I dig through my dance bag for my makeup and hair spray. The costumes hang on a long rack in the back of the dressing room. Most of the other dancers are already here, applying eyeliner and gossiping.
I grab my hairbrush and look at myself in the mirror. My brows furrow as a familiar suit accompanied by a scowl looks back at me in the reflection. The other girls don't seem to notice him, honestly it's a bit concerning.
"Hi, Nacho," I smirk, brushing out my hair.
"Hello, Miss Isabelle," he steps out of the shadows. A few girls yelp, only now seeing him, but I ignore them.
"Why are you here?" I ask, looking at his reflection.
"I'm not allowed to come see you dance?" he shoots back.
I roll my eyes, "when was the last time you came to one of my recitals?"
He shifts his weight between his feet, "it's been a while."
"Exactly," I turn in my chair to face him. "So why are you here?"
When I'm away at school, my guards almost never show up. Montrose has a plethora of security measures in addition to the safety regulations of the country as a whole. This has only happened once before; when my dad was about to go to war.
Him being here is not a good sign.
Before he can get a single word out, B cuts into the conversation. She stomps over, propping her hands on her hips. Her gaze flicks back and forth between us for a beat.
"You can't invite your boyfriends into the dressing room," she says harshly.
"He's not my boyfriend," I scoff, shaking my head.
"Of course not," her scowl deepens. "A slut like you doesn't have boyfriends."
Nacho's hand reaches for his gun and he steps closer to the other dancer. I hold out my hand to stop him. B doesn't miss the movement though, the control I have.
"He's my bodyguard," I finally tell the girl in front of me.
Her face twists into one of genuine confusion, "since when do you have a bodyguard?"
I glance at Nacho but his narrowed eyes stay on B. While his job is to ensure my physical well being, he's always been on the overprotective side of things. In elementary school, he held one of my classmates up against the wall for calling me dumb.
"Since I was born," I inform her, turning back to the task at hand.
As I slick my hair back into a bun, I watch her cross her arms over her chest. Nacho moves closer, slow and deliberate steps, until his body serves as a buffer between me and B.
"You're a bad liar," she declares. "This is obviously one of your many fuck buddies."
"How dare you," Nacho wraps his hand around his gun but I grab his wrist before he can actually pull it.
He looks down at me and I whisper, "it's okay, Nacho. Just bitchy teenage shit."
"Nacho," B barks a laugh. "What kind of name is that?"
Nacho looks at me with an unreadable expression and I have to fight to hold in my laughter. His name isn't actually Nacho, it's Ignacio. But when I was little, when he was first assigned as my guard, I couldn't say his name. And it just kind of stuck, everyone calls him that now.
"Look," I sigh. "If you have a problem with him being here, go tell Madame. Otherwise, fuck off, I have to get ready."
Her mouth opens and closes like a fish before she stomps off. I roll my eyes and go back to perfecting my bun. Nacho doesn't move though, he stays standing right behind my chair.
"Vuoi che mi prenda cura di lei?" he asks lowly, a conversation meant to be between us.
(Do you want me to take care of her?)
"No."
"She's-"
"Awful, I know," I cut him off. "But she's not a threat, just rude."
Nacho makes a sound of disapproval behind me. I spray my hair with enough hair spray to make a hole in the ozone before clipping the ornate decor in my hair.
"You still haven't told me why you're here," I remind him as I slip off my sweat suit. I pad over to the rack of costumes wearing my tights and leotard.
"I'm not supposed to tell you," he says quietly.
I face him with furrowed brows, "why not?"
He shrugs, "Non sto disobbedendo agli ordini, Miss Isabelle."
(I'm not disobeying orders)
I tilt my head, "whose orders?"
His back straightens out, he wasn't expecting me to ask that. Knowing who ordered him to keep me in the dark will give me plenty of information on its own. If it's orders from my mom, an old enemy has made a reappearance and she's scared. If it's orders from my dad, something big and bad is about to go down.
"Just get yourself ready," he juts his chin at the outfit in my hands.
I frown but do as he says. The tight white fabric stretches over my skin perfectly. Little rhinestones and strips of lace cover the bodice while the skirt sticks out at nearly a 90 degree angle. I carefully sit back down and begin to lace up my shoes.
There's a commotion in the hall outside the dressing room. Muffled, deep voices arguing just outside the door. The other girls notice it too; some moving closer to listen better while others scurry away from the door. A suppressed pop echoes in the hallway and I groan.
