Chapter Twenty Three
Nina's POV
I do not scream.
I do not cry.
I just close the door to Dante's room very gently, as if noise will make it worse.
My whole body feels wrong.
My legs are shaking.
My chest is tight, like someone tied a rope around my ribs and is pulling hard.
I can still see it.
Isabela on her knees in front of him.
Her head moving.
Dante's hand in her hair.
His jaw locked.
His eyes shut.
My throat burns. My eyes sting. I taste metal, like blood, but I know I am not bleeding. It is inside.
I turn away from the door and walk.
One step.
Then another.
Then another.
The hallway swims a little. The lights are too bright. The air feels too thin.
I wrap my arms around myself and keep my head down. If I look up, I might run back and scream at them both. If I stay, I might fall apart.
I almost collide with someone at the corner.
Enzo.
He is by the wall with his phone pressed to his ear. His face is tight. His jaw is hard. He looks stressed, tense, like he has been shouting orders for hours.
"Yes," he says into the phone. "Double the patrol on the east side. I don't care if anyone complains. You see anything off, you call me first."
Then his eyes land on me.
He stops. Completely.
His hand drops a little. The phone is still by his ear, but he is not listening anymore. His gaze runs over my face in one fast sweep.
I know what he sees.
Red eyes.
Swollen lids.
Shaky breaths.
"Princess," he says softly. "Hold on."
He pulls the phone away. "I'll call you back," he mutters, then hangs up without waiting.
He steps closer to me and lifts his hand. His fingers brush my arm very gently, like he is afraid I will break.
"What's wrong?" he asks. His voice is low now. Not the sharp voice he uses with the guards. This one is soft. Careful.
My mouth opens. No words come out.
My throat is tight.
It hurts to swallow.
"I'm fine," I manage. The lie tastes bitter. "I just… I need some water. I'm going to the kitchen."
His brows pull together as he looks at me. Then his eyes flick past me, down the hall, toward Dante's door. Something dark passes over his face. Confusion. Maybe suspicion.
"Nina," he says quietly. "Look at me."
I keep my eyes on the floor. "I'm fine."
He lifts his hand again, like he wants to touch my cheek, but stops halfway. His fingers curl into a fist.
"Call me if you need anything," he says at last. "Anything, okay?"
I nod and move past him.
Down the stairs. One step at a time.
Through the hall.
Into the kitchen.
The kitchen smells like onions and garlic and tomatoes. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
Nana is there, of course.
She stands by the counter, chopping tomatoes on a wooden board. Her hands still look a little weak, but they move steady. Her shoulders sag a bit, but she hums under her breath, some slow Spanish song she always sings when she cooks.
My heart squeezes. Just seeing her makes me want to cry.
"Nana," I say.
She looks up. Her whole face changes at once. The tired lines soften, and her eyes fill with that warm light that always makes me feel five years old and safe.
"Ay, mija," she says, putting the knife down. "There you are. Come. Sit. I make you something to eat."
I try to smile. It comes out broken. "You should not be cooking," I tell her. "You're still not strong. You should be resting."
She waves her hand like I said something silly. "Rest?" She scoffs. "If I lie down, my mind will run around like a crazy goat. No. I must move. I must cook. That is how I stay calm."
She stirs a pot on the stove, then looks over her shoulder at me. "Besides," she adds, "these men do not know how to feed themselves. If I stop, everyone dies in this house."
A small laugh escapes me. It hurts my chest, but it helps a little too. "You're not wrong."
"Come." She kicks a stool out with her foot. "Sit. Help me. Your hands need work more than your head right now."
I sit on the stool. It feels good to have something solid under me.
She hands me a small knife and a bowl of peeled potatoes. "Slice," she says. "Not paper thin. We are not feeding ghosts."
I start cutting the potatoes.
Slice.
Slice.
Slice.
The simple job makes my mind slow down a bit. If I focus on the knife and the potato, I do not have to see Dante's hand in Isabela's hair. I do not have to hear the wet sound of her mouth.
For a few minutes, we are both quiet. Only the sound of the knife on the board and the soft bubble of the pot fill the room.
Then Nana starts talking.
"You remember that telenovela I told you about?" she asks. "The one with the priest and the woman?"
"The prostitute?" I say.
