Page 25 of Dance with Death

Somehow, I manage my way inside to see Vigo impatiently waiting to close the door behind us. The moment I enter, I’m met with an unsettling feeling, a feeling that nags in my stomach that I don’t belong here, and that I need to leave immediately.

Only, I have no choice.

I have no option to leave.

The uneasy feeling is going to be a permanent part of my life now.

Part of that feeling is the sound.

Thereissound here—voices, faraway music, the noise of multiple people living together under the same dwelling. Mikhailov Manor had been filled with such overwhelming silence that I’d nearly forgotten the noise of living. And that’s all the more disturbing because this is sound made from the lives of monsters.

I look around as Vigo yells out something in Italian, and a female voice responds somewhere in the distance. It looks different without the members of the four families gathered here for the talent reception and quarterly meeting—I’m able to see the details of my new prison.

The entrance is wide open. The receptions I’ve attended in the past have been held right here over the square-tiled flooring. Entryway tables beside me stand tall and narrow, accentuated by ornately framed mirrors above them. The russet-colored frames match tiny square tiles on the floor, which punctuate the corners of the larger taupe tiles, making a pattern of large and small squares.

A few steps past the entryway door is an alcove that opens to the left, a transition into rich, hardwood floors designating where the piano room begins. A black, grand piano sits on the far side near a large window with a small seating area in front. I can recall listening to one of the Vittori talent slaves play piano here before.

There’s a staircase to the right which curves around the wide, rounded entry space, leading up to a balcony landing at the top. Past that single balcony is an archway, though I can’t see beyond it from the ground floor. There’s an ostentatious gold and crystal chandelier that hangs from the center of the space, blocking my view.

I stare at the steps and their curved, metal railing, wary, wondering if I’ll have to find a way to drag myself up to the second floor.

God, I’m just so exhausted.

“Come,” Vigo says and walks straight ahead.

I follow him as he strides across the wide, circular space. Straight ahead is an open archway that leads into the kitchen. There’s a gigantic island immediately in front of us, the long edge spreading out to my right, easily spanning eight or nine feet. This kitchen is stark white and sterile, in direct contrast to the warm, mahogany and cinnamon tones in the entry.

It’s far too clean and it reeks of bleach.

The smell triggers me, reminds me of the smell in Ezra’s room after Jonathan was taken, after I’d seen Kostya bring out his old bedsheets with their splashes of red. My pulse accelerates and I gasp in a shaky breath.

Vigo turns right before reaching the island and walks along the side of it closest to us, moving straight toward a dead end beside the refrigerator.

Except, it’s not a dead end.

He presses on the drywall and it pops open, swinging on a hinge—a hidden doorway. I nearly stumble backward in surprise, but I catch the edge of the island to steady myself.

Behind the camouflaged entry is a metal door with a keypad. Vigo pauses so he can cast a smug glance at me over his shoulder.

“Your new home is behind this door. Would you like to see?”

No.

Fuck no.

Though I’m shaking my head with wide, frightened eyes, I know the only acceptable answer a slave should give, so I quietly say, “Yes.”

“Try again.”

I swallow and force my pride down my throat, my voice coming out as a horrified whisper. “Si, Papà.”

“Good little doll.”

He enters a code onto the keypad and the metal door clicks open.

I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears.

A stab of instinct punches in my gut, telling me that my new existence will be unimaginably worse than I feared.

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