The door to the dressing room flies open and Rocco strides right inside. His narrowed eyes look over the room before landing on me. The other girls move out of his way and as he gets closer I can understand why. The cuffs of his white shirt are stained red and a splash of blood has sprayed across his cheek.
"Do you always have to be so dramatic?" I huff.
"Sir," Nacho nods once in respect.
The consigliere looks down at me with disappointment clear across his face. Even when my dad stepped back up, when Gio almost fucking died, Rocco stayed as the consigliere.
It took a long time for Gio to get back on his feet. Endless physical therapy and doctors visits to ensure his well-being. He made the executive decision to allow Rocco to keep his former position. Now, Gio is something between a capo and an advisor.
Of course he is still a huge influence on my dad and on our family as a whole but the actual expectations for him are much less than before. Nonetheless, he's stayed living in the compound. Something about ensuring that there's always a leader readily available.
Rocco doesn't respond and I roll my eyes, "a chi hai appena sparato?"
(Who did you just shoot?)
"Not sure," he shrugs. "But he was in my way."
"Nacho," I say simply, maintaining eye contact with Rocco. Nacho nods once again before disappearing into the hallway. Cleaning up messes is his job, after all.
"Want to tell me why you guys are here?" I ask Rocco.
"Want to tell me why you asked to be considered as heir?" he counters.
I narrow my eyes, "that's none of your concern."
"Likewise."
I shake my head; he's damned good at being unreadable. An impressive skill when I display it but annoying otherwise. He stays just inches away from my chair, looking over the room. Honestly, I respect the shit out of this man.
Glossing over the fact that at sixteen years old he was appointed to be my mom and my personal guard, he's a great guy. He's always been sweet and has a fantastic sense of humor. I can only vaguely remember the time when he was my guard, I was about five when they gave me Nacho, but I always remember having fun. He never let me know that there were threats lurking around each corner. He never allowed me to know about the kind of danger I was in.
As for his work, he's a fucking beast. He's never faltered when more and more responsibility has gotten thrown onto his shoulders. From foot soldier to personal guard straight to consigliere; it was a series of fast track promotions.
When he married Charlie I expected him to go soft, at least a little. Just like my dad and Gio did, apparently. But that's not what happened.
He doubled down; becoming more and more ruthless. To him, when it comes to those he loves, everything is a threat. Especially when it comes to Charlie.
That's why he doesn't let her come around much, why no one has truly explained to her exactly what goes on in the family. He keeps her sheltered, hidden in the dark, and feeds her bits and pieces of information. Only enough to keep her curiosity at bay.
At the end of the day, his desire to keep us all safe is what drives him.
"Curtains up in ten!" one of the show runners calls out.
"I need to go warm up," I say as I stand. I brush past Rocco, "you should go take a seat."
"No can do," he follows behind me.
"Seriously?" I look at him over my shoulder.
"Go," he gestures to the stage. "Don't worry about me."
I roll my eyes but go onto stage anyway. There's bars set up in the center and I begin to stretch. Weirdly enough, performing is almost therapeutic for me. I get to turn off my brain, dance my heart out, and demonstrate to the world that I am truly the best.
The other dancers stretch between jittery conversation. They too have perfected their hair and makeup and put on their custom made costumes.
"Who is that?" one of the girls whispers.
"I don't know," another says, "but he's hot."
"He's here with her," a third chimes in.
I glance at the three girls before following their gazes to the wings. Rocco has stayed planted in place. His one hand hovers above his gun and his eyes constantly scan the area. Shit.
Nacho being here is one thing. But Rocco standing guard beside the stage? That's something else. Something big is happening back home and I want to know what it is.
"Ladies," Madame comes to center stage with a clap of her hands. Instantly, the stage goes quiet and she continues. "You have worked very hard for this. I want to see straight lines and soft hands. Do not worry about the scouts, just dance your best. Break a leg, ladies."
A few stagehands rush over and haul the bars off stage. The lighting changes and we all shuffle into place. I set myself in the starting position, front and center.
The curtain begins to open and I let out a heavy breath. The stage lights are almost blinding but they serve to block out the audience. The music begins and I kick into action.
Flawless turns and leaps. Perfect lines and pointed toes. Exaggerated arms and soft hands. I catch a few of the girls messing up, a misplaced foot or a count behind. It only makes me dance better; proving to everyone watching that I truly am the best. That, despite all of the girls on this stage being good dancers, I'm the only one that's perfect. Not a single flaw in my moves.
