The Order

Chapter 1

Two disembodied heads pop out of my bedroom window.

My maids hiss my name like a curse, their flailing arms bidding me upward to the window.

Sneaker dug into the vine-covered trellis, I clamber up the side of the mansion and both maids pull me inside with a flurry of curses and caveats.

Violet leans out and swears under her breath at the tangled remains of vine and splintered white wood I left in my wake, ostensibly wondering how she’ll explain it to my father.

She shuts the window in a rush, yanks the drapes closed, and runs her hands over the heavy burgundy linen.

“Miss Lucy, you know he doesn’t like this.”

No, he doesn’t like this. Just as Papa hasn’t liked every other time he’s caught me sneaking in and out of the mansion over the past twenty-four years. But if my life consisted solely of the things he liked, I’d be throwing myself out of the window instead of climbing into it.

“This is against the rules. You are a lady, you shouldn’t be going to these…” Ruby scrunches her face and gives me a quick, displeased sniff. “Places.”

“I am still a lady. My current state of dishevelment notwithstanding,” I say to their matching expressions of tired, but affectionate, chastisement.

“You know the number one rule: no leaving the mansion without a guard.” That is indeed the rule, but it doesn’t get any fairer no matter how many times Violet reminds me. “We have failed. Your mother would have our heads, may she rest in peace.”

“My mother wouldn’t keep me as a prisoner in my own home,” I shoot back.

“She would not need to because you would not anger her on purpose as you do Leader Piccolo.” Ruby gives me a knowing look. Fair enough. “And these rags!”

My eyes roll so hard I think they’re going to fall out their sockets. “They’re hardly rags.”

My shirt costs more than Ruby will make all month, but I don’t say that, because that’s the kind of rudeness that would disappoint my mother. Luckily for me, you can’t disappoint the dead.

“Leader Piccolo would call them rags,” Violet says as she roughly undresses me.

Oh, sure. Only clothes that cost a fortune and tailor-made for me are fit to be worn by the fruit of his loins. He thinks quite highly of his loins.

“Sure, but sometimes it’s nice to look like a regular person.”

I wiggle out of my jeans and Violet takes the garment from me with two pinched fingers, like it’s an unclean dishtowel.

“But you’re not a regular person, Miss Lucy.

You know how dangerous it is for a woman like you to be out after dark.

Plenty of unsavory people would take advantage of a rich woman alone at night. ”

“Luciana!” Papa’s heavy footfall pounds up the staircase treads, and matches my heartbeat thud for thud.

“One moment, Leader Piccolo! There was a problem with the dress.” Ruby glares at me. “Making me lie to the leader. Next you will have me joining a gang.”

“That would be quite a sight,” I reply. “Have you shanked anyone before?”

Ruby pats my cheek. “You should never hope to find out, little girl.”

“I don’t know why you insist on angering your father. Leader Piccolo only wants what’s best for you. He bought you this nice dress.”

“The currency of Papa’s affection has always been currency. No surprise there.” Papa bangs his fist on the thick oak door, and I call over my shoulder, “Oh, just come in, Papa!”

The door flies open as Papa makes his grand, angry entrance, and the two women skitter away in a sweep of apologies and ducked heads.

They know better than to get between Papa and me in an argument.

By the way Papa’s neck has reddened like a cartoon rocket, I know I’m about to hear it.

He rarely visits my wing of the house unless he needs to admonish me for a trespass against him.

Or, in this situation, to yell at me for not promptly and gratefully attending his tacky masquerade ball.

“Luciana Regina, where the hell have you been?” Papa’s thick New York accent is particularly affected when he’s angry. The city swells inside him until it chokes his vocal cords, every syllable a gunshot.

His reflection in the mirror of my boudoir reveals his puffy frame stuffed inside an expensive suit.

Our resemblance begins and ends at our last name.

Papa is short and round, topped with a pile of black hair he insists on slicking back, along with a knobby nose and small, inset brown eyes.

Stood next to each other, we look like the number ten.

“I’ve been right here, Papa,” I reply, gulping. “In my tower, where you left me.”

“You were expected downstairs well over an hour ago, figlia mia,” he says. “We have guests.”

“Papa, it’s a masquerade ball. If nobody knows who I am, they can’t miss me,” I explain evenly, hoping the pitter-patter of my heart doesn’t betray me in my voice.

