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CHAPTER 3

ISLA

V incent’s devilish smirk haunts me after he leaves. I thought that at the very least, throwing the vase at him would put him off-balance. I took the risk of angering him, hoping that maybe it would distract him enough for me to gain the upper hand, if even just for a moment. But it didn’t even make him blink.

He found the idea of someone defying him intriguing, possibly exciting, rather than infuriating. I’m not even sure what to think about that. I’m also not sure what to do with the strange feeling that swells in my chest when I look at him.

This man is a cold-blooded killer . And by the looks of this lush penthouse, he’s probably made his fortune in very questionable ways. The Italian mafia has quite a foothold in Vegas, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Vincent is involved in it on a high level. But even as he showed me around my prison here, dwarfing me with his height and stature, and fixing on me with his dangerous stare—I’d be lying if I said his angular jawline’s movement when he spoke, or the way his muscles filled his shirt, didn’t captivate me. Why am I not horrified by this man? Shouldn’t I be? One thing is for sure, right off the bat, Vincent likes to be in control of things, and I refuse to let him. I won’t allow anyone to have power over me again, no matter what I have to go through.

Only two days after my thirteenth birthday, my mother died, and less than a week later, someone placed me in my first group home. I thought that growing up poor with a single mother was bad, but at least I had been free. Losing my freedom made me wish I could go back to being poor, to have my mom alive, and my freedom back. All those years after her death taught me some important lessons. I learned monsters could look like regular people, and that no one was coming to save me. I realized self-preservation was the key to survival. So, I learned to survive alone and not to trust anyone who held a position of power—the staff at the group homes, the foster families, even the protective service officials who oversaw our care from time to time. Those people only wanted one thing: to exploit and exert control over those of us who were weaker than they were. Anyone who didn’t subscribe to those ideals of corruption didn’t last long in the system. Those counselors or teachers who truly tried to help always ended up quitting and walking away defeated, leaving me feeling abandoned. That trauma set deeply into my very bones. But— I learned .

When the door opens again, I expect it to be Vincent. Instead, a different man stands in the doorway this time. He has a broom in one hand and a gun affixed to his waist.

“Hello, Ms. Hart,” he says with a surprisingly gentle smile. “My name is Marco, and Mr. Moretti has assigned me as your bodyguard.”

“Who?” I ask, realizing that thus far, I’ve only been given first names.

“Mr. Vincent Moretti,” he clarifies as he sweeps up the broken glass and the spilled breakfast tray.

“Do you double as a housekeeper?” I joke.

“Not usually, but Mr. Moretti warned me you’ve got a bit of a hot temper.”

“Did he now?”

Marco laughs with a sort of boyish charm, and I can’t help but wonder how he wound up working for a guy like Vincent. He seems much too normal and kind to be one of the Devil’s henchmen.

“So, can I have some lunch sent to you?” he asks. “You must be getting hungry since you haven’t eaten anything.”

“How do you know I haven’t eaten?”

He motions his hand toward the swept-up pile of spilled breakfast on the floor. “You’re a dancer, right? A ballerina? I heard that dancers have a higher metabolism than most. And I’m pretty sure that Mr. Moretti wants to make sure that you’re well-cared for.”

Without even meaning to, he’s given me an idea. If I can’t escape this place, then I will at least resist. I won’t give Vincent the pleasure of feeling like he can control me, even if I am a prisoner here.

“No, thank you,” I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”

In truth, I’m starving . I don’t have a lot of fat on my body as it is, and I’m already feeling lightheaded. But I will hold out for as long as it takes. Until Vincent either lets me go or is responsible for my withering away because of my hunger strike. Madame Durant’s search will eventually lead her to me, but not likely here, atop a casino. But eventually, Vincent will feel some heat for my disappearance when people start asking questions about why my upcoming performances are being canceled.

“Alright,” Marco concedes. “I won’t force you to eat anything. But Ms. Hart?—”

“You can call me Isla,” I interrupt. “ Ms. Hart makes me sound as old as my dance instructor.”

“ Isla ,” he continues, dropping all the formalities and last names now. “A word of advice— Vincent isn’t as accommodating as I am. When it comes to following his rules, he doesn’t give an inch.”

“What’s he going to do, force-feed me?” The question’s sarcasm contrasts with Marco’s serious expression.

“He’ll do what he has to do in order to keep you alive and get you to comply.”

Upon his departure, I return to sitting on the bed and staring out the window again.

“We’ll see about that,” I whisper under my breath.

Challenging Vincent isn’t ideal, however, it’s my only recourse. I refuse to let him own me .

For the rest of the night, I remained in my room, despite the unlocked door. The penthouse is accessible to me, but I’m confined within it. I spend hours staring out the window at the city below instead. This isn’t a vacation; I’m trapped, and leaving this room is pointless. My meals come and go. A housekeeper brings them and when she opens the door, I can see Marco standing guard just outside the hall. When she comes back a few hours later to clear my dishes, the food remains untouched. And so, it goes throughout the next day until my stomach is growling audibly and feels like it’s eating itself from the inside out.

Vincent hasn’t been back. It surprises me at first because I figured he’d be barging in, threatening some sort of awful punishment if I didn’t eat. But I’m quickly learning that he’s much more cool-headed and calculating than I first thought. He’s patiently waiting me out. Little does he know my resolve is much stronger than my hunger.

