BASTA
1902—New York
It was only the weight of Libitina that kept Viola anchored as she took one step and then another into J. P. Morgan’s ballroom. She was on the arm of John Torrio and surrounded by people who hated her, people who would just as soon see her dead or deported as anything else, and it took every bit of her determination to keep the hate from her eyes as she followed Paul through the crowd, nodding and introducing himself to people as they went.
They’d trussed her up again in a corset and a gown covered in silken flounces. A ridiculous thing that did nothing to disguise what she was. Worse, it seemed only to encourage the Fox, who kept sliding glances at the slope of her cleavage above the neckline of her dress. His arm would occasionally rub against the side of her tette, and she knew from the leering look in his eyes that the small brushes were no accident. Had she not needed him—and needed to keep attention away from herself—she would have gladly introduced him to her most deadly accessory, the blade strapped to the side of her thigh.
Paul and Torrio made their way through the room, dragging Viola along with them, and as they went, the glittering jewels and perfectly tailored silks of the women all around her only served to remind her of who she was—and who she wasn’t. She’d never be one of these perfectly coiffed debutantes, so demure that they seemed able to blush on command. She didn’t want to be one of them. Even if one of them had a sharp tongue and a nose that crinkled when she smiled.
Basta. She tried to take a breath, but the boning of the corset reminded her that in this world, women were not even supposed to breathe. Focus. She needed to figure out which of these preening pigeons had the ring.
The quartet of musicians in the corner were starting to warm up and the other attendees were beginning to find their seats when Viola noticed a familiar silhouette that had her nearly stumbling. Theo was there, talking to an older man who had his eyes. If Theo was there, and Torrio noticed . . .
He wouldn’t do anything, she tried to tell herself. Not here, not in the midst of all the men they were trying to impress.
But if Theo was there, Ruby might be as well.
So what? She was done with them, finished. Wasn’t she?
She was about to turn away, to settle herself between Paul and Torrio, when she saw Theo give the older man that sad, lopsided grin he’d given at the park. He’d warned her then that it wouldn’t turn out well, and she hadn’t listened.
None of this was his fault. Ruby had dragged him into this mess and had nearly gotten him killed. But Viola had risked everything to save him once. To simply hand him over to Paul and Torrio now? It would mean that all the hurt and the anger Viola had lived with since Ruby had looked at her with hate in her blue eyes had been for nothing.
Besides, Ruby loved him.
Viola would save Theo for that reason alone. If it was her lot in life to always want and never have, so be it. She was strong and smart and could make her own way. And there were worse things than loneliness. There were the long hours in the dead of night when you had to live with the choices you made.
She excused herself to follow Theo as he headed toward the back of the ballroom. Paul gave her a curious look, but the musicians were starting in earnest now, and he couldn’t do much without creating a scene.
It wasn’t that difficult to get ahead of Theo before he started back toward a side hall. When he rounded the corner, she pulled him into an unseen alcove.
He startled, but almost seemed unsurprised to see her. “Viola?”
“Shhh—” She pulled him farther into the alcove, away from prying eyes.
“I didn’t really think I was your type,” he said, giving her that lopsided smile again.
She opened her mouth to refute his words, her instinct after a lifetime of hiding and denying and refusing. But he wasn’t looking at her with the same disgust that Paul or her mother had when they noticed how captivated she’d been with her English teacher years ago. “You’re not,” she told him, which was as close to an acknowledgment as she’d ever given anyone except Esta.
“Where’s Ruby?” she asked, brushing past the moment because dwelling in it was far too dangerous. “Tell me she’s not here.”
“Of course she’s here,” he said. “Can you really imagine her missing something like this?”
No. “She has to go. Now.”
He looked suddenly confused. “That’s not possible. She’s playing Circe tonight, and everything is about to—”
The music suddenly went silent, and a man’s voice boomed over the crowd to welcome the attendees.
It’s too late.