I can only imagine that the way I feel about dancing, about performing, is akin to drug addicts. It's the ultimate high, followed by jitters and the craving for more. It's mind consuming and absolutely addicting.
The final song ends and we all hold our last position. Cheers and applause erupt from the audience as the curtains close. As soon as we're blocked from view, the other girls huddle together squealing and jumping up and down.
But I walk away from them, brushing past Rocco, and back into the dressing room. Nacho has resumed his position at my vanity, waiting for his next order. I quickly take off my pointe shoes and replace them with plush slippers.
I move for the back hallway, towards the lobby. The parents should be filing out of their seats by now. But when I push through the swinging doors my face drops.
Scattered amongst the smiling parents and excited dancers are at least a dozen of my father's soldiers.
I turn quickly to face Rocco, I know he followed me all the way out. But he keeps his neutral, unreadable expression. I gesture vaguely to the armed men and he offers a shrug. I shake my head and begin looking for my parents.
I spot my mom chit chatting with some of the other moms and make a beeline for her. Her gaze falls on me and her smile widens. Once I'm close enough, I wrap my arms around her neck and pull her into a hug.
"You were amazing out there, tesoro," she gushes, holding me tight.
"Grazie, Mom," I reply before releasing her.
"How have classes been going?" she asks, guiding us away from the other women. "I went to see your brother earlier today."
"Classes are fine," I smile brightly. "Ryan's even in my English class this year."
"How nice," she chides. "How's he doing?"
"Ah, you know how he is," I wave my hand flippantly. Everyone knows how much he likes to fight. "But I think he might have a girlfriend soon."
"Who?" Mom's eyes widen. She loves hearing about Montrose gossip.
"My friend Lina," I reply with a grin.
"Keep me updated," she instructs.
"Will do," I nod curtly before looking around. "Where's Dad?"
"He couldn't make it," she offers a hesitant smile.
I narrow my eyes on her, "does that have anything to do with all of the soldiers?"
Her expression shifts to mirror my own, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Cute," I scoff, rolling my eyes. She's always been a shitty liar.
"Don't worry about it," she adds quickly. "He's taking care of everything."
I nod slowly, "I have a question."
"I'm all ears," she replies, leading me towards an empty hallway. There's too many prying eyes and overly interested ears in the lobby. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Nacho, Rocco and another soldier follow us.
"Zio Gio told me to ask you about someone," I start. "But I've never heard the name before."
Her face drops, "who?"
I keep my face completely unreadable, "someone named Irena."
My mom looks both ways before grabbing my wrist and pulling me further away from the crowd. "What did he say about her?"
"Just told me to ask you about her," I shake my head. "Said you'd kill for me."
"Fucking Gio," she groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. "That was a long time ago."
My brows lift in expectation, "want to elaborate?"
She sighs heavily, "when you were a baby, when we first got you, you were kidnapped. By the same people that killed your parents. I was taken too but Irena was the woman who held you hostage."
"The Russians?" I ask; that's who we were at war with at the time.
She nods, "once they rescued us, your dad found her. He brought her down to the basement in the compound and I went with him."
"l'hai aiutato a torturarla?"
(Did you help him torture her?)
Her eyes scan over my face for a beat, "yes."
"l'hai uccisa?"
(Did you kill her?)
"Once we got information out of her, yes," she confirms, nodding. "She took you and I just- I couldn't let her get away with that."
"So you really would kill for me," I murmur. Shit, maybe she's tougher than I thought.
"I have killed for you," she whispers harshly, looking either way down the hall. "Twice."
"Merde," I breathe out.
"How did this come up?" she asks. "Why were you talking about her?"
"He said that you're scarier than Dad, at least when it comes to us," I reply honestly. "Told me that you'd kill for me and to ask you about her."
"Fucking Gio," she rolls her eyes. "Why don't we go get lunch? I'm sure you're famished."
"I'm okay," I smile. "I had a big breakfast."
"At least have some coffee with your mother," she says softly. "It was a long flight."
"Sure," I hesitantly agree. "Let me get changed."
She smiles and I head backstage again. So it's my dad that's appointed all of these soldiers. That can only mean one thing; shit is about to go down. I need to find out what exactly is going on because I need to be prepared. I need to be able to protect both myself and Enzo.
And I can't do that when I'm kept in the dark.