My fingers curled inward, nails digging so deep into my palms they nearly drew blood.
I looked at Domenico's expression, so utterly matter-of-fact, and slowly nodded. "Fine. I'll have someone deliver it tomorrow."
Domenico held my gaze for a long moment, then pushed the door open and walked out.
From the hallway came the soft murmur of his voice, gentle and soothing, comforting Olimpia. Then the click of the neighboring room's door shutting behind them.
I turned and walked to the desk. Pulled open the drawer. Took out a desk calendar.
I picked up a red marker and drew a heavy X over today's date.
Two more days until Russo came for me.
I peeled off the wine-stained gown and stepped into the bathroom. Warm water streamed over my body. I stared at the pale face in the mirror.
Domenico Corrado, seven years ago you pulled me from that car wreck and gave me a second life.
For seven years, I took knives for you. I handled the things you couldn't let see the light of day. I managed the Corrado household so you never had to. The soldiers' disputes, the wives who needed settling, the books that couldn't be shown to anyone outside these walls.
We stopped owing each other a long time ago.
The next morning.
I followed Domenico's instructions and had the maid deliver the Starlight couture gown to Olimpia's room.
Olimpia made a point of having her door left wide open.
As I passed through the hallway, I saw her in front of the mirror, twirling in the gown that clearly didn't fit her, the fabric bunching and pulling in all the wrong places.
She picked up a pair of scissors and, without a second's hesitation, cut away the most intricate panel of crystal-beaded tulle from the hem.
"This design is so dated. It'll look better shorter." Olimpia pouted at the maid standing beside her.
The maid stole a cautious glance toward me in the doorway and said nothing.
I didn't stop. I walked straight to the kitchen.
Domenico had drunk heavily the night before. He had a serious stomach condition, and after every night of heavy drinking, he needed a bowl of specially prepared herbal stomach-healing soup.
For seven years, I'd been the one to brew it for him by hand.
I stood at the stove, watching the liquid roll and simmer inside the clay pot. The kitchen was quiet. One of the compound guards passed the window on his morning patrol, his shadow crossing the glass and disappearing.