Dance of Deception: Chapter 12

The club is packed, a flashing neon blur of dancing, writhing bodies. The bass throbs deep in my chest, and there’s a charge to the air, like an explosion could happen at any moment.

Which, given the company I’m in, is entirely possible.

Milena, Brooklyn, Naomi, Evelina, Bianca, and I are clustered into our own corner near the bar, where my friends are intently trying to convince me to have some fun at my bachelorette party, and—to that end—feeding me drinks.

I didn’t ask for the party, and have no idea how to pretend this is a night worth celebrating.

Still, a night out is a night out, and that I could certainly use.

Especially after what happened at the engagement party two nights ago, where Carmine managed once again to shatter and destroy every single wall I have, like it’s his life’s mission to set my world on fire and toast marshmallows over the flames.

I tip my glass back, swallowing past the knot in my throat.

The tequila burns on the way down, but it’s not enough.

Not enough to erase the feeling of Carmine’s hands on me. To undo the memory of his voice in my ear, darkly possessive, telling me I belong to him.

Not enough to wash away the texts.

I force a smile as Evelina nudges me, yelling something over the music. I nod, pretending I heard, pretending I’m here, present, in this moment.

I’m not.

I’m still two nights ago, in a dark, candlelit bathroom, with Carmine pressing me against the wall and breaking me apart and making me drip all over his hand like it was his right.

The way he touched me, made me almost come, and then licked his fingers after—like he was tasting victory.

And the worst part?

I let him. Because part of me craved it.

Except that isn’t the worst part. No, the worst part is the texts—the ones that sent a cold rush of terror through my veins, drowning out even Carmine’s lingering touch.

It was that last message that’s had me barely able to sleep the last two nights.

My darling daughter.

That’s what my father used to call me.

My stomach lurches.

I know it’s not possible. Ghosts don’t exist. Arkadi is dead, stabbed in his own cell in prison four months ago.

I’ve spent two nights convincing myself that this is just another one of them—the conspiracy nuts who rage-listen to podcasts like “The Truth Report”. The lunatics who just can’t leave me the fuck alone.

My phone number has been leaked online before. Or my email, or even an actual physical address.

Sometimes it’s the people who hate me, the ones so sure that I knew, that I helped, that I should’ve rotted in prison alongside him.

Sometimes it’s worse and it’s the ones who fetishize what Arkadi did. The ones who want to talk to me, touch me, include me in their obsession with him.

But those texts the other night were different.

I press my fingers against my temples, forcing a breath through my nose.

It’s just another crazy.

Another stalker, another freak, another desperate loser with way too much time on their hands.

Deep in my gut, something twists.

“Here.”

My thoughts scatter as a hand delicately takes my empty margarita glass and replaces it with a fresh one. I blink away the remnants of terror, lifting my eyes over the salted rim of my drink to see Milena grinning at me, holding one of her own.

“To…” Her brows knit for a second before she shrugs and clinks her glass to mine. “Marital bliss?”

Naomi snorts loudly before she catches herself. Evelina rolls her eyes, and Brooklyn giggles.

I arch a brow, smirking dryly at my friend. “Did you seriously just say ‘marital bliss’?”

Milena laughs. “Is it too late to take that back?”

“Uh-uh. Taking a toast back is definitely bad luck,” Evelina says.

Brooklyn makes a face. “What the hell kind of logic is that? What if it’s a crappy toast?”

Milena clucks her tongue against her teeth. “She’s right. There’s no do-overs with Russians. We just soldier on, through the snow and ice and hardship.”

Naomi arches a brow, glancing pointedly at Milena’s Louboutins and the Chanel clutch on her lap.

“Tell me more about enduring these hardships, oh strong and resilient Bratva princess.”

The rest of us—even me—crack up when Milena flips her off with a grin.

“You really going to start throwing stones, bitch?” she teases Naomi back. “How is Congressman Kim’s glass house?”

Naomi straightens her back indignantly, tossing her dark ponytail back and sipping her cocktail. “Wouldn’t know. I haven’t been to my parents’ house in almost a year.”

