Pretty Little Lies, page 7
Looking into my father’s cold eyes, I nod, steeling myself for whatever it is he has in mind.
Scuffling, followed by the distressed sound of a man’s voice behind the door to the adjoining chamber, distracts me from my discomfort. Hot lead drops in my stomach as my body tenses in anticipation.
When the door bursts open a moment later, my father’s lieutenant, Mazza, and two more of my father’s captains enter, the captains dragging an older man between them. Looking to be in his mid-fifties, the man they haul forward onto his knees fights fiercely for his freedom despite the ropes tying his hands and the cloth that gags him, muffling his words. He looks quite shaken up, as though they kidnapped him right from his home in the middle of dinner or something.
The sinking feeling in my chest intensifies as it suddenly dawns on me that I recognize this man. Giuseppe Gatti, one of my father’s most trusted treasurers. He and his family have shared many dinners with us in this house over the years. His younger son is roughly my age. Swallowing my anxiety, I glance toward my father and see the distance clearly written on his face.
“Well, son. What do you think?” my father asks.
“From the looks of it, I would guess you’re displeased with something he’s done.” I can’t bring myself to say Giuseppe’s name.
“He was caught stealing from our family. Skimming off the top and spending our money because he thought I wouldn’t notice. He thought he was untouchable, that he could get away with it,” my father says flatly.
My mouth goes dry as my eyes flick between my father’s unrelenting gaze and the pleading eyes of Giuseppe Gatti. He says something through his gag, but I can’t understand a word he’s trying to say.
“Well, Nicolo? What shall we do with this man who called himself our friend, who claimed he loved our family?” My father turns to look at me, his lips pressing into a thin line as his nostrils flare.
My palms are starting to sweat profusely, and I shove them into my pockets to hide them and dry them all at once. Then I pull them back out as I realize how inappropriate that seems. Licking my lips nervously, I glance back at Giuseppe.
“What does he have to say about it?” I ask. The last thing I want is a man’s life on my hands because my father is giving me a test to assess whether I know how to come to my own conclusions.
“Ask him yourself,” my father offers, waving a hand in Giuseppe Gatti’s direction.
I nod to the captain holding the treasurer’s left elbow, and he jerks the older man’s gag down roughly.
“Please. Please, Nicolo, have mercy,” he sobs, shuffling toward me on his knees. “Think of my family. Would you take their father from them?”
Though my body screams for me to step back, I clench my fists and stand my ground. I can’t afford to hesitate and look weak. “I don’t want to hear your pleas, Gatti. Tell me what you took from my family.” Though the lead weight in my stomach makes me feel like vomiting, I grind my teeth through the nausea.
“Well, I-I-I–” he stutters, his eyes shifting from one uncaring face to the next in search of a potential ally. “I meant to pay it back,” he insists. “It was only until the loan came through on my house.”
Anger boils up in my chest as I listen to Gatti. He gambled his life on taking my family’s money, thinking no one would notice. But stealing as much as might cover the loan on a house? He’s a fool.
“And for all your claims of concern for your family, you didn’t think to come to us, your employers, and request our aid?” I keep an iron grip on my tone, forcing it to remain steady.
“P-p-please, Nicolo. Have mercy,” he stutters, seeming at a loss for any other words.
No, this is not a test to see if I might ferret out the real reason for why Giuseppe has been brought before me. This is a test of my mettle. To see if I’ll kill a man when I know it needs doing. Giuseppe Gatti chose to steal from our family. Despite his years of supposed friendship, he chose to skim off the top of our success, and that’s not the actions of a man who thinks he’s only borrowing the money temporarily.
Shaking my head, I look down at the ground. “Gag him,” I command through my teeth.
Mazza does as I say without hesitation as Giuseppe Gatti tries to protest once again. The captains struggle momentarily to keep him restrained as he jerks his shoulders erratically, his eyes growing wide as he sees his fate in my face.
