At eight o'clock, Michele Distefano was the last to exit the city hall, departing three hours later than the rest of his staff. A hardworking man, his constituents called him, a good man, fair and consistent in his policies. He was also a family man who dined with his wife every night and rewarded his children with top positions on his staff. Olivia, his eldest daughter and press secretary, was at his side, as he preferred her to be. They descended the stairs together, his arm draped around her back, and when her short skirt started to hike too far up her thigh, he threw her a stern look.
"Like it or not," he said, "you are a public figure now, and you will conduct yourself as such."
Olivia's lips curled into an innocent smile. "I haven't forgotten, Father."
She placed a quick kiss on his cheek, and then the two stepped into the black luxury car waiting to take them to the restaurant. As the car pulled away, two men were watching from the roof of a small café across the street, the kind of place the mayor and his family would never occupy.
"Just look at them," Vince said, staring out from beneath the brim of his black hat. "I wonder what a car that fancy smells like. It must smell nice." He looked at the man beside him. "Have you ever been in a car that expensive?"
Émile's answer came in the form of a deep affirmative grunt.
"When?" Vince asked.
"None of your damn business." Émile glared at the car as it passed through the borders of his vision. That car was more expensive than everything he owned, and it was traveling to a place denied to people like him.
"It's bullshit," he said, his subtle French accent becoming more pronounced as his anger grew. "It's all bullshit! They say Volterra is the best city in Italy, but for who? In the past ten years, they have built two hotels and renovated four museums. Meanwhile, our neighborhood is falling into the gutter. We deserve more, no?"
Vince shrugged. "Well, we don't exactly count 'cause we're not the ones paying their salaries. We're not even citizens, technically."
Émile scowled at the scrawny younger man, and then he snatched the hat right off his head and tossed it into the wind. "When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. Until then, keep your mouth shut."
Jaw hanging, Vince felt the top of his head where his hat once sat. "That was brand new. Found it on the bus this afternoon, sitting there all pretty like it was waiting for me."
"So steal a new one."
"I'll never find one as nice," Vince grumbled back. "I liked that hat." Asshole.
Just below them, using the darkness of the alley to shield her, Dahlia was picking through the café's trash, searching for any edible morsel of food that wasn't rotten and crawling with maggots. Toward the top, beneath a layer of paper napkins and disposable coffee cups, she found a half-eaten, coffee-soaked sandwich dipped in pastry cream. It didn't smell very good, Dahlia had to admit, and it would taste worse, but her growling stomach was very convincing.
"Dahlia," Émile hissed at her, "what are you doing? Get away from there before someone catches you!"
Dahlia stared up at him with her large brown eyes but said nothing in return, and then she brought the sandwich to her lips, ready to eat. Unfortunately, before she could take a bite and satisfy her hunger pains, Émile jumped down from the roof and slapped the sandwich out of her hands. Dahlia would have picked it back up if Émile hadn't stepped on it and mushed the bread into the ground.
"What the hell are you doing?" he growled, seizing her arms. Her biceps were so tiny he could completely close his fists around them. One good squeeze could have broken both her arms, and Émile knew that. "You don't eat food out of the garbage!"
Vince was watching from the roof. "Aww, leave the kid alone. She's hungry."
"You shut up!" Émile turned toward Dahlia, and his blue eyes softened just a little, but the anger was still there, hidden beneath a smile. "You don't need to eat food out of the garbage." Gently, he brushed away a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail. "I said I'd take care of you, no?"
"Yes." Dahlia's voice was as quiet as a mouse's squeak.
Émile kissed her cheek. "Good girl."
Yeah, you take care of her all right, Vince thought as he rolled his eyes. He didn't have to look to know that Dahlia had welts on her arms. It happened every time Émile stopped by for one of his visits, which were growing fewer and fewer with the passing months. Sure, he would give her some money, maybe a few clothes, but it wasn't enough, and it certainly didn't justify smacking her around as much as he did.
But Dahlia would never speak out against him. No, she needed him. Émile had a talent for sucking the strength out of people, a skill that had a most profound effect on Dahlia. Every time he went away, he took a little piece of her with him, and soon there would be nothing left of her, nothing.
In a perfect world, Vince would take Dahlia away from all this, maybe even get her back home, but that was never going to happen, so he had no choice but to watch the poor kid suffer.