"Yes, that one," she says. "I watched two more episodes last night. Ay, mija." She presses a hand to her chest. "My heart almost stopped."
"What happened?" I ask, grateful for the normal talk. Grateful for anything that is not my life.
She smiles. Her eyes light up. "The woman goes to church again," she says. "She thinks he will push her away this time. But he does not. He listens. She tells him every terrible thing about her life. Every man. Every shame. And when she is done, you know what he says?"
"What?"
"He says, 'You are not dirty. You were hurt. There is a difference.'"
A lump forms in my throat. I keep slicing.
"And then," Nana goes on, voice soft and dreamy now, "he realizes he loves her. Really loves her. Not as a priest. As a man. He looks at her like…" She lifts her hands, searching for words. "Like the whole world is standing right in front of him."
I see another face in my mind. Dark eyes. Cold voice. Warm hands.
I push it away. It hurts too much.
"Isn't he not allowed to love her?" I ask.
"He is not allowed to love anyone," Nana says. "But the heart does not ask permission, mija. It just… does what it wants. It is very stupid."
"Yeah," I say softly. "Very stupid."
We both fall quiet again.
Then we hear it.
The sharp click of heels on marble.
Slow steps.
Sharp sound.
Coming closer.
Nana's shoulders tense. My back straightens on the stool.
The footsteps get louder.
Closer.
Then they stop at the kitchen doorway.
Isabela walks in.
She looks perfect. Hair smooth. Makeup sharp. Dress tight and short, hugging her body like it was sewn onto her skin. She does not look like someone who was "hurt" or "shaken." She looks bored. Annoyed. Entitled.
Her eyes sweep the room. They pause on me for half a second, then move to Nana.
Her lips curl.
"You," she says. Her tone is sharp and rude. She points at Nana like she is pointing at a dog. "Make me some chicken broth. From scratch. I'm sick."
Nana wipes her hands on a towel and turns, still polite. "Miss Isabela, good morning," she says. "I did not know you were awake yet. Maybe later I can—"
"No," Isabela cuts in. "Now. I want it now. And it must be from scratch. No cheap cubes. I don't eat poor food."
Heat rushes up my neck.
Nana's smile fades a little. Her fingers tighten around the towel.
"She's not strong enough," I say before I can stop myself. My voice comes out calm, but I feel fire in my chest. "You know she's still recovering. Why would you make her do that now?"
Isabela turns her head slowly toward me. Her eyes skim over me from top to bottom. I can see the moment she notices I am still wearing Dante's shirt. Her gaze hardens.
"That's the least she can do," she says. Her tone is sharp and mean. "I saved her life. Or did you forget that? If I hadn't screamed, those men would have slit her throat in that warehouse."
Nana flinches a little at the words.
My fingers dig into the potato. "That doesn't make her your servant," I say. "You don't get to talk to her like that."
Isabela laughs a little, but there is no humor in it. "Oh, sweet Nina," she says. "You really believe all that 'family' nonsense they feed you, don't you?"
"She is family," I snap. "At least to me."
"To you, maybe," Isabela says, rolling her eyes. "But let's not pretend. She cooks. She cleans. She does laundry. She is staff. And staff do as they're told."
She turns back to Nana, as if I am done. "Make the broth," she says again. "Right now."
Nana steps forward. She looks tired, but her voice is still gentle. "Miss Isabela," she says softly, "I am really not too strong today. My back hurts. And we are out of some things. There is no fresh chicken. No carrots. No celery. The boys forgot to buy."
She gives a small, tired smile. "Maybe I can make it for you tomorrow morning, when I go to the market, yes?"
Isabela's face changes. The fake softness falls away.
Her eyes go cold. Her lips press into a hard line.
"How dare you," she whispers. Then louder, "How dare you say no to me in this house?"
She stomps forward, heels hitting the floor hard. Each step is sharp and angry. She raises her hand.
Her fingers spread.
Her palm swings back.
Her arm comes up high.
I see it coming.
I see Nana's eyes go big.
I see her shrink back a little.
No.
My body moves before my brain can catch up.
I jump off the stool and step in front of Nana, putting myself between them. I shove Nana back with my arm.
Isabela's hand keeps coming.
I do not duck.
I do not turn my face away.
The slap lands on my face.