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The applause carries throughout the theater, thunderous and unending. Your chest heaves, muscles straining as you hold the curtain call position; fingers nearly trembling in excitement. Flowers upon flowers cascade down upon you and the maestro in the orchestra pit below. You flash him a look and pride beams back at you.
What a spectacular performance! Your heart sang. Truly, nothing could have gone better.
Mentally, you count backwards and, finally, you come down from your height. Down you bow your head in reverence to the people before you, your arms extended out on each side of you. Ever so gracious of their support; without them, there would be no art. At least now you could relax your cheeks, no longer needing to hold your smile. You remain, waiting for the curtain to finally fall.
The moment the dense fabric pools on the stage, you kneel to the floor, working at the satin ribbons of your pointe shoes. The younger stagehands scurry around the stage, picking up the flowers. You remove the shoes, relief almost instantaneous. Another young man runs up in front, holding out a simple pair of slippers. Accepting, you thank him with a smile. The girls around you prance, each one praising the other. You join in, delicately touching hands of those who offer. “You were amazing,” you grin, “Our best season yet!”
You retreat with some of the others, smiling at the stagehands as you pass by, before waving everyone off as you enter your dressing room. The door closes behind you.
Bouquets of flowers line your vanity, along with other baskets of gifts. How kind your fans were. You approach, pulling the little stool out from beneath. You stare at your reflection; cheeks flush and, to your surprise, your makeup only a little bit splotchy from sweat. You can’t help but feel a little more proud of yourself. You reach for the little container of tissues. Whatever the concoction was that kept it all in place, you would certainly be visiting that vendor in the market again—.
A knock resounds on the door, your hand freezing in place. You blink, glancing at the door. You weren’t expecting any visitors. You hum. Good thing you hadn’t removed your makeup yet.
Padding over to the door, you hover your ear just above the surface, waiting for a familiar voice. Your brows furrow together at the silence. You swipe your tongue along your lips. “Who is it?”
“A messenger.” A masculine voice; very different from the ones you were used to hearing around the theater. You swallow. Normally, if someone needed you, the stage manager or one of the assistants came to get you. You were always so appreciative of their help. However, you knew it was rude to keep a potential guest waiting. Still, something doesn’t sit right with you. Ignoring the unsettling sensation in your belly, you grip the doorknob.
You open the door and peek your head around. Just beyond the threshold, a well-dressed gentleman stands in black and purple fineries. Silver crow skulls pin his lapels, draping silver chains over his lilac cravat. His hair is long and black, his beard groomed neatly along his jaw. His eyes dark, features sharp. You gasp.
“Signore Dellamorte.”
Lucanis Dellamorte stood outside of your dressing room, waiting. You had only seen him once before when he had accompanied his grandmother to a show a few years back. Your body locks up. Age had treated him well. The sweat on the back of your neck turned cold as it slid over the slope, sending a shiver down your spine. A muscle in his cheek twitches, betraying a hint of amusement under that cool exterior.
“May I come in?” His tone has a surprising lightness to it.
You black out for a moment, blurting, “How much did she pay you?”
The assassin sighs through his nose, masking his exasperation. Your lip quivers as you take a step back. He steps into the room, his boot thudding against the wood. His cologne, rich and luxurious, envelopes you. “I don’t generally discuss my contractors,” he replies, his voice rough as the cobblestones (as rich as the bottle of Cabernet you had waiting back home—if you got home). Your eyes flick downward where his fingers curl around the door’s edge, easing it shut.
So this was it.
Your heart slams against your chest, stomach twisting. If it was any consolation, at least someone found you worth the price the Demon of Vyrantium cost. Your eyes trail back up his front over the broad length of his chest, lingering on the indifferent line of his lips.
“There is no need, I suppose,” you answer, almost breathless, “I fear I already know who employed you.” He walks past you, each step deliberate. While there were many powerful houses among Treviso, there was only one with a spoiled brat who felt entitled to the prima ballerina position you had earned. A sound escapes you, your mind racing, and you blink, “What happens now?”
“I suppose it depends.” His attention is on the various gifts scattered around the room. “Will you beg for mercy?” He poses the question so matter-of-factly, like if you took cream or honey with your tea.
