Lana
I rush past Mrs. Moretti’s door, walking faster than I should in heels this high. I keep my eyes forward and my shoulders tight.
If she opens that door and sees me like this, she’ll lose her mind. The neckline dips too low. The hem barely covers enough. The red stilettos feel like a bad decision with every step.
I don’t need to hear her voice out loud. It’s already in my head.
“You crazy, Lana? You want men thinking you a puttana?”
She wouldn’t be wrong. Not tonight. These shoes aren’t me. This dress isn’t me either. I only put it on because Xander bought it. Because he liked it. Because I need him to see me and want something. Anything. My father’s freedom depends on it.
I pass La Dolce Vita Bakery, and the smell of sugar and warm bread drifts behind me. I slow down without me
