Ace Of Shades. Amanda Foody
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Enne uttered the first lie she could think of: “He owes a favor to my father.”
“I should’ve guessed Levi would be in debt to a counter. How good are your counting abilities?”
Enne could barely add or subtract without the use of her fingers. “Quite good, Madame.”
“Are you literate?” With each new question, Vianca leaned closer to Enne over her desk, almost close enough to grab her.
“Yes, Madame.”
“How well you can read?”
“I read very well, Madame,” she answered, barely able to hide the bite in her voice.
“Who taught you?”
“I went to finishing school. The Bellamy Finishing School of Fine Arts.”
“Did you really? They don’t accept just anyone. You must be the only Salta in your class.”
Enne kept her hands folded calmly in her lap, despite the fury shooting through her like an electric current. The Saltas might’ve been the lowest and most common dancing family, but she wasn’t ashamed of her name. It didn’t matter that her talents didn’t compare to her classmates. She’d worked for her place at that school, for her future.
“I was, Madame.”
Vianca was now bent so close to Enne that Enne could smell her musky perfume. “And you must be quite intelligent to have passed the entrance exams.”
It wasn’t a question, so Enne stayed quiet.
“Is there anything else I should know about you, Miss Salta? Anything else that could be useful to me?”
“No, Madame.”
“Pity.” At last, Vianca leaned back in her seat and drummed her fingers against a stack of papers. Each of her rings—there were almost a dozen—shimmered. Unlike Reymond’s, these appeared to contain real jewels. “How old are you, Miss Salta? You must be at least fourteen to work here, and I don’t make exceptions.”
Enne cringed inwardly. This interview had already been the best test of her etiquette skills she’d ever experienced, and it had been only a few minutes.
“I turned seventeen in February, Madame,” she said.
“You look quite young. Oh, he would like you,” she murmured, more to herself than to Enne. Enne didn’t ask what or whom she meant. “I’m glad to hear you have a background in gymnastics. Levi was quite right; we are looking for some acrobats.”
If Levi’s smile looked like a smirk, then Vianca’s looked like a sneer.
“But I think I’ve found an additional use for you,” Vianca purred.
Enne nodded and pretended like she was following along, though the unsettling satisfaction on Vianca’s face sent an uneasy feeling through her stomach. This interview was highly unlike any that she had experience before.
“This casino has been in my family for generations,” Vianca told her. “But New Reynes isn’t the city it was when St. Morse was first built. Have you ever heard of my family, Miss Salta?”
“No, Madame.”
“So you don’t know what kind of business we run?”
“A...casino, Madame?”
Vianca stood and turned her back to Enne, facing the Mizer family portrait. “There are people in these halls who can unhinge your mind with a kiss. Who can distill poisons and narcotics from a single flower fallen from a bouquet. Who deal in tricks, deceit and even death. And they are all under my employ.”
Sweat broke out along Enne’s neck. Donna of the Augustine crime Family, Levi had told her. This must’ve been what he’d meant.
But what would that have to do with Enne? She was a simple performer. If Vianca truly had those kind of people within St. Morse, then what use could she have for her?
Vianca turned to face her. Her green eyes looked nearly black. “Among my friends, I keep a few favorites who perform a little extra for me. There are enemies everywhere in this city—even within this casino—who seek to destroy me. I need to know their plans. I need listeners. And I can no longer afford to be short on ears.”
Before Enne could process Vianca’s words, the donna ushered Enne out of her seat and to the center of the room. She made a twirling gesture, and Enne, confused, obliged. Enne kept her shoulders back to make them appear larger, stronger—the right build for an acrobat. Whatever this was, it felt like a test.
“You’re young. No one ever notices the young,” Vianca commented wistfully. She grabbed Enne’s cheeks and brought her face closer, then absentmindedly ran a bony finger down Enne’s Cupid’s bow to her chin. Her fingers tasted foul, like rancid perfume.
Enne resisted the urge to free herself from Vianca’s grasp and ignored the sickening feeling in her stomach. She needed a job. She needed to survive in this city long enough to find Lourdes.
“But you’re a performer,” Vianca continued, unaware of or unbothered by Enne’s unease. “You can be noticed if you want. You’re smart and can move in higher society, but you also know Levi—and I’m sure, if you ask nicely, he’d be willing to show you a thing or two about the streets. You’ve only just arrived—this city hasn’t corrupted you. Yet.” She relaxed her grip on Enne’s face, and Enne backed away, her cheeks sore. “And I could use a girl.”
Whatever Levi had told her about Vianca Augustine, she hadn’t been prepared for this. The way Vianca looked at her, touched her...like she was a possession. This meeting felt more like an appraisal than an interview. Under different circumstances, Enne would have fled the room and the donna’s frightful presence.
“I’m going to do you a favor, Miss Salta. I’m going to give you this job.”
“Thank you, Ma—”
“But I need a favor in return. I need you to do another job for me.”
I will find Lourdes, Enne recited, winding herself back up. I will find her and bring her home. No matter what it takes.
“Of course, Madame,” she responded swifly, despite her nervousness.
“I need you to deliver messages to my enemies. Can I trust you to do this for me?”
Enne swallowed, staring into the woman’s predatory gaze and vicious smile, and wondered who would be reckless—or dangerous—enough to make an enemy of someone like her.
No matter what it takes.
“Yes, Madame.”
“Hold out your hand,” Vianca instructed. When Enne obeyed, she clasped both of her wrinkled hands around Enne’s. She whispered something that Enne couldn’t hear, and a cold tingling shot up Enne’s arm. Enne gasped, but when she tried to yank her arm back, Vianca held it in place. The tingling accumulated in Enne’s chest, and her lungs shook and hardened as if surrounded by a shell. No air would release. She couldn’t breathe. Her balance swayed, but Vianca just gripped her hand tighter, her face unconcerned.
Her nails dug deep into Enne’s skin, and Enne choked for breath. Nothing. Nothing. There was no panic like the panic of suffocating, and she stared wildly at Vianca’s apathetic green eyes, pleading for aid.
Help, she mouthed, but no air came out.
Just as her vision began to darken, the feeling released. Air rushed down her throat, and Enne coughed as her lungs stretched like cramped muscles. She collapsed on the floor, tears welled in her eyes.
“That was my omerta,” Vianca said, looming above her. “It’s not an oath I bestow often. But now you are mine.”
Enne grasped for Lourdes’s rules, for something to tell