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Dio. He can certainly cover his tracks.

“What about my other errand?”

Ello bobs his head, taking out a slip of paper. There’s a number on it, scrawled in messy handwriting, as if done in a hurry.

“His name is Tommaso. He works at your brother’s club.” At my disgusted snort, he pats the air. “Listen, piccina mia. He isn’t owned by your brother; he does this for himself. He performs for the lower levels.”

My brother uses women for the upper levels, dancing, stripping, for tips he steals. Those who aren’t owned by him can make decent money, though it’s not a safe environment. But the lower levels? Those are where the more depraved hunt for victims. Women are forced to entertain behind glass cages, consent nonexistent. I assumed no one willingly chose those stages.

“He’s safe?”

“Very,” he agrees. “He knows what we’re asking of him, and he knows the risks if he were to be discovered. He won’t betray you. I won’t let him.”

His protectiveness makes me smile.

Biting my lip, I look over at the box. Would my stalker be as understanding? I can’t exactly ask him to help me break this contract. As much as I need him, want him, perhaps trust him, there is a part of me that doesn’t want to rely on him.

If I can’t save myself, prove that I’m not a locked-up princess behind bars, I don’t deserve to be free.

“Text him,” he continues. “Get to know him. He’s ready when you are.”

“I’ll need Freddie,” I sign, tiredly. “Without him taking me to the club, I have no excuse. Roman won’t allow it. And if I ask to go with him, it’ll be seen as suspicious.”

“Then I’ll get Freddie ready,” he promises. Gently, he pats my hand. “A few comments. A few hints. We’ll make sure this happens. I won’t let you suffer the same fate as your mother.”

Softly, I grin, though my heart aches. I hold up an old photo of her, lacing her ballet flats. She’s in an old studio, long hair pulled into a tight bun. Her tights are light, the mirror behind her reflecting the flash. I can’t make out much else.

“Where was this?”

“Her studio,” he supplies. “Back in Italy, there was a small studio run by an old woman. She was Deaf, close to retiring. Your mother spent all her time there, practicing, before she went on the road.” He plays with the folded corner absently. “She had many dreams, piccina mia.”

Rubbing my chest, I sign, “You said she loved, right?”

He licks his bottom lip. “Yes, once. But that was a long time ago.”

I want to ask more—but his sad eyes stop me.

Ello was my mother’s constant companion. He was with her in her ballerina phase, through her role as a capo’s wife and mother. He’s protected her, and now me, and he’s seen things I’m not privy to. Whatever his memories hold, they’re sad remnants of a woman he cherished.

“Was she happy here?” I sign, voice clogged with sorrow. “I can’t help but think, if she didn’t meet Papa, if she wasn’t given away, her life would look so different⁠—”

Ello grabs my hands, halting my words. Shaking his head, he tries to smile.

“She always said Roman and Julian were her burdens to bear for your father, but you? You were her gift for enduring. You were her little love, piccina mia. It’s why she named you Valentina—for St. Valentine, the patron saint of love. She often prayed her thanks to him after you were born.”

A tear drops off my chin, and he wipes it away.

“You are her gift, and she was happiest when she was with you. So, yes, I believe she was happy here. For moments in time before her death.”

I remember that day; my mother was here in the morning and gone that night. A car accident on icy roads. Papa made Ello tell me through sign language. Then, informed me that ASL would no longer be tolerated; the next day, I was taken for my first hearing implant appointment. I lost my mother, and my voice, all at once.

Ello chucks me under my chin, and my chest lightens. I had been so frightened my mother regretted her life—resented everyone who failed her. Resented me, being born to her by a man whom she didn’t love.

But she didn’t. Ello wouldn’t lie about that.

He taps the phone. “Text him. Arrange everything. Then, let me know. I’ll make sure Freddie can bring you.”

“You think this will work?” I whisper, lips trembling. “What if it doesn’t? What if I’m stuck⁠—”