Chapter 7 #2
The burner phone is still in my jeans pocket—transferred from Antonio's hoodie when I changed.
He'd hidden it there before I left, along with one in my bag that's now vaporized along with everything else from that airport "accident.
" This phone is my last secret line to him.
Untraceable, he'd promised. Loaded with emergency numbers.
I slip into the bathroom, lock the door, and pull it out. My hands shake as I power it on. The screen glows—and my stomach sinks.
No signal. Not a single bar. And within seconds, it is drained of all power and I don't have a charger stuck in my socks.
I scan the room again. There's a landline on the nightstand, cream-colored, almost quaint. I lift the receiver and listen.
No dial tone. No silence. Just a low electronic hum, steady and patient. The sound of someone waiting on the other end, ready to note whoever I try to reach.
I set it down gently, as if it might bite.
Message received. They control the communications here. Every call monitored, every connection filtered through whatever system Dr. Theos has built.
I press my palms into my thighs, feeling the denim, grounding myself in the texture until a buzz from the intercom makes me flinch.
"Dinner will be served in ten minutes on the terrace overlooking the garden." Daphne's voice, bright and pleasant. "I'll be coming to escort you, Isabella."
Escort. Not accompany. Not meet. Escort—like I'm a prisoner being moved between cells.
I check myself in the mirror one more time. Armor in place. Performance face ready. The cardigan makes me look soft, approachable. Good. Let them underestimate me.
When I open the door, Franco and Daphne are squared off in the hallway like opposing chess pieces. Franco's using his bulk to crowd her space, shoulders set, jaw tight. Daphne hasn't retreated an inch, that too-bright smile fixed in place.
Manuel catches my eye, tilts his head slightly. "Disagreement about security protocols," he murmurs.
"Mr. Franco believes I shouldn't have access to your room," Daphne says sweetly, not breaking eye contact with him. "But Dr. Theos insists on proper hospitality for our guests."
"Hospitality." Franco spits the word like venom. "That what you call slipping people drugs here? And taking away all their guns?"
My stomach tightens. Drugs.
Daphne's smile doesn't waver. "We offer natural sleep aids.
Herbs from our garden. Nothing pharmaceutical.
" She turns to me, her dark eyes too steady, too knowing.
"Your mother mentioned you've had trouble sleeping since the cancer treatments.
Dr. Theos prepared something special for you. Personalized."
The word special lands like a slap. I'm so tired of being special.
"She doesn't need—" Franco starts.
"It's entirely voluntary, of course." Daphne's gaze holds mine. "Everything here is voluntary."
Voluntary. The way she says it makes my skin crawl. Like she's quoting scripture. Like she believes it completely—or has been trained to say it until she does.
Manuel shifts beside me, and I catch him glancing at his phone, his expression flickering. Something's wrong with whatever tech he installed. He meets Franco's eyes across Daphne's head. A warning.
We're more cut off than we thought.
"This way," Daphne says, turning gracefully. "Dinner awaits."
The hallway smells of incense again—that same sweet, heavy scent from before. It clings to the back of my throat, makes my thoughts feel slightly fuzzy at the edges. I breathe through my mouth instead, shallow and careful.
The walls are lined with photographs. Group shots, mostly, slightly out of focus like memories you can't quite hold onto. People in white, smiling. Gardens. Ceremonies of some kind.
One photo catches my eye and I slow without meaning to.
My mother, younger by at least fifteen years, standing in the center of a group. She's wearing white like everyone else, that same serene smile on her face. Beside her—I look closer, my heart stumbling—is the Calabrian man from the living room. Decades younger, but unmistakably him.
And behind them, half-obscured by someone's shoulder, a face I almost recognize. Someone from my father's old Chicago crew? The shape of the jaw, the way he stands...
How long has this been going on? How deep does this thing go?
Footsteps echo from around the corner. I pull back from the photo, keep walking, file the information away. More questions. No answers. Not yet.
As we approach the terrace, voices drift toward us. My mother's, stronger than it's been all day: "...when the moon is full tomorrow night, everything aligns perfectly."
"The blood moon." The Calabrian's voice, reverent.
"Not a blood moon." Dr. Theos, gentle, correcting. "But yes. Lunar positioning matters for optimal... results."
