Celeste;
Unnerving sparks flicker like waning embers as the reality of what I've done sinks into my mind.
Not like I haven't done something similar—God knows I've done worse. But still.
I sit in my room, replaying the entire scene in a loop in my head, recalling the shivers skating down my spine with the possibility that it might have gone wrong and I'd been caught.
Earlier; 4:44 PM.
Steeling my resolve and coming to terms with it, I pad to the kitchen, ignoring the shaky glances the servants patrolling about send my way.
Not like I don't frequent the kitchen. Matter of fact, I do. More times than I care to count.
And just like any other day, I'm here for my daily grab of a bottle of water…for the third time.
Yeah, I love the feel of the tasteless liquid sluicing down my throat.
Let's just say I might have intentionally chosen the time when the servants usually like to have their meals.
There. My mark locks eyes with me, a slight trembling of her hand on the glass jar she's holding—nearly dropping it.
I flash her a toothy smile. She blinks warily, obviously not knowing how to respond.
I acknowledge the fact that she did see something earlier this morning. It's given away by the taut way her shoulders bunch.
With my smile still in place, I step up to her.
"Good afternoon, miss, is there anything we can help you with?"
The rest of the servants are already watching.
"Yes…actually," my fingers go to play with a string of hair almost blocking my sight, "I was feeling bored, so I thought maybe I can help you guys over here?"
Flashing my most jovial, cutest smile ever—I mean, with my childlike features, that should do it, right?
She chokes out a weird laugh. "That won't be necessary, miss." Her glance settles on the other servant girls around. "We've got everything under control." Head lowered, she tells me.
"Ohhh," my shoulders slump. Pursing my lips, I feign disappointment. "It's fine then, I'll just grab a bottle of water."
Already making my way to the refrigerator, she steps aside for me to pass—even when she wasn't directly in my way.
It makes me want to shake my head and scoff.
I take my cold water, swerve to the rack to grab a glass, and instead of heading back up to my room like usual, I amble toward the island.
A cloying feeling saturates my insides at the sight of plates of food dotting the kitchen island, and I grab a stool and sink into it.
They all have their eyes on me. Wide. Surprised. Perplexed.
Cutting them a saccharine beam, I ask, "You were just about to eat?" looking as inquisitive as I can muster.
It takes a couple of seconds before one of them offers a response. "Ah—y-yeah."
It's a young woman doing the dishes, her gloved hands buried in suds.
"Okay," I nod. "Why do you guys have lunch late though?"
"There's a lot of work to be done over here," it's the same woman, and she chuckles right after.
"Must be really backbreaking, huh? Working in a big house like this," I say, making a show of bobbing my head.
"You have no idea," it rolls off casually, and as if she realizes what she's done, she cuts a quick glance at the head maid, who's glaring holes into her.
She looks to me, lips parting before she bows. "I misstepped, sorry."
"Ah, there's absolutely no reason to apologize."
I shift on the stool, lifting my glass—and then I let it slip. It shatters against the tiles. Water splashes everywhere.
"Oh my God—I'm so sorry!" I gasp, already hopping down.
The kitchen stirs into motion.
"Careful!"
"Watch your feet!"
But my eyes flick to her. The head maid.
Exactly as expected—she steps forward, issuing orders sharply, already crouching to inspect the mess, her attention fully consumed.
Perfect.
"I'll clean it, miss—please step back," she says, reaching for a cloth.
I do step back. Just enough.
My fingers slide into my pocket, brushing against the folded wrap.
Quick. Precise.
As she bends over the counter to move one of the plates out of the way—her jar of drink sitting right there beside it—I tilt slightly, my body blocking the view.
A soft tap of my fingers against the rim.
The crushed powder slips in, dissolving instantly into the liquid. Gone.
Like it was never there.
I straighten, clasping my hands behind me like an idle observer.
"Really, I'm so sorry," I add, voice light and harmless.
She doesn't even look at me. Too focused. Too distracted. Too late.
I'm in my room now, patiently waiting for the results of my good work.
But since it seems like it's taking its sweet time, I pick up my phone tangled in the bedsheets, scrolling through the log and tapping on a particular name tagged with a series of heart emojis.
Yeah, he only saved it with his name—I'm the one who added the emojis.
We might as well make the best of it while we're at it, right?
Strings of soft giggles bounce off my chest. I go silent when it starts to ring.
It takes a while, but Romano answers, his calm, suave voice echoing from the speaker. "Still up?"
I purse my lips. His inquiry makes me bring the phone to my face to check the time—11 PM on the dot.
"Yeah," I speak softly, putting the call on speaker. "Thought I should wait up for you."
Silence ensues from his end.
My teeth sink into the flesh of my lower lip. I bet he's surprised I said that.
"You don't have to. You should go to sleep," he says.
"When will you get back?" Ignoring what he said, I ask instead.
"Soon. On my way home already." The gentleness in his tone is appalling.
He's always so controlled and calm in everything he does—a total opposite of his brother.
Rough. Grumpy. Menacing. Malevolent energy. The list can go on and on.
God! I shouldn't be thinking of Caruso right now.
"Okay, umm…" I trail off, catching the nail of my right thumb between my teeth, my legs flaying behind me.
"What's it, Piccola Mia?"
Did I hear a rumble from his throat?
He manages to guess I left something unsaid. I don't know if he's amused.
"I know it's late, but can you somehow get me ice cream and some snacks on your way?" I muse coyly.
He laughs. Romano goddamned laughs—and my stomach tightens in surprise.
The next thing I hear: "Martin, turn the car around. My fiancée is craving ice cream." And the sound of tires shifting direction echoes from the other end.
My cheeks heat up. Then I hurry to put the second phase of my plan in motion.