“Anyhoo,” Evelina sighs, cutting in. “What if we just toast to happiness and finding it wherever we can?”

Naomi grins, clinking her glass to everyone else’s. “I can get behind that. Cheers!”

We echo the word, tapping our glasses together and pretending this is actually a celebration.

Brooklyn laughs, leaning in. “Well, if you have to be forced into a mafia marriage, at least you got one of the hot ones.”

I almost choke.

Bianca groans. “Could we please stop referring to my brother like that?”

“Well you marry him, then,” I mumble.

Brooklyn laughs. “Like, I want your sloppy seconds?”

“Again, guys,” Bianca pleads. “Could we not?”

“Well, if Lyra’s already bagged Carmine, there’s always Nico.” Naomi grins, her face flushed from the drinks. “I mean, have you seen that man? He looks like he’d rail you against a wall and then apologize for messing up your hair.”

Evelina gasps dramatically, clutching her chest. “NAOMI!”

Brooklyn nearly chokes on her drink. “Who the fuck are you right now?”

Milena squints at Naomi, tilting her head. “Seriously, who are you and what have you done with sweet, innocent, I-blush-when-someone-says-the-word-dick Naomi?”

Naomi blushes fiercely as Bianca slams back the last of her drink.

“All right, I’m out. Please, keep talking about banging my fucking brother.”

“Noooo! Bianca!” I laugh, snagging her arm and yanking her down into my lap. “Stay! Please?”

She rolls her eyes, turning to hug me. “I actually do have to go. Kratos and I are watching the baby Spartans at Ya-ya’s tonight so Ares and Neve and Hades and Elsa can have a night out together.”

“Um, what do like half of those words even mean?” Brooklyn interjects.

Bianca giggles. “Ya-ya is Kratos’ grandmother, Dimitra.”

A smug feeling drifts over me. I mean, I might not be an actual mafia princess, but even I know that Dimitra Drakos is the matriarch of the Drakos Greek mafia family. Just like I know Ares, Kratos’ oldest brother, is king of the empire, with Hades, another brother, also helming things.

“And the Spartans?”

“Baby Spartans,” Bianca corrects. “Dimitra has this whole fixation on their family being directly descended from the warrior guys with the abs from 300. So the baby Spartans are Kratos’ and my little nephew and niece, Achilles and Bella.”

She turns back to me. “Love ya. Try to have fun tonight.”

I give her a hug. “Thanks for coming out. Really.”

After she leaves, Milena raises her glass. “To our dear friend Lyra, who is about to lose her life⁠—”

“Her freedom,” Naomi interjects.

“And most importantly,” Brooklyn adds, “her ability to have anything other than one dick for the rest of her life.”

My face explodes with heat as the rest of them hoot with laughter.

“You guys are such assholes,” I groan.

“Yes, but we’re your assholes,” Milena says, bumping my shoulder affectionately.

The air outside is cool and crisp, refreshing after the humid heat of the club. The city is alive, neon signs flickering, streets still packed with late-night crowds drifting between bars and clubs, their laughter and conversation blending with the distant wail of a siren.

The six of us stand near the curb, buzzing from alcohol and adrenaline, debating our next move.

“Food?” Naomi suggests, her eyes slightly glassy from tequila.

“More drinks?” Brooklyn counters, grinning.

“Somewhere wilder,” Milena smirks.

“I second that,” Evelina chimes in, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere we won’t get side-eyed for dancing on the tables.”

We laugh, but before we can settle on a place, the energy on the street shifts.

It happens in an instant—a subtle change in the atmosphere, a hush that spreads down the block. People slow. A few heads turn.

Then I see why.

Two black SUVs pull up outside another club just down the street. The doors open, and one by one, they emerge.

Carmine steps out first, clad in dark jeans, black leather jacket, and a plain white t-shirt that fits tight across his powerful chest. Then Nico Barone, smirking, his easy confidence sharp as a blade.

Nero De Luca follows, his bright green eyes gleaming under the dim streetlights as he exudes that same lethality Milena and I caught when he dragged his sister Gabriella from Carmine’s auditions the other day.

