm, and I can’t help but wonder how he wound up working for a guy like Vincent. He seems much toonormaland kind to be one of the Devil’s henchmen.

“So, can I have some lunch sent to you?” he asks. “You must be getting hungry since you haven’t eaten anything.”

“How do you know I haven’t eaten?”

He motions his hand toward the swept-up pile of spilled breakfast on the floor. “You’re a dancer, right? A ballerina? I heard that dancers have a higher metabolism than most. And I’m pretty sure that Mr. Moretti wants to make sure that you’re well-cared for.”

Without even meaning to, he’s given me an idea. If I can’t escape this place, then I will at least resist. I won’t give Vincent the pleasure of feeling like he can control me, even if Iama prisoner here.

“No, thank you,” I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”

In truth, I’mstarving. I don’t have a lot of fat on my body as it is, and I’m already feeling lightheaded. But I will hold out for as long as it takes. Until Vincent either lets me go or is responsible for my withering away because of my hunger strike. MadameDurant’s search will eventually lead her to me, but not likely here, atop a casino. But eventually, Vincent will feel some heat for my disappearance when people start asking questions about why my upcoming performances are being canceled.

“Alright,” Marco concedes. “I won’t force you to eat anything. But Ms. Hart?—”

“You can call me Isla,” I interrupt. “Ms. Hartmakes me sound as old as my dance instructor.”

“Isla,” he continues, dropping all the formalities and last names now. “A word of advice—Vincentisn’t as accommodating as I am. When it comes to following his rules, he doesn’t give an inch.”

“What’s he going to do, force-feed me?” The question’s sarcasm contrasts with Marco’s serious expression.

“He’ll do what he has to do in order to keep you alive and get you to comply.”

Upon his departure, I return to sitting on the bed and staring out the window again.

“We’ll see about that,” I whisper under my breath.

Challenging Vincent isn’t ideal, however, it’s my only recourse. I refuse to let himown me.

For the rest of the night, I remained in my room, despite the unlocked door. The penthouse is accessible to me, but I’m confined within it. I spend hours staring out the window at the city below instead. This isn’t a vacation; I’m trapped, and leaving this room is pointless. My meals come and go. A housekeeper brings them and when she opens the door, I can see Marco standing guard just outside the hall. When she comes back a fewhours later to clear my dishes, the food remains untouched. And so, it goes throughout the next day until my stomach is growling audibly and feels like it’s eating itself from the inside out.

Vincent hasn’t been back. It surprises me at first because I figured he’d be barging in, threatening some sort of awful punishment if I didn’t eat. But I’m quickly learning that he’s much more cool-headed and calculating than I first thought. He’s patiently waiting me out. Little does he know my resolve is much stronger than my hunger.

When it gets late, I crawl into bed and try to think about things other than how hungry I am. Remembering my solo, I recall the sense of freedom I experienced on stage, which was soon taken away. I think about Madame Durant, and I can practically see her fretting over my whereabouts by now. And the more I think about how much my whole life has changed since the other night, the more I have to fight back tears. I wish I had never gone backstage, that I had never seen what I did.

I stare out at the glittering city with glossy eyes and a grumbling gut. When the bedroom door opens, I sit up quickly, wondering who is coming into my room this late at night and what they want with me.

Vincent stands there, silent and striking in the dim light of the room. In his hands, he holds another tray of food. It looks out of place for him to be holding something other than the knife that he used to kill a man. I don’t think devils normally deliver room service.

“I brought you something to eat,” he says with no inkling of emotion. His bringing me food near midnight suggests annoyance, but his voice doesn’t betray it.

“No, thank you,” I say as I lie back down and pretend to close my eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

“Yes, you are.”

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