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“Are those your real eyes?”
I love how they squint and his cheeks curve, another smile under the bandana. “No. These are just for parties.”
They’re amazing, I almost say. But I have self-restraint. I say, “They’re very blue.”
“Are those your real lips?” His voice is so soft I strain to hear it.
“Lipstick.” I smile.
“What’s it called?”
“What?”
“They all have names, don’t they? Like ‘Cherry Bomb’ or ‘Lust Duck’ or whatever.”
“Lust Duck?” I barely manage to not burst out laughing.
He shrugs. “Slut Swan?”
I can’t stop my lips from curving, but I can twist them into a smirk. “This one is called Scandal.”
His eyes drink me in, brows notching as he seems to consider me. “I didn’t know angels caused scandals.”
I lift a shoulder. “Princesses do.”
“Do they?” he asks, so low and quiet.
His gaze holds mine, and my chest goes tight and weird, like I can’t get enough air. And it’s because of him.
My heart is racing as our eyes stay locked, and then he shuts his, and I see him swallow. When he opens them again, he gives me a little smile. I know it’s a smile because I see his eyes squint at the corners.
The sharp rap of footsteps in the hall breaks our spell, and his eyes widen.
“Shit,” he says, at the exact moment I say, “Let’s go behind the wall!”
Seconds later, we’re crouching behind a folding privacy wall to the right of the bed—one of the ones they sometimes have in tailors’ alteration spaces, so you can duck behind and swap your clothes out. This one is made of dark wood; it’s just large enough to hide us both. He’s behind me, in the space between my back and the wall. As we freeze in our positions, one of his hands goes to my shoulder.
“In a second,” he begins quietly—but I don’t get to hear what will happen in a second.
The door opens, and he shushes. I hold my breath and try to listen to the footsteps. It’s more than one person. I think two, but I’m too scared to peek through the gaps between the privacy wall’s slats and confirm this. I can tell it’s men—and that they’re speaking Italian. My stomach slow rolls as their gruff, low voices rise. They’re speaking quickly, forcefully. I don’t know Italian, but I know one of the voices…
The blood drains from my cheeks when he speaks in English. “Please.”
The other man grumbles something—in Italian. Then, as quickly as they stepped in, one of them leaves. Below the divider wall, I can see the shoes of the one who remains. I watch as he shuffles his feet, and when he sighs, it’s unmistakably familiar.
Seconds later, he, too, leaves.
A moment passes. I can feel the boy behind me, feel his chest warming my back and feel the tension in his coiled muscles.
He lets out a deep breath, seeming as shaken as I feel—but I assume for different reasons.
“What were they saying?” I whisper, feeling nearly faint with my shock. “Do you know?”
He rises to his feet, holding out a hand for me, which I take.
“I do know,” he says as he helps me up.
“Well, what was it?”
He looks at the door. “One of them was warning the other. Telling him to get in line.”
“Which one was doing the warning?” I try not to sound too desperate. “Was it the one who left first, or the one who left the room last?”
He frowns at me. “The guy who left last.”
I can feel my pulse throb at the base of my throat. “You mean…mafia stuff?” The words are whispers.
“I don’t know.” He looks down. When he glances back up, I can tell from his eyes that he’s troubled. “I…” He shakes his head. “Let’s get out of here.”
I nod, and he takes my hand. He holds it carefully, and my whole body buzzes beside him as he peeks into the hall, then leads me out as if it’s his job to protect me.
We walk in silence until we reach the door into the weird, small space. Then he disentangles his fingers from mine and moves in front of me. He has to crouch a little so his head won’t brush the low ceiling. I watch the fabric of his dress shirt tighten over his shoulders as he listens at the door then cracks it open before nodding over his shoulder at me.
“We’re good.”
His voice is low and soft and rough. He steps through the little door and turns back toward me, holding his hand out. I don’t know why I take it. I don’t need help walking. But it feels good to move through the coat room with his big, warm hand around mine. Especially after what I just saw. Who I just saw.
My suspicions are confirmed…maybe. I don’t know how I feel, but I feel better walking through the darkened hallways with this guy beside me. He gives me a look that I think is supposed to be reassuring. Maybe even a little smile, although of course I can’t be sure because of the bandana. When we reach the polished wood stairwell that I think he stepped into after me a little while ago, he lets go of my hand.