I recognize Roman Nikitin, obviously, since he’s Evelina’s brother. But I don’t know the three guys who step out of the second car with him. They look Russian as well, though.

“Shit,” Evelina groans. “What the hell is Roman doing here?”

Milena frowns. “Looks like Carmine’s having a bachelor party of some kind?”

“Well, let’s get outta here before⁠—”

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, baby sis!?”

Evelina cringes as Roman roars from across the street and halfway down the block, startling easily fifty people on the sidewalk.

He barely even checks for traffic as he jogs across the street, dressed similarly to Carmine in dark jeans and a hoodie with a leather jacket over it.

There’s a savage, untamed electricity to him, a restless, dangerous energy that makes you feel he was born to fight, or at least look for trouble wherever he can find it. I’ve met him a few times, just through being friends with Evie, and he always makes me think of some wild animal that’s put on human clothes in an effort to fool everyone around him.

Evelina folds her arms as he stops in front of her, smirking like an older brother who lives to be a menace. He looks her over before raising a brow. “That’s a very short dress, Evie. Does Dad know you went out like this?”

Evelina rolls her eyes so hard she nearly tips over. “Oh my God, you are not going to pull the protective big brother card.”

Roman tips his head. “I mean, I could just call Dad and ask him.”

Evelina glares. “Go for it. While you’re at it, remind him that the last time you were at the estate, you got so drunk you passed out in the pool.”

Milena sputters. “Wait, what?”

Roman scowls. “That never happened.”

Evelina grins wickedly. “You were face-down in the water when we found you, Rome. Lucky you didn’t freaking drown.”

Brooklyn snorts. “Shit, that’s an embarrassing cry for help.”

Roman makes a face as he rolls his neck, tattoo ink peeking out from the neck of his hoodie. “Not as embarrassing as Evie’s curfew,” he fires back. “What is it these days, baby sis? Eleven? Ten-thirty?”

Evelina’s smirk fades. “I do not have a curfew, dick.”

Roman laughs, ruffling her hair like she’s five. “Not my fault Dad still treats you like a kid, solnishka.”

Evelina shoves his hand away, scowling. “Don’t you have people to kill or something?” she sighs. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” he counters.

Evelina gestures at me with her brows. “Uh, duh?”

“Oh—right.” Roman turns to eye me. “Yeah, so…congratulations, Lyra?”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

Roman turns back to his sister. “Well, if you guys are looking to crank up the volume on your night a little⁠—”

“And we are,” Milena interjects.

Roman grins. “Why don’t you join us, then? We’ve got a VIP booth over there at Doomsday.”

He turns and points a finger to where Carmine and all the others are lounging outside a club across the street. I watch as Nico slips a cigarette between his lips and lights it, his face illuminating with the glow of it as he shoves his fingers through his dark hair and glances across the street at us.

A shiver ripples down my spine at the way his eyes seem to narrow—analyzing, assessing.

Ripping apart.

And here I thought Carmine was the family psycho…

Doomsday actually rings a bell. I’ve heard it’s a hotspot for Bratva types, and nights there have a reputation for going off the rails.

“To Doomsday?” Evelina squeaks the word.

Her brother grins darkly at her. “I mean, unless you’d rather go home and have a pajama party. You could watch cartoons, make hot chocolate and popcorn⁠—”

“Fuck you. We’re in.”

I sigh, slipping my arm through Naomi’s as the five of us start following Roman across the street.

“I mean, I could go for pajamas and hot chocolate,” I giggle.

“Facts,” Naomi sighs. “But this’ll be fun.” Eagerness peeks through the cracks in her good girl persona. “I’ve heard this club gets insane.”

“It does.”

I flinch when his voice ripples over my skin like silk. Even Naomi gasps at the way he just materializes behind us as we reach the other side of the street.

Swallowing, I turn, feeling my bottom lip retreat between my teeth as I look up into Carmine’s piercing, vicious eyes.

I gasp as he plucks me away from Naomi and wraps an arm around my waist, so tight I might as well be handcuffed to him.

“…Which is why you’ll be staying close to me while we’re in there,” he growls, dropping his gaze back to mine. “Very close.”