Chapter 6 The Garden
Four days.
It takes four days of silence and scrubbing floors and biting my tongue until it bleeds before the summons finally comes.
I’m in the kitchens and my hands are red and raw, submerged in soapy water that’s turned lukewarm and grey, scrubbing the same copper pot for the third time just to look busy.
The air is suffocating, hot and heavy, smelling like roasted garlic, old grease, and fear.
Everyone here moves with their heads down, eyes fixed on their work like they’re trying to disappear, terrified of breathing too loud or stepping out of line.
"Lilith."
The voice cuts through the clatter of pans and the hiss of steam.
I turn, drying my hands on my apron, and find Antonio standing in the doorway.
He looks wrong here, too clean and too polished among the filth and the sweat, like a wolf waiting patiently in a sheep pen with his hands in his pockets and a smile that doesn't mean anything nice.
"It’s time," he says, his voice low enough that the other servants have to strain to hear, but I know they’re listening. I can feel their eyes on my back like insects crawling on my skin.
"Jasmine is waiting in the garden."
"I wasn’t sure if your brother would actually let this happen," I say, untying my apron with fingers that feel stiff. I keep my face blank, hiding the spike of adrenaline in my chest that feels like a drum beating a war march.
Finally.
"Dante keeps his word," Antonio replies, though his eyes narrow slightly, studying me like I'm a puzzle he hasn't solved yet.
"Even when he hates the terms. Come on. Try not to corrupt my niece."
"I’m not corrupting anyone," I say, and my voice is steady.
I’m not corrupting her. I’m saving myself.
"That’s exactly what a corrupting influence would say." He flashes a smile that is sharp and empty. "Rosa cleared you for the hour. Let’s go."
I follow him out of the suffocating heat of the kitchen and through the main villa. The transition is jarring, physically painful almost.
We pass through hallways of cool marble and shadows where the silence feels heavy, expensive, and dangerous. Every corner feels watched. Every shadow feels like it hides a guard, or a camera, or a secret that could get me killed.
Then we step outside and the world explodes into color.
The gardens of Villa Caravelli are a shock to the system, like walking out of a grave and into the sun. After weeks of grey stone and steel and servant uniforms, the sudden assault of green and gold and pink is blinding.
The air here doesn't smell like bleach and fear; it smells like earth and blooming jasmine and sea salt carried up from the coast.
It smells like money. It smells like the life that was stolen from me.
"Over there," Antonio points.
I see her immediately. Jasmine is sitting on a white stone bench tucked between two massive rose bushes that are heavy with dark red blooms.
She’s swinging her legs back and forth, her small patent leather shoes kicking at the air, and she’s clutching that white stuffed rabbit, Snowball, like it’s a shield against the world.
She looks small. She looks lonely. And she looks exactly like the weak spot I’ve been looking for.
I don't feel pity. I can't afford pity. Pity is for people who aren't trying to burn an empire to the ground. I look at her and I see a key. I see a way in. I see the one thing Dante Caravelli left unguarded.
"Lily!" she shouts when she sees me, sliding off the bench with a clumsiness that is almost painful to watch. "You came!"
"I said I would." I walk over, forcing a smile onto my face, pulling it tight like a mask. I sit beside her and the stone bench is warm from the sun.
Antonio settles on another bench about twenty feet away. Close enough to put a bullet in me if I pull a knife, far enough to give us the illusion of privacy. He pulls out his phone, pretending to ignore us, but I know he’s listening to every breath.
"I thought Papa wouldn't let you," Jasmine whispers, leaning in close like we’re conspirators, her small hand resting on my knee. "He was so angry."
"He changed his mind," I say softly.
"Papa never changes his mind." She looks at me with wide, grey eyes—Dante’s eyes. It’s unsettling seeing his gaze in such an innocent face, seeing the monster reflected in the child. "You must be magic."
She giggles, and I smile back, but inside I’m calculating. I’m not magic. I’m just desperate. And desperate people know how to find the cracks in the wall.
"Tell me more about your mama," she says, hugging the rabbit tighter. "Like you promised."
This is it. The hook.
"Okay," I say. "What do you want to know?"
"Was she pretty? Did she smell nice? Papa says Mama smelled like flowers but I can't remember."
I look at her and I see myself at twelve years old, asking the same questions to a father who was too drunk to answer. The recognition hits me in the gut, sharp and cold.
It doesn't make me want to hug her. It makes me hate Dante more. He’s doing to her exactly what my father did to me. He’s letting her rot in a big house full of ghosts.
Good, I think, and the thought is ice cold. He’s weak. He’s neglecting her. I can use that.
"She was beautiful," I say, and I let my voice get soft, let the sadness bleed in because I know it will pull her closer.
