The Faceless Ballerina

My mother always favored us. When neither Anna nor I agreed to go, she did not force us. She hesitated, then gathered her courage and pushed the invitation back toward the messenger.

"I'm very sorry, but—"

A gunshot cut her off.

The bullet tore past her ear and buried itself in the wall with a violent crack. Black scorch marks bloomed around the hole. The statue of the Virgin Mary trembled on its nail.

The Don's man lowered the smoking gun and spoke without raising his voice. "You cannot refuse. Mrs. Rossi, the Don hates being refused."

He slapped the invitation onto the table and walked out. At the door, he paused. "In three days, the Don expects to see someone from the Rossi family. If not, you will accept the consequences."

The house fell silent after he left.

Anna rushed to lock the door. Her hand shook so badly she missed the latch the first time.

My mother collapsed into a chair, her legs giving out beneath her.

"It's only a ballet performance," she said weakly. "Why will neither of you go?"

She looked between us, fear sharpening into suspicion. "Do you have other suitors?"

Anna and I exchanged a look. For years, we had fought each other bloody over Lorenzo. We had never spared a glance for any other man. Anyone who admired us had long since learned to stay away.

I bit down on my lip and made a decision. We could not hide it anymore.

I told her everything. About the first life, then the second. About broken legs and plaster and death. Anna filled in what I missed, her voice growing smaller with each detail.

My mother needed a long time to process it. She held our hands and cried without restraint.

"So who does Lorenzo actually love?" she whispered. "Why must it be a daughter of the Rossi family?"

"I want that answer too," Anna said quickly.

She turned to me, fear swimming in her eyes. "When he told you the truth, did you hear the name?"

"I didn't get to," I said.

The words tasted bitter.

"He was halfway through and then I…"

"Don't look at me," Anna cut in. "That lunatic tortured me from beginning to end. He never said a word about it."

Three knocks sounded at the door. All three of us flinched.

I expected the same messenger to return.

Instead, when I opened it, I found Lorenzo standing there with a bouquet of red roses in his hands. He wore a tailored black suit. His smile was calm, almost tender.

He stepped past me as if he belonged in our home.

"I heard neither of you plans to attend," he said lightly. "Don't misunderstand. It's only an ordinary invitation. Appreciating ballet is good for the soul."

He set the roses on the table and let his gaze pass slowly over the three of us.

He added, "So, in three days, don't disappoint me."

He did not wait for an answer.

At the door, he paused and looked back at me. The warmth in his eyes did not reach the rest of his face.

After he left, we made a plan.

Anna volunteered first. "I'll go to the black market. I know people there."

My mother nodded. She would reach out to other families and see if anyone dared shelter us.

I chose something else. I needed to speak to Lorenzo alone. I needed confirmation.

I found him later that day in his private gallery. He stood before a marble statue, studying it in silence. The sculpture had no face, no eyes, no mouth, only smooth, unfinished stone where its features should have been. Its elegant body held a dancer's poise, suspended mid-movement.

"Who is she?" I asked, stepping closer.

Lorenzo turned at the sound of my voice. He gave me the same gentle look that had once ruined me.

"Can't you tell?" he said. "Of course it's you."

Pain flickered through my chest.

Lorenzo collected faceless art, oil paintings, sketches and sculptures of it. Whenever I asked, he always told me they were me. He said he did not carve the features because I was perfect in his mind. No artist could capture that.

I used to feel touched and believed him.

Now I looked closer. There was a cross-shaped scar on the statue's left ankle.

I had no scar.

I crouched and studied the mark. My pulse began to pound in my ears.

I straightened and met his eyes. "This is not me, Lorenzo. I don't have that scar. So who is she?"

For the first time, his expression froze. His fingers brushed lightly over the marble. He stayed silent long enough for the air between us to thin.

When he finally looked at me, his gaze had sharpened. "Do you really want to know who she is?"