Dance of Deception: Chapter 37

My hands won’t stop shaking as the cab peels away from the curb outside Central Park.

I grip my phone so tightly my knuckles ache from the force of it. I try to breathe, but my throat feels constricted, like there’s a hand pressing down on my windpipe.

I stab my password into the screen, then scroll to my mother’s contact and bash it with my thumb.

It goes straight to voicemail.

My heart lurches into my throat as the city blurs past the window, neon lights bleeding together, buildings morphing into jagged streaks of gray and gold.

I smash Vera’s number again.

Voicemail.

My fingers are trembling too hard to hold the phone properly as I start drafting a message to Carmine. My vision swims.

My mother and Bianca are in danger. And I put them there.

I barely have time to inhale before the screen starts flashing.

Carmine’s calling.

My chest splinters open, the air punched from my lungs.

I can’t talk to him, not now. Not when I can still feel the weight of his hands on me from earlier and hear his voice in my head, filled with fury and betrayal.

Not when I know the truth—that I was a pawn. A means to an end.

A new kind of sickness curls deep inside me, hollowing me out from the inside.

The phone keeps buzzing in my hand, Carmine’s name blazing across the screen, but I can’t press accept.

I know what will happen if I hear his voice. I’ll shatter into something irreparable. So I just sit there, staring at his name as the phone rings and rings.

My phone dies right after I hit send.

Motherfucker.

Just then, the cab pulls up to the curb outside my old building. I don’t wait for the fare to come up on the payment terminal, I just throw cash at the driver and run.

I bolt up the stairs two at a time, pelting down the hallway until I get to our door.

It’s ajar.

I crash into the apartment, my mind already jumping to the worst conclusions.

“Mom?!” I scream, my voice broken and trembling.

There’s just silence in reply.

“MOM!!”

I stumble further inside, scanning the space quickly. Nothing looks out of place. No overturned furniture, or other sign of a struggle.

I move toward the bedroom, my pulse hammering as I push the door open⁠—

Click.

Every muscle in my body stiffens at the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked behind me.

“Turn around.”

No.

It’s the voice that hits me even harder than the sound of the gun cocking, even as I start to turn around.

Vera stands behind me, a gun leveled directly at my chest.

For a second, my brain is unable to process what I’m looking at. What this whole scenario is. It makes no sense. Like a glitch in the matrix.

She tilts her head, her grip on the gun steady.

“Sit down, Lyra.” Her voice is calm, almost bored. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”