Chapter 4 Jasmine
Two weeks passed in a blur of scrubbing and silence.
I learned the villa's rhythms, the gunshots at dawn, the screaming from the basement around noon, the bodies being carried out after dark, all of it as routine as breakfast or changing the guard shift.
I learned the guard rotations and camera blind spots, learned which servants gossiped and which ones reported everything to Giovanni, and learned to make myself invisible when Dante did his rounds.
I'd seen him maybe five times since that first meeting, always from a distance, always looking through me like I didn't exist.
Good, let him think he'd broken me.
But I was also learning other things. The villa had three levels of security: the outer guards, the inner guards, and Dante's personal men who never left his side.
I memorised faces and schedules and weaknesses.
Antonio was kinder than his brother but just as dangerous; he smiled more, but his eyes were always watching, always calculating.
Giovanni was loyal to the point of fanaticism; he'd die for Dante without hesitation.
And Jasmine was the key to everything, the one thing Dante actually cared about, the one weakness in his armour.
I'd been avoiding her on purpose, staying away from the family wing like I'd been ordered, but this morning Rosa sent me upstairs with fresh linens, and I found myself walking past that door covered in crayon drawings.
I heard crying again, softer this time, muffled like she was trying to hide it.
I should keep walking, should follow orders, should stay away.
But I couldn't.
I knocked softly. "Jasmine?"
The crying stopped, then, "Lily? Is that you?"
She remembered my name, my chest tightened in a way I didn't want to examine.
"Yeah, it's me."
"Come in, please, I promise I won't tell anyone."
I opened the door and found her sitting on her bed surrounded by drawings, dozens of them scattered across the pink comforter, all showing the same thing.
Families.
Mama, papa, child, all holding hands and smiling.
Except in every single drawing, one figure was scribbled out with black crayon, angry marks that tore through the paper.
"I keep trying to draw her," Jasmine said quietly, "but I can't remember what Mama looked like anymore., I know she had dark hair like me, but I can't see her face in my head."
"That's normal," I said quietly. "I was twelve when my mama died, and even I forget sometimes, then I remember something small and it all comes back."
"Like what?"
"Like the way she said my name, or how she always hummed while cooking, little things that weren't important at the time but feel huge now."
Jasmine nodded like this made perfect sense. "I remember Mama's laugh. Papa used to make her laugh all the time before, but now he doesn't laugh at all."
The words were so perceptive for a six-year-old that it hurt to hear. "Sometimes grief makes people empty for a while."
How long is a while?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
Jasmine picked up one of the drawings, this one showing three figures with the middle one scribbled out.
"I draw Mama every day so I don't forget completely, but it never looks right, so I scratch it out and try again, but it's never right."
"Maybe it doesn't have to look right," I said carefully.
"Maybe it just has to remind you that she was real."
Her grey eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. "Papa says crying is weak."
"Your papa is wrong about that."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
Jasmine stared at me. "Will you tell me about your mama?"
So I did only snippets that I could manage without getting emotional.
Jasmine listened with complete attention, then she told me about Isabella Caravelli, about memories that were probably half real and half stories people had told her.
"Do you think she can see me?" Jasmine asked suddenly. "Do you think she knows I still love her?"
"I think if there's any way for her to know, she knows."
"I hope so, I tell her every night, 'I love you, Mama, wherever you are,' and I hug Snowball," she held up the white rabbit, "and pretend she sent him to keep me safe."
"Maybe she did."
Jasmine smiled, and it transformed her whole face. "I like you, Lily, you don't treat me like I'm broken."
"You're sad, there's a difference."
"Papa thinks I'm broken, that's why he doesn't come see me anymore."
"I don't think that's why—"
"Then why?" Her voice cracked. "Why doesn't he tuck me in or read stories or even talk to me? What did I do wrong?"
Her words hit me hard. This child was dying of loneliness in a house full of people, just like I had been after Mama died.
"What are you doing here?" A cold voice came from the doorway.
I jumped up and found Dante standing there with a cold expression. Behind him stood Antonio and the stern nanny, all three of them staring at me like I'd committed murder.
"I heard crying," I said quickly. "I was just—"
"You were just disobeying direct orders," Dante cut me off.
"I specifically told Giovanni you were not to have contact with my daughter."
"I was comforting a crying child, not committing treason."
"In this house, they're the same thing." He looked at Jasmine. "Jas, go with Maria, it's time for your lessons."
"But Papa, Lily was just—"
"Now, Jasmine."
The little girl looked between us, then grabbed Snowball and left with Maria.
When she was gone, Dante stepped into the room and closed the door. Antonio stayed outside, which felt ominous.
"You have a problem with authority," Dante said quietly.
"I have a problem with watching children suffer when I can help."
"You can't help, you don't know her, you don't know this family, you don't know anything." He stepped closer, using his height to intimidate.
"What you are is a debt payment who can't follow simple rules, maybe your father was right to sell you, maybe you are more trouble than you're worth."
"Then send me away," I shot back, anger overwhelming common sense.
"And give your father that satisfaction? No." His smile was cruel.
"You're here until I say otherwise, and you will follow my rules or face consequences, understand?"
"What I understand is that you're so busy being a king that you forgot how to be a father."
Dante's expression went completely blank, which was somehow more terrifying than anger. "Get out."
"Gladly."
"And Lilith?" He stopped me at the door.
"Stay away from my daughter. This is your final warning. Next time you disobey me, you won't like what happens."
I left before I said something that would get me killed.
Back in the servants' wing, I collapsed on my bed, shaking with rage and adrenaline., I'd been here two weeks and already I was on thin ice.
But I'd also seen something important: Dante was terrified of his own daughter, terrified of what she represented, and that fear made him weak.
And weakness was something I could use.
My phone buzzed, a message from Selena: "Any progress?"
I stared at the screen, thought about Jasmine's sad eyes and Dante's cruelty.
"Learning the layout," I typed back. "Found some weaknesses, will take time."
"Be safe."
I deleted the conversation and hid my phone, then lay there staring at the ceiling while my mind spun.
Using Jasmine felt wrong; she was just a child caught in her father's grief and her dead mother's shadow.
But Dante had refused to help my mother when she begged, had sent her home to die, had looked me in the eye and called her weak.
He deserved everything I was planning to do to him.
I just had to figure out how to destroy him without destroying his daughter in the process.
If that was even possible.