The Heir

Chapter 45

As I add the finishing touches to my makeup, the door to the dressing room flies open. I jump at the sudden movement and a good portion of the other girls scream. Hairspray and glitter fill the air as Nacho saunters into the room.

His hard gaze scans over the room of barely clothed dancers until he lands on me. He strides towards me and I roll my eyes. I can see him in the reflection but keep my focus on my lashes.

"Ciao, Nacho," I murmur, waiting for the glue to dry.

"Ciao, Miss Isabelle," he replies simply.

"You come here alone?" I ask as I touch up my eyeliner.

"No," he nods towards the door he just came in. "Got backup outside."

"How many?" I question almost passively.

"Enough," he looks away. My brows lift and I turn in my chair to face him. What the hell does that mean?

His face twists like he's debating whether or not to tell me the truth. I raise my brows expectantly.

Nacho sighs, "dieci soldati e un capo."
(Ten soldiers and a capo)

I look him up and down quickly. He's fidgety, something that's not normal for him. Shifting his weight between his feet and messing with his cuff links. And it seems as though he's unable to look me in the eye.

Realization hits me hard and disappointment begins to fill my chest.

"Non è qui," I state more than ask. "Vero?"
(He's not here, is he?)

Finally, he meets my eye, "what are you talking about?"

I roll my eyes, "my dad. He's not here, is he?"

Nacho blinks a few times, "why would you say that?"

I lift my brows and he groans, "I wasn't supposed to let you know until after the show."

"Che cazzo di stronzo," I scoff, turning back to my vanity.
(What a fucking asshole)

"Isabelle-" he starts to scold me, to correct me, but is cut off.

"I was wondering when one of your boyfriends would make an appearance," B snides, folding her arms.

She's wearing a black leotard, the only girl to do so. Because while I've been cast as the lead; the While Swan, a beautiful princess. She is the Black Swan, forever stuck in my shadow. It's kind of poetic, really.

"Neither of us have time for this shit," I spit back.

"It would be impressive, you know," she continues, reaching over to brush back a stray hair of mine. "If you weren't such a slut."

"Nacho!" I turn fast but not quite fast enough.

Nacho grabs her wrist, the hand touching me, and twists it behind her back. B yelps in pain as he slams her face onto the next vanity. The entire dressing room has gone still at the sight. Nacho holds her there, nostrils flared, and he looks at me for his orders.

"Let go," I demand. I keep my voice calm but laced with anger. The same way my father does.

His grip loosens, "lascerai davvero che ti parli in quel modo?"
(You're really going to let her talk to you like that)

I tilt my head; who is he to make that kind of judgement call?

"Dimettiti, soldato," I say firmly. "Questo è un ordine."
(Stand down soldier. That's an order.)

I've only ever seen my father address his soldiers like that a handful of times. Instances where stubbornness and preconceived notions about honor cloud their ability to follow directions. In which public subordination is being presented.