"Vince," Émile called, "let's go. We've waited long enough."
Vince had intended to hit the city hall tonight, but not with Émile. As soon as the Frenchman heard about the plan, he appointed himself as the leader, and he would take most of the loot for himself, as he always did. Suddenly, this plan seemed like a bad idea, but it was impossible to change Émile's mind once it was set on something, and his mind was set on the city hall.
"What the hell is this door made of?" Over and over, Émile rammed into the door with his shoulder, expecting it to give way as they usually did, but this door was not budging.
"Wood, I think," Vince replied smartly, and then he shoved Émile aside and gave the iron handle a quick twist and a light push. Just like that, the door opened with a quiet creak.
Smirking, he leaned against the door frame. "It's always the hard way with you."
Émile grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and threw him forward. "Just get in!"
Before following her companions inside, Dahlia stared inquisitively at the door. "Why haven't they locked it? Could someone still be inside?"
"Nobody's here," Vince assured her. "All the lights are out. Everybody's gone."
"Good news for us. Bad news for them." Émile snatched a vase from the end table and looked it over for a moment before setting it back down. "This is no good to me. Where do they keep all the good stuff?"
Vince shrugged. "Upstairs, maybe."
Dahlia stayed on the main floor while Émile and Vince searched upstairs.
Art is no good to him? she wondered as she admired the many paintings that lined the walls. I bet these could fetch a good price, though I wouldn't have the slightest clue what to do with them or who to sell them to.
She recognized a few of the men depicted. Previous mayors, she thought, but their names had long escaped her memory.
Dahlia knew little about art or its history, but she could appreciate it nonetheless. It was astonishing, really, to be surrounded by such beauty, and she couldn't help but feel a little out of place in there, like she didn't really belong. If the staff had seen her, they would have surely kicked her out because she smelled of the streets and was tracking mud onto their antique rugs. Dahlia felt most guilty about that. She had thought to remove her shoes, but before she could slip them off, a most peculiar painting caught her eye.
It was hanging in one of the old conference rooms, hidden away from everything else. A great offense in her opinion, for it was absolutely stunning, reminiscent of the old times, when kings used to rule and throw large, extravagant balls. This particular painting seemed to be depicting one of those balls. When Dahlia gazed at it, she was suddenly transported to that period, to a grand ballroom filled with hundreds of nobles dressed their finest clothes.
Slowly, the orchestra began to play a lovely song, and Dahlia started to dance around the room, letting herself get swept away by the music of her mind, slipping further and further from reality.
Dahlia greatly preferred her dreams over reality. In her dreams, her stomach was always full and she never got sick. In her dreams, the water was fresh and ever-flowing. In her dreams, she wore dresses made of silk and her hair smelled of lavender. In her dreams, she wasn't afraid. But when the music stopped, it all came back to her, the hunger first and then the fear.
"Shit, someone's coming!" Émile shouted.
Dahlia heard their loud footsteps thudding against the floor as they scrambled to escape. She hurried to join them, but she was not fast enough. They whizzed right past her and fled out the door, leaving the panicked young woman behind.
"Wait!" she desperately called. "Wait!"
Her feet stopped moving even though her mind was telling her to keep running. They left me. They left me.
Behind her, she heard heels softly clicking against the stone; then a woman emerged from the shadows, moving slowly and gracefully, her red dress flowing behind her. The men's loud stomps had caught Heidi's sensitive ears, and she knew they were men right away, for only men walked with such heavy feet. But among them there was also a more delicate pair of feet, which shuffled timidly across the room, and that was what drew Heidi's attention.
"Please," Heidi said once she saw the fear creep into the young girl's eyes, "do not be afraid. You are not in trouble."
Dahlia's lips were quivering as she tried to explain herself. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to — I just — I didn't have a choice. Please, don't call the police!"
Heidi placed a comforting hand on the girl's trembling shoulder. "Relax, dear. I said you weren't in trouble, didn't I? I have no intention of calling the police."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"Come with me."
Heidi's violet eyes sparkled like amethyst, coaxing Dahlia into a state of blissful intoxication. She forgot about all her fear, all her hunger, and all her pain. She just wanted to keep staring at those beautiful eyes and follow them wherever they wanted to take her.