Page 8 of Fire and Silk

It’s on the tip of my tongue to snap.

No, I don’t understand. I don’t fucking care. You’re rich. You can do whatever you want. Sleep with whoever you want. Break your husband’s rules, drink his wine, hire girls like me to smile and listen like it’s a favor.

But me? I’m poor. Everyone watches. Everyone judges. I get fired if I’m late. I get side-eyed if I’m tired. I get laughed at if my shoes squeak or if I don’t look grateful enough to sit in your curated, air-conditioned excess.

I want to say all of that. I want to scream it.

But I don’t.

Because I’m tired. Because I need this job. Because I just finished a six-hour shift atPiccolo Flamewhere I sliced my finger on the tomato slicer and bled into my apron and no one noticed. Because after this, I have to take a tram and a bus and walk two blocks to get toMirage, where I’ll pour drinks for drunk men and pretend it doesn’t matter when their hands linger.

So instead, I smile. Wider. Hollow.

“Of course,” I say softly, like I care. “That must be so hard for you.”

Her face brightens. She sips again, emboldened. “He called mebella assassina. My little assassin. Isn’t that divine?”

I laugh. Because I’m supposed to.

And I keep listening.

Because I have no choice.

****

Dressing Room, Mirage Bar

By the time I push through the back door ofMirage, the sun’s gone and the city smells like spilled beer and tired ambition. My feet are numb. My head is full. My chest is tight.

I leave Bolina’s perfume behind, but her voice is still in my ears.

Bella assassina. My sweet lover. I hope he comes before Conrado returns…

God, I don’t care.

The dressing room atMirageis hot and too small for the number of bodies squeezed into it. Glitter dust floats in like toxic pollen. Girls are half-dressed, laughing, yelling, fighting over mirror space. A curling iron burns something—it smells like fried ends and anxiety.

I find Nicola by the lockers, already halfway changed. She’s pulling on the black crop top, adjusting the hem around her chest. Her bra strap peeks out, red lace against dark skin. She looks tired but still has that snap in her eyes—the one that tells people not to fuck around unless they’re ready to be outwitted.

She spots me and grins. “Finally. I was starting to think Bolina kidnapped you.”

“Almost,” I mumble, toeing off my shoes with a groan. “She started talking about her lover. Loudly. Graphically. Like we were old friends swapping sexcapades over wine.”

Nicola cackles. “Of course she did. Did she cry about hissoulful handsagain?”

I slide into my bar top, wincing as the fabric scrapes against a blister on my shoulder. “Worse. She told me about the orgasm he gave her that Conrado couldn’t. Then she told me he crashed his bike and needed emergency money. She wired it, obviously.”

“Jesus,” Nicola says, shaking her head and reapplying lip gloss. “Did you get paid?”

I grab my skirt and shimmy into it, sighing. “Yeah. Angelina didn’t even show, but she still handed me the envelope. Probably guilt. Or pity.”

“Well, then,” Nicola says, raising a brow. “I guess it’s a win.”

I laugh, dry. “Is it? I just want to play the violin.”

Nicola quiets. She leans against the locker beside mine, one leg crossed over the other. “I know.”

The fluorescent light above us flickers, buzzing like it might finally die.