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My bottom lip wobbles as I turn back toward my bed.
If I show Daddy, he'll get mad. He'll make me stay home and wash all of the clothes.
I don't want to stay home from school. Today is art class. Mrs. Makina is letting us paint. With actual paintbrushes. Not our fingers like the little kids.
I'm in second grade now. A big kid. Big kids get to use paintbrushes. I don't like painting with my hands. They always get dirty. Then I come home from school, and Daddy tells me I'm dirty.
I shiver and glance down at my bare legs. Maybe I can go to school without panties. Just for today. No one will know.
Hurrying to my closet, I ease the door open and peer inside at my two dresses.
One for church. And one for school. I grab my school dress and quickly change out of my pajama shirt. Smoothing the faded cloth over my stomach, I smile at the pink and yellow dress. It's not as bright as it was when I first got it, but the flowers are still pretty.
I feel like a princess wearing it.
I'll show Daddy what a good, clean girl I can be. No one will know how dirty I am.
* * *
“What do you think, mì bella?” Giovanni steps back.
Turning toward the full-length mirror, I take in his creation. The empire silhouette stretches past my feet, trailing behind me in overlapping layers of white, cream, and pink. Across my breasts, the colors meld together in a complex ruching pattern, like the center of a half-closed rose. It's delicate and elegant. Everything that I am not.
“It's not white,” I mutter, grasping at any excuse to not wear the elaborate gown.
“Not all white, no, mì bella. But I thought I would make you the rose you are.”
Lokelani. Damien's nickname for me.
I twirl from side to side, admiring how the material resembles the layered petals of the delicate flower. Finally, I nod my head.
Giovanni takes a step toward me, reaching his hand out. “Shall we show him?”
Taking a breath and his hand, I let him guide me out of the room and down the hall to Damien’s office.
“One brick and several bags have gone missing under your watch in the last week,” Damien's voice filters through the room with a calm air. Still, I shiver and huddle just outside his office. “Yet the cameras show nothing. So, I'll ask one more time. Where. Did. It. Go?”
“I . . . I don’t know, sir.”
“Is that what I’m supposed to tell Moreno when he calls, asking where his shipment went?”
Giovanni clears his throat, pushing me into the room. “Mì capo, a moment, per favore?”
I gasp, trying not to fall over as pins assault my sides, reminding me that the dress isn’t fully sewn together. I stumble another step, reaching out to grab a chair that’s not there.
They have been removed from in front of Damien's oversized, black desk. In their place sits a large square of clear plastic wrap.
Damien wipes his hands on a black, cloth napkin, glancing away from the man kneeling in the center of the mat and toward us. Wearing black slacks and a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looks domineering. My sweet Damien is nowhere to be found. Not in this room.The man from what felt like moments ago, gone, replaced with stone-cold eyes.
He wipes a red smear off his knuckles before balling the handkerchief up and tossing it on the plastic. Around him, three men stand with their arms crossed over their chests.
“Turn.” Damien's eyes meet mine as he twirls his finger in a circle.
I manage another step into the room, finding my footing. Yet my mind still whirls.
This cannot be what it looks like. Not here. Not my Damien.
They are protectors. The good guys.