"She smelled like vanilla and rain. And she used to hum when she cooked, even though she was terrible at singing."
Jasmine giggles again, and she leans her head against my arm. She’s starving for this. She’s starving for anyone to look at her and see a person instead of a reminder of a dead woman. It’s pathetic how easy this is.
"Now you," I say, pressing the advantage because I need to know everything. I need to know where the scars are so I can tear them open later. "Tell me about Isabella."
Jasmine takes a deep breath. "Uncle Antonio says Mama was the best person he ever knew. He says she made Papa laugh. That they were really in love, not the pretend kind some people have."
"That sounds beautiful."
"But I don't remember the laughing," she admits, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"I only remember the quiet. After she died, Papa stopped being Papa. He stopped coming to my room. He stopped reading stories. It’s like..." She looks down at her shoes. "It’s like he forgot I existed."
My hands curl into fists in my lap. I know that feeling. I know the feeling of being invisible in your own home. I know the feeling of being a piece of furniture that talks.
Dante Caravelli isn't just a murderer. He’s a coward. He can't look at his own daughter because he’s too weak to handle his own grief.
I’m going to make him pay for that too, I decide. I’m going to take her from him and he won't even notice until it’s too late.
"Maybe he just doesn't know how to look at you," I say carefully, planting the seeds of doubt. "Because you look just like her."
"Is that why he hates me?"
"He doesn't hate you," I say automatically, the lie slipping out smooth and easy. "He’s just broken."
"Are you broken too, Lily?"
The question catches me off guard. Her eyes are too sharp, too seeing.
"Everyone is broken," I say, and I look away, staring at the roses that look like blood drops against the green leaves. "Some of us just know how to use the pieces."
She nods like she understands, but she doesn't. She’s five. She doesn't know anything about using broken pieces to cut people.
She launches into a story about her rabbit and a tea party and I listen, nodding and smiling at the right times, playing the part. I let her chatter. I let her think we’re friends. I let her attach herself to me like a barnacle to a sinking ship.
I map the garden while she talks. I check the sightlines from the balcony. I count the seconds between the guard rotations.
I am not here to play. I am here to work.
"Time's up," Antonio calls out, standing up and checking his watch.
Jasmine throws her arms around my neck, hugging me with a desperate strength that knocks the wind out of me. I stiffen, my hands hovering for a second before I force myself to pat her back. She feels small. Fragile.
Breakable.
"Same time next week?" she asks, pulling back, her eyes hopeful and wet.
"Same time next week," I promise. "I’ll be here."
"I love you, Lily," she whispers into my ear.
I freeze. The words hang in the air between us.
I love you.
It’s been an hour. Just one hour. And she’s already giving me this? It’s terrifying how desperate she is. It’s terrifying how much power she just handed me.
She loves me. Which means I can hurt her. And if I hurt her, I hurt Dante.
I don't feel guilt. I feel the click of a lock opening. I feel the rush of adrenaline that comes when you find the target's throat.
"I love you too," I say, and the lie slides out like poison wrapped in sugar.
Antonio walks over and gently separates us. "Come on, Jas. Time for lessons."
He leads her back toward the French doors, glancing back at me with a look I can't decipher. I stay in the garden for a moment, letting the mask drop. My face goes cold. The smile vanishes like it was never there.
I turn to head back to the servants' entrance, walking along the path that runs parallel to the house, needing the dark, needing to hide before I start laughing or screaming.
That’s when I feel it. A weight. A pressure on the back of my neck. The primitive instinct that screams predator.
I stop and look up at the villa.
The windows are dark, reflecting the afternoon sun, staring down like empty eyes. But on the second floor, in the shadows of a recessed balcony, a figure is standing.
Dante.
He’s motionless, a dark silhouette against the stone. He’s too far away for me to see his face but I know he’s looking right at me. I can feel his gaze like a physical touch, cold and assessing and dangerous.
He watched the whole thing. He watched me with his daughter. He watched the hug. He watched the way she clung to me like I was the only thing keeping her afloat.
A shiver chases down my spine, cold and violent. He doesn't move. He doesn't wave or nod. He just stands there, a king in his high tower, observing the infection spreading in his garden.
I lift my chin, refusing to look away, refusing to show the fear that is clawing at my throat. I hold his gaze across the distance, a silent challenge.
Go ahead and watch, I think, and my hands clench into fists at my sides. You think she’s safe with me? You think I’m just a servant?
I’m going to turn her against you. I’m going to make her love me more than she fears you. And then I’m going to take everything.
I turn and walk back into the shadows of the servant's hall.
I have the weapon. Now I just need to sharpen it.