Page 75 of The Kiss Of Death
Her eyes sliced straight to mine. “You’re the last person I’d talk to about my father.”
“I disagree; let me tell you why.” With a wave of my hand, I enumerated the facts. “First, I’ll take your defense and will never get bored listening to your complaints. Second, I understandthe concept of disappointing people. Third, I didn’t plan this charming meetup for you to think about any man other than me.”
“It’s just that he doesn’t want to accept that I’m a grown woman, and I’m lying to him, and I hate lying! I’m tired of him dictating my whole life. I hate hurting him, and I’m just—” Her words spilled out in a frenzied torrent, each sentence tumbling over the next until she finally paused, gasping for breath. “I wish he could just listen. I’ll never be like Mom. I’m imperfect, and I can’t be what he wants me to be without feeling lonely and unhappy.”
As fate would have wanted, I had dedicated the bulk of my day to digging into the sordid details of the Mercier’s business, starting with the discovery I had made four years ago about the weird amount of money he’d received ten and fifteen years ago. After weeks of meticulous investigation, I finally stumbled upon the treasure trove of information I’d sought. Information that could potentially bring down Dalia’s father. I just needed more time to be sure this wasn’t an unfortunate coincidence. Plus, I didn’t want to end all of this quite yet.
Wielding power also meant knowing when to bide your time.
“You should be honest,” I told her, rethinking my strategy. His own daughter was turning against him and confiding inme.
It was like knowing you could win a chess game in three moves: too easy, boring, and predictable. Instead, I’d make the game last longer, change my strategy, and deprive the king of all his pawns until it was just him and my allies. And maybe Dalia could be one of them.
“No.” She shook her head.
“Why? Afraid he would stop loving you?”
She thinned her lips. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Ouch.” I pretended to be offended. “Growing up as someone who was never wanted, I think I do.”
“You never talk about your grandparents or your father.”
“They never took any interest in knowing me,” I said. “And I didn’t turn out that bad, did I?”
“You’re lonely, and you desperately seek attention. You’re not a good example,” she whispered before glancing around as if she had just noticed where we were. “Wait… Are we—”
She had dashed down the hallway, unaware that she was veering toward the backstage of the ruined opera house through the new emergency exit. All she needed to do was push aside that half-slumped velvet curtain to step onto the desolate stage she so eagerly sought.
Her gaze swept over the debris littering the area beside us, the cables dangling like vines and an old chandelier put aside on the floor with the rest of the decor. The stale air of this macabre opera had long ceased to draw breath. The construction tools had been put aside, the floor creaking beneath our feet with splintered remnants of broken wood. This place was even more horrendously scarred than I was.
“It’s the opera house…” Her voice shook, her big eyes wide open as she twirled around the place. “Are we even allowed to be in here? Wait, am I going to play here?”
“Maybe.” I didn’t delve into the subject of how I’d convinced the worker lady to turn a blind eye and give us the stage for an hour in exchange for getting her ex-husband to pay the child support he owed her.
“For real? I’m going to play here?”
Her eyes lit up, and a not-so-subtle smile played on her lips. She took a few steps forward, casting a fleeting glance behind the half-slumped curtain at the barren expanse where an audience should have sat. Not that she’d see anything from here—only one of the backstage lights worked, illuminating the space, while the rest lay cloaked in darkness. Yet she retreated back, a veil of sadness clouding her eyes.
“I don’t think I can.” Her lower lip shook. “I’m… I’m scared that if I play… It’s too soon. I’m not ready.”
She was haunted by Los Calaveras, but she’d have to get over her fear. “It’s just you and me, no public.”
“But I…”
“Isn’t that opera the reason you’re here, and now you want to back off?” I lifted a brow. I wasn’t ready to let my grand gesture be tarnished by those guys. “We could stay behind the curtain. Baby steps.”
“Okay,” she breathed, balling her hands at her sides. “You’re right. We’re still on the stage but without the public.” Then she drilled her eyes on the piano. You’d think it’d have been big enough for her to notice it sooner, but no. “Wait, is someone going to join us?”
“No, unless you wish to upset me.”
“But who’s going to play the piano?”
“Me,” I deadpanned, the sheet music already on it.
She laughed, but when I didn’t budge, she parted her lips. “You? You play?”
“Does that surprise you?”