The gentle click of my weapon of choice draws my attention to my father’s desk. A gun, a knife, a rope, a plastic bag, and brass knuckles await me.
“Prove you can do it, son,” my father instructs, his tone smooth and detached. “One day, you’ll be rich and powerful enough that you can have someone else do the killing for you. But today is initiation day. Every man must know how to take a life if he’s going to command others to do it for him. So… what’s your weapon of choice?”
Meeting my father’s gaze out of the corner of my eye, I see a flicker of anticipation there. This, too, is a test. I have to pick the right weapon, not just the one I might want to use most. Studying my options, I run through the possibilities. A gun would be too noisy in a house with my mother and sister and far too many people who aren’t privy to my family’s dealings. A knife would be too bloody for the same reason. Brass knuckles might make less of a mess, but then again, they would take too long and might potentially draw unwanted attention.
I consider the rope. Strangulation would be silent. But no, my father’s testing me to see if I intend to be showy. And that’s not what our killings are about. Brute force is used to deliver messages and serve as warnings. But Giuseppe Gatti is here to be executed, disposed of quietly so as not to make waves with the authorities.
Striding forward, I snatch up the sturdy plastic bag, and without giving myself time to think, I move behind Gatti. Fitting the plastic neatly over the middle-aged father of two, the happily married husband of Maria Gatti, I cinch the bag tight, leaving no space between the bag and his skin as I prepare to suffocate him.
Giuseppe Gatti thrashes violently, nearly ripping the bag, or at least yanking it from my hands. But I hold steady. Shoving my foot into the middle of his back and applying enough force that he can no longer resist. He tries to scream, and in his panic, the oxygen remaining in the bag vanishes completely.
Despite his age, Giuseppe puts up a considerable fight. By the time he’s finally shuddered his last attempt to break free, I’m winded from maintaining my grip. When I release the grip on the bag, Gatti’s head slumps forward lifelessly.
“Very good, son. You made the right choice,” my father praises me emotionlessly. “It won’t do to have a traitor in our midst. Disposing of this vermin will be much easier without a bloody mess.”
I nod silently, my eyes lingering on the body that hangs limply between my father’s two captains. I don’t dare say anything. If I do, I might throw up, and that would only serve to humiliate me and disappoint my father.
“Now, go clean up and get your siblings for dinner. You’ll join us tonight. To celebrate.”
Giving a sharp nod, I stride toward the door and yank it open, removing myself from the room as quickly and collected as I can manage. But as soon as the door clicks shut behind me, I race for the guest bathroom down the hall. I barely make it to the toilet before I vomit, and I collapse against the porcelain as I heave. I don’t stop throwing up until I’ve relieved my stomach of all its contents, and when I’m finally done, I wipe my sweaty brow with a shaking hand.
I flush the toilet and rise unsteadily to my feet, hoping no one heard me. Quickly rinsing my mouth with water from the sink, I also splash it on my face. Then I quickly dry off with the hand towel. When I look into the reflection of the bathroom mirror, a terrifying stranger looks back at me. My face looks pale, and my eyes hollow. I look as if what I’ve just done has sickened me inside and out. As if I sicken myself.
“Pull yourself together, Nico,” I growl. “There’s no room for weakness in the Marchetti family.” Shoving away from the counter, I head back out into the hall and up the stairs to where my siblings are most likely hiding in their bedrooms.
I reach Silvia’s room first and knock on her door frame, then lean against it as I watch the way she sprawls on her stomach across her bed, her feet swinging in the air haphazardly. At the sound of my knock, she looks up and smiles.
“Done already?” she asks brightly.
I nod, fighting the way my stomach roils dangerously. “Father said it’s time for dinner,” I say when I have myself under control once more.
“Are you staying?” she asks hopefully.
“Of course.” I flash her a grin. “I’ll meet you downstairs. I’ve been put in charge of wrangling Cassio and Lucca.”