Tomorrow night. Whatever they're planning happens tomorrow night. Less than twenty-four hours.
My pulse kicks up again. I count the beats automatically—too fast, that dangerous flutter threatening to become something worse. I need to stay calm. Need to observe. Need to figure out what they want to do to me before they do it.
Laughter drifts from the living room. But it's wrong—too synchronized, everyone responding at exactly the same moment, like an audience following a cue card.
"Come sit, Bella." My mother's voice, honey poured over steel. "Dr. Theos has been telling us the most wonderful stories about your future."
My future. Like it belongs to them now. Like I'm not even part of the conversation.
I force my feet forward, Antonio's letter a weight against my heart. Each step feels like walking deeper into someone else's fever dream. The incense is thicker here, hazing the air. The synchronized smiles. The way everyone turns to watch me enter.
The laughter stops the moment I appear in the doorway. Twelve faces turn toward me in unison, and their expressions are all exactly the same—that serene, expectant smile I've seen on Dr. Theos, on Daphne, on my mother when she forgets to perform for me.
"There she is," Dr. Theos says softly. "Our miracle."
The word slithers over my skin like something with scales. Miracle. Special. The key. I'm collecting labels I never asked for.
Twelve pairs of eyes fixed on me. The sick, the healthy, the grieving, the greedy—all looking at me like I'm their salvation. The Irish woman actually reaches toward me before catching herself, her hand trembling. The gaunt Russian woman whispers something that sounds like a prayer.
I am not your miracle. I'm just a girl who refused to die, and I didn't do it for you.
But I smile anyway—the same performance smile from a hundred hospital visits, a thousand ballet recitals, every moment of my life when I've had to pretend I wasn't falling apart.
"Dr. Theos." I keep my voice pleasant, neutral. "This is quite a gathering."
"We're family here," he says, and the others nod in unison. "Come. Sit."
My mother pats the seat beside her. Between her and Dr. Theos. A place of honor, positioned so I can't see the exits without turning my head.
Or a trap.
I move forward, counting as I go. Three doors—one behind me, two on either side of the terrace. Two windows large enough to climb through. Twelve people between me and any of them. Franco positioning himself at my back, close enough to grab me if we need to run.
Not close enough to stop whatever's already in motion.
"We were just discussing tomorrow's protocol," my mother says as I lower myself into the chair. The cushion is too soft, designed to make you sink in, relax, stay.
"Protocol?" I keep my voice curious, nothing more.
"Your treatment." Dr. Theos folds his hands on the table. His nails are clean now—someone must have mentioned the dirt. "Well, technically your mother's treatment. But you're essential to it, Isabella. Absolutely essential."
Essential. Another word for the collection. Special. Miracle. Key. Essential.
All of them meaning the same thing: they want something from me. Something in my blood, my cells, my body. Something they think belongs to them.
"What exactly does this treatment involve?" I ask, letting a note of innocent curiosity color my tone. The concerned daughter, wanting to understand.
The Irish woman leans forward eagerly. "It's remarkable, truly. When Marco first explained the research—" She stops abruptly as Stefanos makes a sound like breaking glass.
"Marco's dead." His voice is serrated, each word drawn across raw wounds.
The room goes still. Even the synchronized smiles falter for a moment.
"But his research lives on," Dr. Theos says smoothly, filling the silence like oil spreading across water.
"His sacrifice wasn't in vain. What he discovered about regeneration, about cellular memory, about the unique properties of certain survivors.
.." His eyes find mine. "It's going to change everything. "
Research. Sacrifice. Regeneration.
Cellular memory.
My blood runs cold.
"I'd love to hear more," I say, and my voice doesn't shake. Thirteen years of ballet discipline. Months of surviving Antonio's fortress. A lifetime of performing when everything inside me screams to run. "I want to understand exactly what you have planned. For my mother's sake."
Dr. Theos's smile widens. "Of course you do," he says. "You're her daughter. You'd do anything to save her."
It's not a question. It's an assumption. A fact he's already built his plans around.
I smile back, matching his serenity with my own mask.
But underneath, I'm counting exits. Counting heartbeats. Counting the hours until whatever they're planning begins.
And I'm thinking about Antonio's letter. About ashes. About what kind of fire I might need to start to get out of here alive.
Come back to me, ballerina.
I intend to.