Page 53 of Dance with Death

It’s taken nearly two days to travel from Palermo to New Orleans with the stop off in Lisbon for fuel on the Vittoris’ private jet. And with so many people on board, Vigo has managed to keep his cock in his pants.

There’s Renata and her slave Luca, their younger cousin Lorenzo, and one of the family’s talent slaves, a pianist named Olivia. She’s the blond girl I remember seeing with Vigo and Renata at Nikolai’s talent reception three months ago. She looks healthier now than she did then. I guess she used to belong to Vigo until Lorenzo took a liking to her.

Vigo’s mostly ignored me on the flight, constantly staring down at his phone. I’m glad for that because it keeps his interest off defiling me.

Much to Renata’s dismay, we have to travel via airboat to get from the airstrip in Louisiana to the Leblancs’ estate. It’s hidden away and only accessible through the bayou.

Renata fusses with her long, black hair as the boat whirs forward, whipping it behind her. The boat scurries and splashes through the muddy water, and I take in the swampy air with gratitude. The brush of the wind over my cheeks feels divine. Renata has the privilege of snobbery, fussing over her tangled hair and ruined clothes. I hide a secret smile that the cream-colored Prada suit she was stupid enough to wear is spattered with mud.

She should’ve known better as she’s been to the estate before. Why she would choose such impractical travel wear is beyond me. I didn’t have a choice in my travel wear, but Vigo at least had the foresight for practicality, I suppose. He had given me the same skinny jeans and plain shirt I had worn the day he took me from Nikolai, though the jeans feel a little looser now.

We whip through the eerie bayou landscape where water has risen high, making the trees appear as though they were drowning. The dreamlike landscape—where we sail through a hazy, watery forest—almost feels magical, almost like freedom.

Almost.

The Leblancs’ estate appears from the parting swamp fog like a haunted daydream. The home is tall, foundation high above the overflow of the water line. White columns run all the way across the square-shaped front profile of the estate. The spaces between the columns on the top floor are fenced with black lattice work, which match the black shutters around its many windows. The left and right sides of the home are set back a bit, framing the center square of the house, making it look proud and ostentatious.

There’s a narrow, paved stone walkway leading from the dock where the airboat lets us off. It’s another thing for Renata to fuss over when one of her stiletto heels gets caught between two uneven stones. She utters a string of Italian curse words, prompting a petty, almost normal looking argument between her and Vigo.

Vigo points at her feet when he speaks, shaking his head, presumably judging her choice of footwear. She yells back at him and eventually, he pockets his phone with a huff, going back to help her yank her shoe from between the pavers as she leans on Luca for support. I stand and wait for my masters to end their petty squabbling.

Renata, refusing to lose face again, removes both of her shoes and strides ahead of the group—fearlessly barefoot—toward the main entrance of the estate. It’s a good fifty yards to walk to the entrance.

As we approach, we’re greeted by an anxious looking man. He jogs down the front porch steps, watching his feet, pushing out a nervous breath from between rounded lips as he straightens the lapels of his navy-blue jacket.

His tousled, thick, blond hair reminds me of Ezra’s. From a distance, I suffer a beat of hoping. But I quickly set aside any foolish ideas that Ezra might be here. Nikolai always brought me, not my partners, to the quarterly meetings with him. Though, I suppose Ezra must be his only slave now.

Unless he killed him, too.

I stop dead in my tracks at the thought, pressing a hand over my heart, pressing hard until I can feel the beat through my palm.

No one notices that I’ve halted, not right away, because we’re slaves. We walk behind our masters.

The man from the house greets Renata first, holding out an outstretched hand, as she charges ahead. She doesn’t take it. Instead, she leans in for him to kiss one cheek, then the other, in greeting.

“Vittoris,” the blond man says. “Welcome!”

“Leo.” Renata turns on her pleasant business persona. “How are you adjusting to becoming the new Head of House for the Leblancs?”

His brows lift and lower as he huffs out a breath and tilts his head. “About as well as you’d expect, I suppose. I didn’t…Well, I didn’t know much about the Campbells, er, their legacy, with the four families. The family trade. My mom never shared much and well, I understand now. So, here we are.” He holds out his hands.

He looks far too young to be a Head of House.

He behaves far too anxiously to be a Head of House.

The others are Nikolai, Vigo, and Murphy O’Shea, each as ruthless, arrogant, and unambiguously sociopathic as the last. This man, Leo, is going to be eaten alive if he doesn’t pull his shit together, and quick.

We’re welcomed into the home and shown to our rooms. I’m to stay in a room with Vigo. The dark-gray space we’re given feels as oppressive as it looks from the moment we cross the threshold. The four-post bed of the relatively small space is draped with off-white fabric. The hardwood floor beneath our feet creaks with each step, and the dark walls make it feel like a cave. There’s a length of chain attached to an ankle cuff resting on the floor. The chain is secured to a metal loop that’s been bolted down through the flooring next to the bed.

That chain is for me—to keep me locked up when my master attends the board meeting later.

Vigo asks me to shower and prepare for the talent and reception that will begin in just a few hours. I’m both surprised and thankful that he gives me some time alone in the connected bathroom.

I’m also thankful there’s no bathtub here, only a walk-in shower. The thought of him drugging me and tossing me into the swamp water still crosses my mind, making my heart skip a beat. I can only hope the events of this quarterly meeting will keep him occupied enough to spare me his torment. At least until we have to return to the Vittori mansion in Italy.

I sigh, shaking out my long, damp hair. I have a make-up bag full of unfamiliar products and I’ve been directed to make myself look presentable, though I don’t really know what that means to the Vittoris. I knew how to prep when I belonged to a Mikhailov, but everything feels foreign now.

I look over at the dress Vigo has given me to wear this evening for the talent and reception. A floor-length, golden silk gown hangs on the back of the bathroom door. It’s a beautiful dress, and a part of me looks forward to putting it on, to play dress-up, to pretend life is as good as the dress looks.

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