Page 8 of Renata Vitali (The Five Syndicates)
If I were the type to lash out, I would have. Instead, I remained composed as I rinsed the rest of the soap from my shoulders, ascended the steps out of the pool, and stood in front of him. “If your intent is to provoke me, it’s not working.”
Water dripped from my naked flesh, but his eyes never wavered from mine. “I have no intent when it comes to you. You are a pest. A flea. Nothing more than a common house fly. Something that is beneath me to swat at. The door will remain open, and you’ll eventually fly away. But until then, stay away from me and stay out of my business.” Condescension was an ugly look on anyone but him. He stepped closer. “I wouldn’t want to accidentally hurt you, Princess.”
The air chilled my wet skin as it brushed against me. Or maybe it was his words that chilled me. That lasted for about a second before his father’s voice boomed in the background as he yelled at one of the poor staff members in the opposite wing of the house.
Myriad emotions ran through Damian’s eyes before he filtered them out. It didn’t matter, though. The damage had been done. I’d seen the emotions, and rather than latching onto the moment of vulnerability like a vulture clutching onto a dead carcass, I saw a kindred spirit I wanted to help.
A damsel that needed saving.
I lifted my chin and measured my words. “I’m no princess.”
He laughed at me. “What else would you be?”
I thought of Maman’s chessboard and the never-ending Vienna game. I wasn’t the king, but I certainly wasn’t the pawn either. “I’d be the knight.”
“Fine, Knight.”
“Fine, Day.”
His eyes narrowed at the nickname. I didn’t wait for him to call me out on it as I reached for my robe, slipped it over my shoulders, and walked past him as collected as I could with a thin silk robe sticking to my wet skin.
Truth was, Day wasn’t short for Damiano.
It was a play on Damsel.
He didn’t know it yet, but that was exactly how I saw him.
It should have been a bad thing, but it wasn’t.
The world might not have seen him as one, but to me, Damiano De Luca was the damsel— trapped in this gilded tower, lashing out at his dad for an escape—and I was the stupid knight in shining armor who wanted to save him.
All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.
J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Three Months Later
My favorite room in Angelo’s mansion was the one he never stepped foot in. The library had been my sanctuary since I learned to read at age three. Mama took me in here, introduced me to a world of words that felt more real than my own, and filled it with thousands of books. When she died, this room was all I had left of her. A coffin of worn spines, first editions, and Dalbergia wood shelves.
So, it should have bothered me that Renata tainted my sanctuary each night when she crawled out of bed at two in the morning, crept inside here, and read the books that had previously only been touched by myself and my mother. But it didn’t bother me. And that was dangerous.
For most of the summer, Renata locked herself in her room by day, the staff dropped food off to her room, and the only reprieve she had in this prison happened to be my reprieve, too. I understood that in ways I’d never tell anyone. It was why I left her to enjoy the library. Except today, when the lashing Angelo’s belt had given me earlier still burned my back and the idea of company enticed me. Sue me.
Tonight, she was quiet as she crept out of her room. Not a single step heard. I stared at the framed article on Great-great-grandfather Ludovico De Luca as I waited for her to pass the painting of Ludo in the hall. (Angelo had an obsession with him.)
She pushed the double doors open, not a hint of surprise on her face when she saw me, though I know I surprised her. She was good at hiding. I’d give her that. But not from me. Never from me.
With my legs propped on two accent pillows formerly owned by a European prince three centuries ago, I laid on one of two ebony velvet divans in the library. A first edition copy of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov rested between my palms. The same copy she’d been reading and left lying on the side table last night. I could still smell her vanilla scent on the cream pages.
She stood there for a moment, and I wondered how flustered I had her. I also wondered how smart she was. My contacts had informed me that she had the best education money could buy, and lust tempted me to test her.
“There are goosebumps rising along the length of your arms.” I didn’t once look up from the book. Even if I had, several feet separated us. I couldn’t actually see the goosebumps, though I had no doubt they existed.
“I don’t recall reading that line in the book.” She sat on the divan across from mine, probably deciding this was better than another minute in her room.
I turned the page, not looking up, and continued with my test. “They’re a physical manifestation of your attraction to me.” My tone left little for debate. Like my word
s were fact—they were—and trying to argue against me would be met with failure—it would be.
