Page 51 of Velvet Cruelty

He moves closer to my bubble of light, poison green eyes shining.

“Hello, Mr. Rossi,” I say.

His footsteps are slow and heavy. “Keep. Dancing.”

I move jerkily into fifth position, raising my hands over my head. Adriano comes forward, materializing out of nothing. He’s so much bigger than the others. His head reaches the basement ceiling. I think of the half-bull man we studied in Greek Mythology. The one who killed people for fun. I lower my arms into demi-seconde and see the gun strapped to his side. My skin goes ice cold. I hold the pose out of pure muscle memory, my insides trembling. I want to collapse.

Zia! I scream in my mind. Zia!

The voice comes again, slow and calm. Dance, bella. Just keep moving.

I do little girl positions. First, second, plié, pirouette.

Seconds scrape past like hours, my arms and legs vibrating with fear. Please just go away, please just let me live, I repeat to myself.

I cycle through the same poses until my legs are shaking. He knows I can do more, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches until my body goes rubbery and I collapse to my knees.

“Did I say you could stop?”

I try desperately not to cry. “No.”

“Look at me.”

I lift my gaze to his. Adriano’s scar gleams in the lamplight, silver against his olive cheek. He must have got it in a fight but all I can picture is him deep in a forest battling a bear. Him, shirtless and holding a sword, and the bear with a snowy muzzle, swiping at his face. The animal gets a single slash before Adriano seizes his throat, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Mr. Rossi, is there something you want to ask…?”

A beat. “You think something about you interests me?”

The words come before I can think. “My dancing.”

“Your dancing?”

I shake my head, tears prickling at my eyes. “You… watch me dance. You always have.”

Adriano’s huge, tattooed hand drifts toward his gun and he eases it from its holster. My insides flicker like water and I fight not to scream.

He takes a step toward the bars, swallowing the ground between us. “I watch you dance?”

“Yes. I mean no. Never.”

He points the barrel at me. “You think anything about you is interesting?”

“No, of course not.”

“You’re right. The most interesting thing you could do for me is die.”

“No.” The whisper forces its way past my lips. I press my trembling hands to my mouth. The gun hole stares at me.

“No?” Adriano repeats. “You don’t want to die?”

Death is so close I can taste it, cold metal with an edge of relief—the taste of his gun in my mouth. I screw my eyes shut and say goodbye to Zia Teresa and Margot, to Lachlan and Penelope and—

“Kneel.”

I open my eyes. “P-Pardon?”

“Get up on your knees.”

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