Your eyes start to prickle, welling with tears. Your voice wavers, “Would it help?”
He hums, his nose twitching weakly as he sniffs. His boot clicks against the old floor, the sound intensifying through your whole body. He pauses in front of a bouquet of white roses, reaching out with a gentle hand. His expression remains the same in the mirror as he holds a petal between his thumb and index finger.
Words evade you as a knot swells in your throat. What could you say to the man who held life and death in his hands? Please? Don’t?
The Crows were not a group of romantics—the First Talon, his own grandmother, was calculated. Everything was done by design. There was no place for idealism in their ranks. If someone thought they were a better fit for your position, who was Lucanis Dellamorte to question it? He was paid, and you, just a contract.
“How long have you been involved with La Scala?” His words startle you and suddenly, you realize he’s been staring at you through the reflection in the mirror, having let go of the petal. You hug your arms around yourself in an effort to ground yourself.
You shake your head weakly, unable to think of a time where your life did not resolve around the theater and the ballet company. “For as long as I could remember.” A pathetic response, you doubt he appreciates it. He hums in return. For some reason, you felt compelled to continue. Perhaps it was the self-preservation kicking in. You squeeze your arms. “My mother was a seamstress for the dancers so when she would work, I would watch them practice.”
“It was just you two?” Something about his voice drags you in. “Your father?”
You shake your head, “I never knew him.”
Again, he hums but this time, nods his head weakly. He breaks his gaze away, continuing to look about the small room. “Your mother,” he says, a firmness in his tone, “She still works for the theater?”
Crescent moons divot your skin, your gaze absently falling. Your voice lowers, “No, Signore.”
He pauses, “I see.” Thankfully, he had the wherewithal to not question you further.
Maker, did he not realize how much he tortured you so? Every extra second alive was a mercy but sooner than later, you’d rather he just get it over with!
“I understand—“
“Scusa,” you interject, “But I am not sure you do, Signore, and frankly, I do not appreciate whatever this is.” He turns to face you, a brow perks up in intrigue.
He clicks his tongue, a breath of a laugh escaping, as he takes a step towards you. “And what exactly do you think this is?”
You release your arms, motioning in front of yourself and then at him. “This,” your voice pitches slightly, “Whatever this dance is. I feel as though I am being led around on a string—only delaying the inevitable and…” Your voice trails off as you look back up at him. You feel your expression dropping. The muscles in your throat constrict as you fight back the prickling sensation in your eyes. “And if you are here to kill me, all I ask is that you keep it clean.” The rest of the cast and crew did not need to see such horrors.
There is a flash of emotion that you don’t recognize on his face before he sniffs again, recovering his composed expression. He steps towards you with his hands behind his back, undoubtedly unsheathing a hidden dagger from somewhere. Your body goes rigid as you try to recall some kind of prayer but nothing comes to mind. He leans in, hot breath caresses the shell of your ear; his cologne drowning you.
“There will be no death here tonight.”
You wait for the sting of his blade but nothing comes. You stand there, tension rigid in your spine, blinking, unable to wrap your mind around what he said. All too quickly, air fills your lungs and reality elbows your gut. Without thinking, you press a hand to his front, stabilizing yourself because it felt as though your legs would give out at any moment. To your surprise, he does not move.
Your chest heaves, struggling to catch your breath. You glance up at him, searching his face, “Why?”
“As I was saying,” he speaks, looking past you, “I understand what it is to lose a parent so young.” Though it is faint through the thick fabric, you can feel the rhythm of his heart. His voice softens, but it does not lose its rumble, “To have to fight to earn your place.” Stealing silent, shallow breaths, all you can do is stand there, hardly registering the movement at your side as he takes a strand of fallen hair by your ear, threading delicately through his fingers. “You have proven yourself,” he murmurs.
“Perdone, Signore.” You finally pull away, creating space between you, your brows furrowing together. “But you are making no sense.” Proven yourself? How? His hand falls back to his side, his face remaining neutral. Perhaps all the turns have gone to your head!
