There’s a girl in my Advanced Sculpture class who said that fairy tales are stupid, that she didn’t need a prince to save her. But she doesn’t understand.
Fairy tales aren’t for the girls who have a choice. They’re for the girls shoved into corners, trapped in darkness, bent over desks. Places where hope is an act of bravery. Where believing in love is an act of rebellion.
Fairy tales are for girls who dream of happy endings, knowing they might not live to see tomorrow.
Romero is far from a white knight, but he rises to the occasion. “You don’t belong with him. Fuck, I was higher on the food chain than his father. If anyone gets you, it should be me.”
Not the most heroic of speeches, but I’ll take it. I look down, stroking the silky fabric of his tie with one finger. “If only things had been different.”
I’m waiting for the magic words, praying he’ll promise to carry me away, when I see a flash of gray streak past me, between our legs, and out the door. Lupo.
Chapter Twelve
I’m out the door before Romero even knows what’s happening. He shouts, and I know he’s on my heels. There’s no chance I can actually escape like this, not with him this close and more men walking the grounds. I’m just focused on catching Lupo before he actually leaves the grounds. Or worse, attacks someone. I don’t think he’s a dangerous dog, but he’s trapped just like me. He’ll fight if he needs to, but the men he’ll be fighting have guns.
If we were in some other mansion, or even a hotel kind of place, I would be slower. Wouldn’t know which way to go. But I grew up here, barefoot on this same overlong oriental rug. A childhood of racing through these halls with my sister with a child’s exuberance gives me the burst of speed I need. I hear the clatter of Lupo’s nails on the stairs a second before I swing around the balcony. Then I’m racing down the steps after him.
He pauses at the bottom, unsure which way to go. The front of the mansion is closed off by wide double doors and thick stained glass. The back has large paned windows to show off the double-level pool and courtyards, which means Vegas’s sunlight pours in. Lupo heads for the back, not knowing he’ll be locked
in that way just as much as the first, but then a man in a suit rounds the corner from the opposite direction.
There’s a horrible grinding sound as Lupo’s nails dig into the hardwood floors to stop his slide. He’s caught between me behind him and this unknown man in front of him. Before I can call his name, he darts through a one-foot opening in the door to the side. My heart pounds. The office.
I don’t recognize the man opposite me, but I know his type. He’s armed and dangerous and at least mildly sociopathic to even be in this job. His eyes narrow as if he’s trying to figure out who the hell I am or what I’m doing. Then he reaches into his jacket to draw his weapon. I don’t wait to find out if he’s going to threaten me or just open fire. I dart into the office after Lupo and stumble to a halt.
It’s dark, because the office is one of the only rooms in the mansion with no windows. Therefore it’s the most secure if it were to fall under attack.
But it’s not filled with cigar smoke or that clove spice I sometimes smell in my nightmares. I suppose there are some habits Giovanni chose not to pick up.
“Lupo,” I whisper.
I need to get ahold of him before that guy comes in, before Romero catches up to us. Hopefully we’ll both be escorted back to the room without anyone getting hurt. And without involving Giovanni.
I raise my voice to a hushed demand. “Lupo, come here right now. Please.”
The door swings open behind me, sunlight bouncing off the glossy wood and spilling onto the rug in the office. Romero looks rumpled from the short run and pissed off. So much for getting on his good side.
“I’ll find him,” I say, praying he lets me handle this. Lupo has already been grumpy dealing with the walks. He’ll be even more defensive after getting cornered in here.
Romero reaches for me. “I’m putting you back in the room. Then I’ll deal with the mutt.”
Shit, this is what I was afraid of. I back up. “Wait. No.”
His eyes flash. “I have authorization to keep you in that room with force. Don’t make me use it.”
I shiver because I don’t want to imagine Giovanni giving that order. But it’s not like the locked door or the armed guard outside are particularly subtle. I’m his prisoner.
“Please,” I whisper. “I’ll get Lupo. We won’t cause trouble. Don’t tell Giovanni what happened.”
A drop of orange-yellow pierces the darkness. Giovanni is sitting in an armchair, large body reclined, one ankle slung over his leg, a lighter in his hand. The flame dances from the silver cylinder, casting eerie shadows on his face. “What shouldn’t he tell me about?”
My pulse pounds in my ears. “God, you could give a girl a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” Romero says, his voice clipped. “The dog got out.”
“And the girl?” Giovanni says, his voice low and liquid.
I plant a hand on my hip. “The girl is grown up. And she got out too.”