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But a desperate Spaniard . . . yes, my father will gladly hand me over. As long as he gets the protection he needs.
As we seat ourselves in the backseat of the limo, my father pops a bottle of chilled champagne. He fills four flutes, his hand steady even with the unpredictable motion of the moving car as we head into the city.
“To securing our fortune,” he says, raising his glass.
Daniela watches as I drink mine down.
They used to ply the Inca virgins with alcohol and coca to keep them docile. To help them accept their gruesome fate.
“Have another glass, why don’t you,” Daniela says to me. “For your nerves.”
We drive down to Port Vell, to the Royal Shipyards. The old medieval dockyards have been renovated into grand venues for weddings and galas. The vast spaces that once held the bones of barquentines now host the elite of Spanish society in their tuxedos and gowns, their genteel laughter echoing high up in the rafters.
It’s almost midnight. In Barcelona we don’t even eat dinner until ten o’clock at night. This party won’t reach its peak until the early hours of the morning. I’m already exhausted just thinking about it.
My father takes my arm in a steel grip and steers me relentlessly toward the center of the room where I can see Dieter, Gisela, and Rocco Prince holding court amongst their many admirers.
The Princes look just as regal as their name. Dieter could be a Kaiser with his immaculately trimmed black mustache and his military-style tuxedo. Gisela is fair-haired and pale, significantly younger than her husband. Rocco stands between them, black hair combed straight back from his brow, face lean and pale and cleanly-shaven, cheeks so hollow that a dark shadow runs from his ear down to his jaw.
My father shoves me forward so I’m forced to sink into a low curtsy in front of Rocco. I can feel his eyes looking down the front of this ridiculous gown. He makes me hold that position a moment too long, before putting his cool, slim fingers under my chin and tilting up my face.
“Hello, my love,” he says in his soft, sensual voice.
His fingers feel as smooth and cold as a snake’s tail. I want to cringe away from his touch.
Instead, he lifts me to my feet, allowing his fingertips to trail over my collarbone and the tops of my breasts as he releases me.
I give a small bow to his mother and father. Dieter Prince takes my hand and lifts it to his lips in a brief, dry kiss. I much prefer his indifference to his son’s deliberate torment.
Gisela Prince briefly meets my eye then looks away. I’ve barely spoken to Rocco’s mother, but if she knows anything about her son, she must feel some measure of guilt over the fate in store for me. I would assume there’s a reason the Princes never had any other children. They might have worried that Rocco would strangle a baby in its sleep.
“Shall we dance?” Rocco says.
He doesn’t wait for my response. He takes my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor, which is already filled with whirling couples. The light, lilting Spanish guitar contrasts the tense repulsion I feel whenever Rocco touches me.
The musicians are playing a gentle Arrolo, but as soon as Rocco has me on the floor, he snaps his fingers, ordering them to switch to tango instead.
“I don’t know how to tango,” I tell him, trying to pull away.
He yanks me against his body, hand cradling the back of my neck, fingers digging into the vulnerable flesh at the side of my throat.
“Don’t lie to me,” he hisses in my ear.
The dualbandoneonsplay their introductory riff, their fingers flying over the strings. Rocco shoves his thigh between mine, dipping me back across his other leg until it feels like my spine will snap. Then he whips me upright again, our bodies pressed together from breast to hip, his face only inches from mine. He forces me to look in his eyes. He forces me to see how much he enjoys this.
He strides forward, shoving me backward in four long steps. Rocco is slim but horribly strong—there’s nothing on his frame but muscle and sinew. Struggling against him is pointless, especially when every eye in the room is turned toward us and I can’t cause a scene.
Raising his arm over my head, he spins me like a top, then bends me back again, exposing my breasts to the crowd even more than they already were.
This is the real purpose of us dancing together—so Rocco can display his control over me. There’s no passion in his tango, no sensuality. His movements are rapid and technically precise, but without any feeling. Latin dancing is all about desire. The music is raw, insistent, all heat.
There’s no warmth in Rocco.
I don’t think he even feels lust.
He’s flaunting my body because he knows it embarrasses me. All his pleasure comes from my discomfort, my desire to defy him juxtaposed with my complete inability to do so.
I feel like a marionette on strings. I actually like dancing—the few times I’ve been able to enjoy it without anybody watching. Rocco is poisoning this, as he poisons everything. My face is flaming, acid in my throat. The song seems interminable. The crowd around us is a blur of color and dark, staring eyes.