“Good luck,” Silvia says sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she sits up in bed and closes the book she was reading. Making her way across her Paris-chic decorated room, Silvia reaches me before I can turn away. “Hey, are you okay?” She grips my wrist as she looks up into my eyes, a hint of concern in her gaze.
“Always,” I promise and pat the back of her hand before pulling my arm away. Leave it to Silvia to see right through me. I swear, for a younger sister who’s supposed to be innocent of the reality of our family, she’s far too perceptive sometimes.
9
ANYA
“Very good,” Professor Moriari praises as he watches Fin and me practicing one of our lifts for our showcase number. “Miss Orlov, you need to tighten your core more. You might not be a limp noodle for Mr. Tanaka to lift, but you’re al dente at best. He needs more stability than that unless you want him to drop you one of these days.”
A blush warms my cheeks, and I nod enthusiastically.
Fin snickers quietly beside me as Professor Moriari moves on to his next pair of students to watch their progress.
“Yes, no more cooked noodles for me,” Fin murmurs as soon as the professor is out of earshot. “Only raw, crunchy pasta gets to dance with me on stage.”
I give his shoulder a light shove and follow it up with a smile. While I had been reticent at first when Professor Moriari paired me with Logan’s quiet friend, I’ve come to appreciate my partner immensely over the past week. Being unfamiliar with paired dancing, I wasn’t so sure having a partner for the showcase would help me put my best foot forward. But Fin is actually quite an exceptional dancer, and I find I’m able to truly challenge myself in our routine without being entirely out of my element. Now I’m only worried I’m going to let Fin down because we’ve chosen an impossibly difficult number from Swan Lake that will either showcase just how good we are or send us falling back to the earth in a ball of flaming failure.
“I promise I’ll get better,” I insist.
“You’re already improving,” Fin says more seriously. “Come on. Lighten up. This is only your second week of dancing with a partner, and lifts are a whole new ball game. I, on the other hand, am essentially made for this,” he teases, striking a proud pose. “So I’m used to it,” he adds, deflating.
I laugh, grateful that he can still manage to make light of it, even though I’m sure he would much prefer a partner who’s more familiar with pair dancing. Unfortunately, that’s one of the few areas where my training has been less than sufficient in my other programs, seeing as male ballet dancers flock to the prestigious schools, and since there are far fewer of them on the whole, they almost never get turned away.
“Besides, you’re one of the strongest dancers here otherwise, and I’d much prefer you make us look good by bringing all the beauty. I can handle the brawn.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have Fin as a partner, but I think we might make a splash at the autumn showcase if only I can keep my core strong.
“Take three hundred and seventy-three?” Fin suggests lightly, holding out his hand.
I take it with a smile before composing myself and going en pointe. Fin steps forward confidently, his strong hands bracing my hips as he spins me once, twice, and I extend my foot backward, arching my back into a swan shape as I round my arm. We shift in tandem, Fin adjusting his center of gravity as I leap and twist, turning to face away from him. His hands find the small of my back and raise me effortlessly.
With all the strength I can muster, I tighten my core, trying to hold myself steady even as I sweep my arms up into an arc. I can feel my muscles quivering with the effort, but I refuse to be a noodle of any sort.
And then my momentary weightlessness ends as Fin lowers me gently back onto the floor, my dance slippers touching down so lightly I almost don’t hear the sound. Excitement floods me as I realize I actually did much better that time. I spin to smile broadly at my partner, who returns my grin wholeheartedly.
Slow rhythmic clapping interrupts my relief, and I look to find its source.
“Brava,” Professor Moriari says from across the room, where he stands next to Logan and his dance partner, but his eyes are on Fin and me.
I give a shy curtsy as the other students turn to see who’s receiving acknowledgment from our professor.
“See? What’d I tell you? We’ll have this routine down easy-peasy by the autumn showcase,” Fin says.
I raise an eyebrow at him. That is definitely not what he said when we landed on this piece. “I’m pretty sure your exact words were, ‘Hell, it’s only my senior year. When we fail at this completely, I’m sure the scouts won’t laugh at me. They’ll be happy to give me another chance.’”
