Page 39 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
“Get me out of here!” she shrieks. “HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!”
“What the fuck are you screaming for—”
“You’re insane! You’reactuallycrazy!”
I take several steps toward her. “I’ve never pretended I was sane.”
“Stay away from me!”
“You are overreacting.”
“OVERREACTING?!” she screams at the top of her lungs. She backs up the closer I come, shaking her head, looking feverish and sick. “You have a room ofseveredheads! And I’m overreacting?!? HELP! PLEASE!”
I release a deep growl and stalk over to seize her. She only screams more, fighting my hold, punching and kicking at me. Her hits are comically soft despite her hardest effort. They couldn’t hurt me even in my weakest state, let alone in this moment. My grip on her clenches tighter as I wait out her temper tantrum.
She loses her breath fighting me. Gasping for air, throwing fists at me, she’s beyond desperate.
“Nevaeh,” I say in a scolding tone. “Are you going to calm down so I can explain?”
“There’s no explaining! I’m… I’m going to be sick. The smell.”
I let go of her at the last second. She spins around and keels over to throw up the contents of her stomach.
An exasperated sigh leaves me. I roll my eyes and step over to check on her.
“Nevaeh, you got too excited and made yourself ill. Will you tone it down and shut the fuck up now?”
Though she can’t speak, she shakes her head and spits up more sick. She’s lucky I’m more than familiar with such ailments suffering from the condition I do—andthat I have staff to clean up such messes. My giant hand attempts to be gentle, patting her spine.
“Did you not recognize the head I was showing you?”
“Was I supposed to?” she croaks, wiping her mouth. She’s trembling and clammy.
I suppose the putrid stench of the room is difficult to handle for those unused to such gore.
“It’s Enrico. The guard who hurt you.” I walk over to grab the severed head off the shelf where it’s displayed. Returning to her side to show her, I’m finally wondering if perhaps I’ve misjudged the situation. This isn’t the romantic gesture I assumed it would be to win her heart.
Nevaeh takes one look at his gray skin and gouged eyes and then clamps a hand over her mouth.
“Please get it away from me!”
“I killed him for you,” I say plainly, like I expect a thank you.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she croaks, tears in her eyes. “Why are you punishing me like this?”
“Punishing you? Nevaeh—”
A sharp knock on the door interrupts us. I already know who it is. With a vexed sigh, I tell Ms. Poitier to come in.
“I heard screaming,” she says, stepping into my trophy room. Her reaction to the gruesome scene is the opposite of Nevaeh’s—you’d think she’s walked into a gentle nursery the way she stands there unfazed. A woman like her has borne witness to decades of mafia indiscretions. “Is everything okay in here?”
“Please,” Nevaeh says, hurrying toward her. “I want to get away from this room.”
Ms. Poitier strokes her hair in a motherly fashion. “Of course, honey. It might not be your type of atmosphere. Why don’t you head back to the west wing of the house, and I’ll fix you some ginger tea to settle your stomach?”
Nevaeh couldn’t escape the trophy room fast enough. She disappears from the room without even a glance in my direction.
The instant I’m alone with Ms. Poitier, I roll my eyes and return Enrico’s severed head to his rightful spot on my display shelf.