Page 10 of Nemesis

The steps blur in habitualized monotony as I ascend the filthy staircase and wrap my hand around the cool copper of my doorknob. The apartment is dreadfully still. I pour a glass, settle onto the shitty Ikea couch, and call Solokov.

“Ah. Vasiliy.” He pronounces my name in a deep American drawl, so different than the sharp, irritated syllables I’ve grown used to. “Ivan said the interrogation was successful. Good work.”

I don’t know what to do with the compliment, so I opt not to address it. “I was told you have an assignment?”

“Yes. You see, we’ve been building out our legitimate fronts over the past few years. My wife manages most of the syndicate’s finances—she’d explain far better than I. One of our channels is arts donations. Tax purposes, of course.”

My brows gather. His wife manages the business’s finances? Most Bratva wives stick to managing their household staff.

“Anyway, I need you at a donor event tomorrow night. It’s a private performance at a ballet in Lincoln Center. Some of our business partners will be in attendance. Ivan will brief you.”

I look at my glass. My own pinched expression wobbles back. “I cut people up.”

“Not tomorrow,” he quips. “Formal wear will be required. My assistant will arrange your attire.”

“I don’t wear suits.”

“You do now. I know you weren’t exactly imported for cultural enrichment, but someone needs to take the other box seat at this thing, and frankly, I don’t want to go.”

Seems like he’s taking the whole martyr thing far too seriously. Asshole. But I know better than to refuse the man who currently holds my leash. My nails dig into my palms.

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Enjoy the ballet, Vasiliy. Do try not to blow anything up.”

My palms brace against the dressing room table as I stare into my own reflection.

A unique version of it, anyway.

My dark red hair is gelled back into a severe bun, not a single strand hanging free. The headpieces, two glittering gold combs, are pinned to either side of my scalp, causing a dull ache behind my brow. I can barely recognize the veritable stranger gazing back through the mirror. Her eyes glow a brighter green beneath the frame of lashes. Her lips are painted a dark, vicious red. Some dancers consider stage makeup a nuisance, but I secretly love the battlepaint streaked across my face. I look formidable.

Movement rustles behind me as the other girls tug on their costumes and sew the ribbons of their shoes in place. The chaos is jarring after so many months of using a private dressing room to prepare for shows. Space is a privilege—one I no longer have.

I press my earbuds tighter into my ears and pump up the volume. Classical music thunders through my head, explosive and percussive in its final verse. It melts all the stress from this horrible day. By the time I stepped into the studio this morning, every member of the company had heard at least ten iterations of the dressing-down I received last night.

Mr. Marlins doesn’t come to the studios often, but it’s always a memorable event when he does. Since he owns the company, he does as he likes. None of the staff are brave enough to stop him from caressing the dancers like a handler adjusting his whores. I should be grateful he at least kept his hands to himself last night when he ripped my life apart. His touch is worse than most.

I reach into my bag, only to realize my bottle of painkillers is nothing but an empty husk. The meds don’t eradicate the excruciating pain that rips up my leg every time I shift my weight, but they sure as hell help manage it through the day.

Whatever.

Pain might be temporary, but rent money is forever.

I’ll collect the minuscule payout from tonight and offer what I have to my landlord, promising to deliver the remainder as soon as possible. It’ll be enough.

It has to be enough.

A soft touch against my bare arm startles me, and my focus spirals back into my surroundings.

Bambi?

I tug out my earbuds, surprised by her presence.

The girl with the wild curls lifts her hand, and with it, a single red rose. The flower is tied with a velvet bow around the stem. I feel my jaw sag open as I inspect her street clothes and stern expression. The new grads aren’t performing tonight. What is she doing here on her night off?

“For luck?” I ask, taking the delicate flower with a sense of bewilderment. No one’s ever given me a flower before. I stare down, twisting the stem between my fingers.

“No,” she finally says. “A dancer like you has no use for luck. This is just because.”