6. CHAPTER 5 – ISABELLA
CHAPTER 5 – ISABELLA
T he night before we leave for Naples, I can’t seem to stop my hands from being clammy and my shoulders to tense.
"You got to understand, Piccola Ballerina," Mrs. Romano uses the Italian nickname she gave me when I was a little girl, twirling in the living room, as she brings me my medicine.
The one I still have to take because my heart goes awry sometimes, pounding faster than any of the pirouettes I ever mastered. The pill feels bitter on my tongue—another reminder that my body betrayed me just when I'd finally started landing my fouettés perfectly. Less than a year ago, I was in a hospital room with beeping sounds all around, alone most of the time, going through the motions with as much of a smile as I could muster to survive.
As I swallow the pill with cold water, my eyes drift to the dresser in the corner. To its hidden compartment. To what's waiting there. But I'm not ready. Not yet.
During his sole visit at the hospital, my father told me he was proud of me. The only time he ever said that.
When I didn’t cry in front of him. He didn’t know how much I cried when he was gone. Or the extent of the treatments would have on my body. What he didn’t understand was that I didn’t have much choice.
It was that or death.
“Bella,” Mrs. Romano tells me with a soft smile, handing me the pill. She’s been my constant, and I don’t want to leave her not knowing when I’ll be back. “Your father is...” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. She never talks ill of him, but there’s disappointment in her eyes. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
My heart tightens at her words. If he heard her, he would be furious. I can see she wants to tell me something more, something important.
She leans toward me, her voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t forget what you know. Don’t forget who you are. You’re courageous and you’re kind and you’re resourceful.”
Her eyes hold mine. “Marriage, especially in our world, is a delicate dance. You must learn to adapt, but never break. Remember who you are, but be ready to face new challenges. Your mother could balance grace and strength. Better than most, trust me. You have that same quality. Use it.”
Her words resonate deep within me, and I reach out to hold her hand, holding on to a world that may be dangerous, a world I wanted to escape, but a world I know.
“I’ll remember.” I promise, my voice choked with emotion. “I’ll remember everything you’ve taught me.”
She smiles, her eyes glistening with tears, and squeezes my hand. “And I’ll always be here for you. No matter what happens, you have a place in my heart.” Her hand is warm and worn, the skin etched with the wisdom of years. Her gentle squeeze conveys a reassurance that words alone could never express.
As she heads to the door, my stomach twists, and I feel a lump in my throat. I know I must tell her, but the words seem stuck. My mouth opens and closes, and I can see Mrs. Romano’s curious glance as she turns the doorknob.
“Antonio...” I finally stammer, my voice barely above a whisper. Mrs. Romano pauses, her hand still on the doorknob, and looks back at me with a quizzical expression.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to continue. “Antonio is one of the men in the tournament, vying for my hand.”
Mrs. Romano’s hand drops from the door, and her face pales. I can see her mind working, processing the information, the memories of Antonio — how he made her laugh, how close he once was to our family.
“Antonio?” she whispers, her voice trembling, as though the name itself carries weight. Her eyes search mine, filled with a mixture of understanding and concern. I nod, feeling the knots in my stomach tighten as I recognize the gravity of what I’ve shared.
“Yes,” I reply, trying to read her reaction.
She pauses and then exhales slowly. “Then you must be careful, Piccola Ballerina. More careful than ever before. Because I don’t think Antonio forgot. I don’t think he will ever forget. And listen…” Her eyes dance around like she’s making sure we’re alone. “No matter what, you take care of yourself. Okay? If you see an opportunity, you take it, Piccola.”
With that warning, she leaves the room, leaving me with her love, her advice, and the heavy reality of what lies ahead.
A few minutes later as I’m staring at the ceiling, thoughts swirling in my mind and the Chopin Walz I am playing on my mom’s old recorder in the background, the door creaks open again and I force my lips into a smile, not wanting to worry Mrs. Romano. “Did you forget something?”
But it’s not Mrs. Romano. My chest tightens. My father’s tall figure appears, hesitating momentarily in the doorway. His eyes, sharp and analytical, soften briefly as they meet mine, but he quickly hardens them again.
“You got to understand,” he begins slowly, his voice stern but wavering slightly. It’s like he’s struggling between his role as a patriarch and his role as a father. “Our name is at stake. People are working against us, and this marriage and tournament are how we’re going to keep everything together.” His voice is more resolute now. “You’re the one who can keep us safe. All of us. Not just me. But Mrs. Romano. Naomi. Everyone you know and love.”
I nod—my mind buzzing with questions. “Why?” I ask the only one that truly matters.
But he doesn’t answer. Instead, he continues, "You remind me of your mother," he adds, his voice softening for a moment, his eyes distant. The comparison lands like a poorly executed grand jeté—painful and slightly off-balance. Because I remember my mother's grace, her quiet strength. All I seem to have inherited is her talent for disappointing him.
With that, he turns to leave, without glancing back at me.
The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts again. The room feels emptier, the haunting melody of the Goodbye Walz echoing in my mind. It’s a fitting waltz for the moment.
Because disappointing my father has never been something I ever wanted to do.
When Antonio’s mom disappeared, he looked for her—everywhere. He tried to find her. He said another mafia family killed her.
I could have stopped it.
Hours pass, and as the night deepens, I feel a growing need to escape, to find release in the dance that has always been my refuge. But when I reach for the door handle, I find it locked.
My breath catches and there’s a boulder settling deep in my stomach.
The irony doesn't escape me—I spent years training my body to move precisely how I want it to, only to end up caged like a music box ballerina, waiting for someone else to wind me up and set me spinning.
Because like that ballerina, I’m trapped. Not just in this room, but by all the expectations and demands they’re putting on me.
I’m not sure if my father is trying to make sure I don’t escape or if he’s trying to protect me.
I slide down the door, my body shaking with a mix of anger and despair. My father’s words weigh heavily on my shoulders, and I feel the magnitude of what’s being asked of me.
Yet if I don’t do it… what’s going to happen to Mrs. Romano, to Naomi, to the nurses and ballet dancers, to the friends I used to have?
I wanted to leave. To dream. To live a different life. But I can't.
My eyes drift to the ornate dresser in the room’s corner again. I haven’t opened that hidden compartment in months, but something’s pulling me toward it now. A curiosity, maybe, or a need to face what I’ve been avoiding.
I get up and walk to the dresser. The drawer creaks as I pull it open, and I reach inside to the secret compartment hidden beneath. My hands are shaking a bit, but I know what I have to do.
Inside the hidden drawer lies an envelope. It's been there, waiting. My name is scrawled across the front in choppy handwriting, like someone wrote it in a hurry. Or in fear.
I pull out the paper inside, the ink smudged and faded, and unfold it with care. As I re-read the words for the thousandth time, my heart pounds in my chest. Those words—this warning—feel like an omen now. With a shaky breath, I tuck the paper away, hiding it once more.
In two days, the game begins.
And I don’t know if I’m ready.