That firm, stoic jaw.
Those eyes.
That smile.
Images slam into my skull one after the other. That same figure in another life. Memories swarm me of crawling onto his lap, relishing his attention. Running my tiny fingers over the expansive planes of his face and understanding, even at that young age, that he looked different than most. His eyes were a rich brown, his nose so stern he could seem more intimidating than thunderstorms—my biggest fear then—and yet a simple quirk of his mouth could transform him into the most comforting presence I’d ever known. Even Mischa can’t muster the same level of playful softness.
But Mischa’s love was never a lie.
Everything about my past with Donatello Vanici was. A brutal, terrifying, horrifying lie.
I blink rapidly, expecting him to disappear—but he doesn’t. I pinch myself, willing him to vanish. My eyes burn but with every tear to fall, blurring my vision, he stubbornly remains.
Oblivious, he tilts his head, allowing the glow from a hanging chandelier to illuminate him in painfully stark detail. He’s the man I remember from my childhood, only aged exactly seven years, dressed in a suit that strains against the bulk in his forearms. Dark stubble speckles his chin, and his eyes scan the room as watchful as ever.
Beside him stands another man I recognize despite him having grown several feet, sprouting into a near copy of his uncle. Vincenzo.
“Will?” Eli stage-whispers. “What’s wrong?”
His voice snaps me back with a chilling realization that has me gripping the railing, in danger of pitching over it—this isn’t a dream.
Or, even more terrifying—I’ve finally gone insane. Around me, the walls melt, forming a puddle that obscures everyone and everything but him. He’s untouchable by the chaos, standing as tall as he did the day he dragged me before Nicolai Baryshnikov and left me for dead.
“Do what you will with her,” he’d said. “I don’t care.”
I don’t care…
And apparently, he hasn’t, frolicking like a man without a care in the world, here to attend the birthday party of a girl he thinks he’s never met. Does he assume that Willow Stepanova will be as easy to charm as Safiya Mangenello?
As I watch, he goes rigid, his eyes flashing. A vicious sense of triumph roots me in place. I hope he sees me. Notices me. Remembers me…
But without ever looking my way once, he heads for the exit of the ballroom, pulling Vincenzo after him.
I turn away so quickly I nearly trip over the skirt of my gown. There’s no way down from here. I can only stagger forward, craning my neck for a view of the figure retreating toward the front of the house.
“Will, what’s wrong?” Eli is already by my side, using his hand to steady me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
But I have. There isn’t any way to explain the truth to him.
My fingers are shaking too badly to form any coherent reply. It’s too hot. The air is too thick. Suffocating.
“Is it the dress?” Eli asks, padding after me as I tear into the upstairs wing. “I’ll get Aunt Ellen, and she can—”
I grab his hand, shaking my head no, though I barely register his worried expression. It’s like the walls of this home fade, and I’m a child again, unable to see anything beyond the figure retreating from me. I can’t even cry out.
All I can do is hate him.
Chase him.
Follow him to the boundaries of a slamming door and watch him leave. Again. I’m shaking as I reach the top of the staircase, waiting for him only to find the foyer devoid of anyone but my father’s guards. Then I remember that it will take him minutes to reach this part of the house from the lower level.
“Will?” Eli tugs at my skirt. “What’s wrong?”
My fingers are moving before I even realize what I’m signing, I need you to do me a favor.
He cocks his head. “What kind of favor?”
Cover for me. Surging past him, I cross the wing, entering my room in a rush. I set the knife aside, pacing circles as my mind races.
“What do you mean?” Eli demands, right on my heels. “Where are you going?”
It’s the same question I’m asking myself. I don’t know. I can’t think…
It’s like someone else possesses my body, making me claw at the fastenings of my gown Ellen had so lovingly done up. With sheer brute force, I unhook it enough to wrench myself free of the massive skirt. The fabric falls to the floor with a pathetic thud, resembling one of the many roses decorating the main hall.
“Hey!” From the corner of my eye, I see Eli turn his back to me, his neck beet red. “If you didn’t like the dress, you could have told them before the party,” he scolds.
I can’t apologize. I’m too busy reaching for my closet. Throwing open the wooden doors, I rummage through the few items left hanging. I only brought a few things home from school—assorted shirts, skirts, and jeans. Apart from those items lurks one lone black dress at the very back of the cabinet.
My heart pangs as I grab it by the hanger. I wore it to the older Ivan’s funeral with a sweater over the top for modesty—it was the only thing in the store that suited my height without requiring inches to be taken off the hem. On me, the dress came just past my knees.
Observing it now, it suits a far different purpose than mourning. It’s tight enough to run in. Or stab someone while wearing it and obscure any bloodstains. In a sense, it’s the polar opposite of the white dress I’d been given after being abandoned.
This…is a fitting dress to kill Donatello Vanici in.
Teeth bared, I slip it on, still wearing my new white heels.
Why? My brain is on autopilot, racing ahead too quickly for my body to keep up. I keep seeing him, his back to me. Leaving, always leaving…
But following him now would