When it gets late, I crawl into bed and try to think about things other than how hungry I am. Remembering my solo, I recall the sense of freedom I experienced on stage, which was soon taken away. I think about Madame Durant, and I can practically see her fretting over my whereabouts by now. And the more I think about how much my whole life has changed since the other night, the more I have to fight back tears. I wish I had never gone backstage, that I had never seen what I did.

I stare out at the glittering city with glossy eyes and a grumbling gut. When the bedroom door opens, I sit up quickly, wondering who is coming into my room this late at night and what they want with me.

Vincent stands there, silent and striking in the dim light of the room. In his hands, he holds another tray of food. It looks out of place for him to be holding something other than the knife that he used to kill a man. I don’t think devils normally deliver room service.

“I brought you something to eat,” he says with no inkling of emotion. His bringing me food near midnight suggests annoyance, but his voice doesn’t betray it.

“No, thank you,” I say as I lie back down and pretend to close my eyes. “I’m not hungry.”

“Yes, you are.”

Despite my refusal, he sets the tray down and walks over to sit at the edge of my bed. I slide over, not to make room for him but to inch away from the man who I know is capable of doing terrible, violent things to people.

“Besides, if you don’t eat, then you can’t dance,” he says. His voice sounds strained, but not angry. “That is your passion, is it not?”

“Yes, it is. If I had the energy to dance, I still don’t have a place to do so. Also, my ballet slippers are missing from my dance bag.”

A look of concern crosses his face, then quickly turns into a smirk. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring them to you. Would that make you happy?” Without a chance to respond, Vincent reaches down and gently moves a strand of hair from my face. It’s unexpected, as is the gentleness of his touch, and I stiffen as his fingers tuck the tendril behind my ear. A shiver goes down my spine, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or temptation or both .

“What’s this?” he asks as the light coming in from the window reveals the tiny tattoo behind my right ear. “A bird in flight—does it mean something?”

I don’t know why I feel so drawn to answering him, but before I can stop myself, my mouth is open, and words are coming out. “It’s a symbol of a promise that I made to myself, a promise that I would never be caged again.”

“ I see .” His words are slow and deliberate. His blue eyes cut right into me as I look up at him.

I shouldn’t feel this strange, intoxicating wonder about him. The tension in the air sticks in my throat, and I sit back up again to free my breath.

Vincent doesn’t move to give me any more room. He stays right where he is, with his thigh practically flush with mine. He reaches over and picks something up from the tray, a deep green olive that he rolls between his fingers as he shows it to me.

“This is one of the best olives you’ll ever taste in your life,” he says as he looks at it. “Imported straight from Italy, infused with the finest oil, and stuffed with a perfectly portioned pine nut. Granted, it’s probably not the most nutrient dense piece of food, but we’ll start small with the more delicious things first.”

Vincent holds the olive to my lips and even as I stubbornly refuse, I can feel myself giving in. Not only does the olive look delectable, especially considering how hungry I am. How he is holding it—patiently, hovering just beyond my mouth as if this man is temptation personified—is more than I can take.

I open my mouth slightly, and he slides the olive onto my tongue. It’s every bit as delicious as he described.

“ Good girl ,” he smiles as he reaches for another one.

I mentally scold myself for enjoying this so much and for letting this gorgeous monster feed me as if I’m his pet. But I can’t help it, despite myself. He’s breaking down my resistance bit by bit with every bite.

He could have barged in here and held me down and shoved food into my mouth. Instead, he did things this way, almost tenderly .

I can’t figure this guy out.

Following a few more delicious bites, just as mouthwatering as the olives, pausing, I inquire.

“Why did you kill that man backstage?” I ask, careful to watch his expression and not push things too far. “Why kill a ballet dancer?”

“That man wasn’t a dancer,” Vincent replies with disdain.

Whoever the man was, he wasn’t part of Madame Durant’s troupe, or I would have known of him personally. And whoever he was, it’s very apparent that Vincent didn’t like him.

“Who was he then?”

“A man without honor. I killed him because he betrayed me, and because betrayal is an unforgivable sin .”

There’s a strange and intense expression in Vincent’s eyes. I can’t quite read what it is. Could he have any sort of moral code of conduct after what he’s done?

“And murder isn’t?” I ask.

“It depends,” he says as he reaches to pull up the blanket to tuck over my legs.

“On what?”

“On whether someone deserves to be killed. I also don’t take kindly to men who bring affairs of business into my house of peace at the ballet,” he says. “That’s where I go to calm my mind and appreciate beautiful things . That man thought he could hide from me there, but he was gravely mistaken, as most are. There is no hiding from men like me.”

My brain is practically screaming at me, telling me that “men like him” are the kind my mother warned me about—the kind that lurk in the city in dark alleys and underground warehouses, that live in expensive high-rises with paid henchmen guarding the doors. But as Vincent stands up and walks quietly out of my room, lingering at the door to look back at me in my bed, I’m filled with more longing than I am apprehension. My stomach is now comfortably full. The warm blanket that he pulled up around me is already coaxing my eyelids to close, and the rest of my body is still tingling from the touch of his fingertips at the side of my neck.

Tonight, I expected hunger pangs and a desperate need for escape from this place. But I find myself fixated on the way he moves as he steps out of the room, and secretly hating myself for craving his touch.

Something about Vincent Moretti is unlocking parts of myself that I never knew were even within me, and I’m not so sure whether that’s a good thing or an extremely dangerous one.