“Me? I said that? Nooo,” Fin objects. “I’m pretty sure that was you.”
“Fin, I’m a junior,” I remind him dryly.
“Okay, fine. I’ll eat crow and admit you were right. If we can pull this off, we’re going to knock their socks off.”
“Come on. I want to practice transitioning from the lift into the next part of the piece.”
Fin nods agreeably, shifting from his playful humor into a laser-focused performer.
I know it’s still early in our practice for the showcase, but after my breakthrough moment of understanding how I’m supposed to help Fin with our lifts, I feel much more confident that we’ll have enough time to put together something we can both be proud to perform. And since we’re also meeting every day after school for an extra hour of practice, no one can claim we aren’t giving it our best shot.
“A round of applause from Professor Moriari today, huh?” Whitney says, bumping my shoulder encouragingly with her own as we walk together to our next class.
Her classical technique class is a few doors down from my contemporary dance, and we’ve fallen into the habit of chatting on our way.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say, slightly self-conscious about how he singled me out once again.
“I don’t know how you do it, but you sure do leave an impression on our Professor Compliment-Scrooge.”
The image of Professor Moriari as a Scrooge makes me laugh. While he’s certainly a drill sergeant in some ways, I don’t actually think of him as miserly in his compliments. He is just careful to stick to constructive criticism most of the time.
“So tell me, what’s your secret, Miss Orlov?” Whitney asks, adopting our professor’s more serious tone.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s clear to me that everyone in our class is really passionate about ballet. Maybe it has to do with my background?” I suggest.
“How do you mean?” Whitney asks, growing more serious.
I frown, trying to find the right words. “Well, I come from a poor family whose best gift they could give me was a dream to someday become a ballerina.”
“You know, I come from a poor family, too,” Whitney says casually, glancing over at me.
That surprises me. “Really?”
She nods.
“But you’re always dressed so nicely,” I say, trying not to sound rude or argumentative. Still, I’m shocked that she would consider herself poor.
Whitney laughs lightly. “Let’s just say I found an option to pay my way through school, and it has some added benefits. But I assure you that my dream is the only thing that’s gotten me to where I am today. So as much as you want to call it the pressure of a hard background combined with a family you want to make proud, I don’t think that’s it.” She grows thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe it’s just in your blood. I mean, coming from Russia and all, the odds of your great-great-great-grandmother twice removed being the first prima ballerina are actually pretty good, right?” she jokes.
I laugh at that. “Maybe you’re right. Wouldn’t that be cool? I’d take it if that were the case.”
“Pfft. I would too.”
“So, how’s your showcase piece coming along? You and Timothy seem to be pairing up pretty nicely,” I say encouragingly.
Whitney chuckles. “Let’s just say I’m glad I have another year to prove I’m someone worth watching. Though I can’t say the same for Timothy.”
“I’m sure you’ll blow people away. What’s the big deal about the autumn showcase anyway?” I ask, confused about how one performance could put the dancers under so much pressure.
“Well, it’s kind of a make-or-break deal for aspiring dancers since scouts generally come to pick their favorite seniors and make a note of up-and-coming sophomores and juniors. If you don’t catch their eye this early in the year, they generally stop watching you so they can focus on the talent they’re sure they want to recruit. Aaand, our professors consider it a way to show appreciation for the family who puts on the showcase since they attend it every year. The professors always seem intent on showing that their money is well spent on its benefactors.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. That’s pretty cool. The family must be performing arts aficionados to fund a whole showcase,” I say, impressed by their generosity.
“Oh, they don’t just fund the autumn showcase. The Marchetti's fund almost the entire Rosehill College arts program,” Whitney says, dropping a bomb on me as casually as if she told me today was Wednesday.
My pulse quickens as my brain tries to process what she just said. “Wait, the Marchetti's are the family who funds the performing arts program?”