“It was my purpose in coming tonight,” he explains, again with that matter-of-factly tone that starts to frustrate you, “To see if the description suited the contract.” His eyes travel down your form, but there is no leering; he simply returns his gaze back to your face. Your stomach lurches. Were you going to be sick? “Against popular belief,” the corners of his lips lift, flashing his canines, “I do have some morals.” As comforting as that was to hear, you were still unsettled. The lines by his eyes soften. “And I do not appreciate innocent lives being taken over pettiness and jealousy.”
Swallowing your nerves, you try to focus on anything else. He holds his arm slightly in front of himself, adjusting the cufflinks on his sleeve–his wrists exposed. His fingers are long, scarred. “You have talent, Signorina, and passion.” Relief washes over you, along with some pride and a confusing sensation of intrigue for the man. “I respect your craft.” You shove the thought as far down as you possibly could.
“Thank you, Signore.” Your voice is a little too breathy, albeit conflicted, for your liking. “But,” your head shakes slightly, refocusing yourself, “Even if you refuse the contract, can’t someone else pick it up in your place?”
His lips purse together weakly, as if the idea is freshly dawning in his mind. Somewhere outside the room, someone drops something hard on the floor, the thudding sound bouncing through the hallway. His tongue swipes over his lips and, after a moment, a hum of a laugh echoes in his throat. “Sometimes I forget my reputation does not dissuade the fools.” As if it was his own little inside joke. Your eyes slide down the column of his neck where his olive skin disappears under his collar.
The audacity of this man.
“You will be under the protection of House Dellamorte from now on,” he says decisively as he brushes past; the smell of his cologne sweeps under your nose, caressing you. The words almost don’t register in your mind. On instinct, your eyes follow him, watching as he lingers at the door. There is a brief pause before he glances back over his shoulder. “And I,” he continues, “Your patron.”
That registers. You balk, stepping forward to grab his sleeve at the elbow, “That is too much, Signore Dellamorte!”
He smacks his lips, making no move to pull away, “I do not think so.”
“I must refuse,” you speak, your frustration and exasperation bleeding together, “I cannot accept such a gesture from a man I hardly know.”
His eyes flick downward towards the spot your hand still held. He looks back, his brow arching with amusement. “Yet,” he purrs, “You touch me so freely.” Heat claws up your neck. You yank your hand back, cradling it close to your chest. Something flickers across his gaze too quickly to name before he shifts slightly on his heel, leaning down towards you. “I am a man simply with an interest in the arts.”
You swallow. That should have been something hard to believe but for some reason, your belly flutters all the same.
“I look forward to your next performance.” A small smirk dances at the corner of his mouth. Just as quickly it is there, it is gone. Lucanis Dellamorte bows his head in courtesy before he pulls back, opening the door behind him. His cool demeanor returns to the surface as he bids you a good evening, disappearing into the hallway.
You stand there, heart pounding, as you stare at the door. Had that actually just happened? Mindlessly, you step back, catching yourself against the corner of the vanity. Blood rushes to your head, thoughts spinning uselessly. How narrowly you avoided death. Cradling your forehead in your palm, you count your breaths.
One. Two. Three. Four. Again.
A knock on the door snaps you out of your concentration. This time, you don’t answer. Instead, you watch as fingers curl around the edge and a familiar, friendly face peeks in. Her eyes brighten, though her brows furrow in playful confusion. “You’re still in costume?” She laughs, easing some of the tension out of your body. You let go of your head in favor of holding your forearm at your midriff. If she noticed anything awry, she didn’t let on. “Lets go,” she urges, motioning with her head, “The others want to go out for a drink to celebrate the night.”
“I’ll be right there,” you answer, “Don’t leave without me, okay?”
Again, she laughs, almost dismissively, “I’ll be right outside.” You hum, smiling at her as she slips back out.
Once more, you look at your reflection; your skin flushed, hair disheveled. Your gaze, though, seems distant. Exhaustion weighs upon your shoulders. Perhaps it had all been in your head–you wanted it to be all in your head. Yet, even as you push from the vanity, shed the costume, and don your own clothes, his scent still lingers. Maker, there was no use in denying it.
For better or worse, a Crow had taken you under his wing.