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I'm not beautiful. I'm dark and ugly. Even with my hair done, the hours his team spent waxing and polishing every inch of my skin, then meticulously applying my makeup, and sewing me into the gown. I'm still not beautiful. Like lava oozing out of a tube and poisoning the earth, I'm the type of darkness that cannot be masked.
“È buono, mì bella?”
“Yes. You made a gorgeous dress.” I hold up part of the skirt, running my thumb along the silky material. It slides out of my grasp before cascading like a feather back into place. Sighing, I admire the reflection in the full-length mirror for another long second, then turn toward the tailor.
He clasps his hands, then nods. One of his assistants holds out a Lei with both of her hands. Like a silent ceremony, he bows, takes it, then places it around my neck.
The pastel-pink petals match the dress perfectly.Lokelani roses. I reach up to touch the delicate flowers but stop myself at the last moment. I might break it or wilt the petals. Instead, I force a smile. It’s hollow. I'm hollow.
“Perfetta.” Giovanni raises his clasped hand up to his lips and air kisses it. “Shall we show il capo?”
A second assistant hands him my white heels, her eyes remaining on her blue, plastic booties.I can't blame her. She was the one who waxed my girly parts. I wouldn't want to look at me, either.
Nodding, I follow them all out of my room and into Damien's office.
“Sir,” he knocks on the door once before opening it, “your rose is ready.” He bows, then gestures for me to enter.
Taking a breath, I stroll past the two assistants and step into Damien's office.
The room looks nothing like it did the last time I was here. No plastic tarp on the floor. No blood. Two black chairs sit in front of the black desk in the otherwise white room. Yet it retains that same feel.
Tense.
Standing behind his desk, Damien whispers to Kane. Beside them, Velasquez and another man stand sentinel. All three guards wear black suits with white tops. The formal look, so different from their normal T-shirts, adds to the stiff atmosphere.
“Good.” Damien barely glances my way before continuing his conversation with Kane. “Keep your eyes open. When we find him, wait for my signal. Then take him out.”
“How certain are you he'll show?”
Damien opens the top drawer of his desk and pulls out a silver pistol. Pulling out the cartridge, he checks that it's full before loading the gun and slipping it into his shoulder harness. The metallic click-click reverberates through the room in place of an answer. “Completely.”
Kane nods, remaining unmoved. My hands grow clammy, but I refuse to wipe them on my dress as I try not to move.
Damien grabs his tux jacket off the back of his chair and slips it on before heading toward the door. “Let's go.”
Dark. Cold.
I shuffle after him, picking up my gown's long train and hurrying out of the room. I'm probably ruining it with my sweaty hands, but I can't walk fast enough to keep up in the tight A-line design. He’s mad. I don’t know who at, but something about his tone tells me, I don’t want that anger aimed at me.
Dropping the skirt in the entranceway, I brush off the fabric, examining the damage while Giovanni hands me my shoes.
He clasps my hand in both of his and offers a tight smile. “Even among thorns, the seemingly fragile rose thrives. You are stronger than you think, mì bella.”
His whispered sentiment swirls through the air as he leaves with his assistants.
I wobble a few times, putting on my five-inch, red-bottomed heels as we wait for the elevator to return. Beside me, all four men tuck tiny headphones in their ears. Sweat drips down the back of my neck, pooling under the flower Lei.Their mood hasn’t changed. Instead, the tension seems to have followed us.
“Where are we going?” I should know. I'm sure somebody mentioned it, Giovanni or Damien, but the voices have been too loud to hear anything.
“A charity gala for orphans.”
“You care about orphans?” A nagging voice in my head tells me he has created more than a few recently.
Damien adjusts his watch. “I care about finding a man who will be there.”
Kane fidgets with his jacket. I catch the metallic glint of a gun barrel poking out before he rebuttons the stiff outfit.
A wave of nausea washes over me. I take a step back. “I'm not feeling well. Maybe I should stay here.”