“You will go downstairs for this party. You will behave yourself.” Every sentence is like the swinging of a sword.

Slice. Slice. “I will introduce you to Jimmy’s son and you will entertain him for the evening.

” Slice. I’m about to protest when he goes off into his signature guilt-tripping monologue.

“Who do you think I throw these parties for? Why do you think I spend all this money? For me?” Yes, because you do, you braggart.

“These are for you. All of my work is for you.”

“What work? You inherited power. We’re janitors. The last Piccolo to do any real work was—” And really, I don’t even know. The reign of Piccolos in the Northeast stretches back farther than I care to trace. “One of the men in those musty oil paintings in the hallways.”

“You are gonna send me to an early grave, Luciana. And you know what? That would be fine if I didn’t think you were less prepared than the goddamn dishwasher to run this region.

” His anger has dissipated into a more manageable exasperation.

While he may be a ruthless tyrant as a day job, it doesn’t take much for me to cut him down to size.

No daughter leaves her father’s weakness unexploited; it’s more my birthright than the region.

He points a short, fat finger at me. “What would your mother say?”

Lancing me with the memory of my mother is low, even for him. “She wouldn’t want to attend this, either. She hated your balls.”

“Katherine might’ve hated them, but she would never tolerate this behavior and you know it.

” As much as my mother preferred books to balls, she did always attend social functions with a smile on her face and encouraged me to do the same.

So, he’s right, but I’m not going to tell him that.

“If you can’t be relied upon to attend a ball, how the hell am I supposed to entrust you with the region? ”

“Looks like neither of us has a choice in that, do we?”

Papa sighs, evidently weary and exhausted with me. “I am only asking you to attend a goddamn ball, Luciana. I want to see you downstairs in less than ten minutes.”

My hand goes up in salute as I stand. “Yes, sir, Leader Piccolo, sir.”

His expression softens only a tad as he looks me up and down.

Papa gets that look in his eyes every so often when he sees my mother in me.

She did it better, of course. She did everything better.

But our resemblance is a more powerful weapon than her memory.

“That is a nice dress. You look lovely, principessa.”

“Thank you, Papa.” I pluck his mask from the breast pocket of his coat, securing it around his head. “I’ll see you in a few minutes. Promise.” Planting a quick kiss on his cheek, I turn his wide frame around and usher him out the door.

I wrangle myself into impossibly high heels, bringing my tallness to new heights.

During events in which I know I’ll be thrust toward some rich man’s salivating son, it’s an inner delight to truly tower over them.

Giving my dress a once-over, I run my fingers along the real emeralds stitched into the matching emerald-colored fabric, shimmering with every subtle movement of my body.

My mask matches in aesthetic, made from finely crafted mahogany.

Shooting up from the left side is a bright bouquet of exotic feathers in orange, red, and yellow.

I am a tree in the midst of autumn—beautiful, but in the throes of death.

The servants lingering outside my door erupt in a chorus of hushed “oohs” and “aahs.” I want to roll my eyes at the dramatics, but good breeding forces a polite smile at their profuse adoration.

It isn’t their fault. Papa pays them to make me feel good about myself.

There is always someone on payroll to tell me how beautiful, how smart, how funny I am.

With that inflated sense of self-worth it’s a wonder I fit through any doorways at all.

But I do, and I find myself making the familiar trip toward the busy kitchen.

Using my foot to prop open the door, the gust of room temperature air hits the sweating chefs and distracts Jean enough to glance over at the source of prolonged relief.

Jean resembles a twentieth-century movie villain, complete with nefarious eyebrows, skinny physique, and a sloping nose he looks down to talk to anyone.

He’s a twirling mustache and top hat away from tying a damsel to a railroad track, but a kind heart beats beneath his standoffish French exterior.

“Your dress is magnificent,” he says with an unnecessary half bow toward me. “Like a beautiful libellule.”

“Merci, Monsieur.” A server hoisting a silver platter whizzes past us. “How much could I pay you to hide me in here?”

“Like when you were a little girl, yes? Hiding from tutors and your parents.” He grins, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. “Can barely see you underneath this mask. Your mother gave you that pretty face and that pretty hair and yet, you hide.”

“That’s the point of a masquerade, is it not? Disguise yourself? Be someone else for a night?”