Dance of Deception: Chapter 15

The final notes of Tchaikovsky’s pas de trois echo through the empty theater as I hit my end position.

Brooklyn mirrors the movement on the other side of Vaughn, our chests still heaving with exertion.

I take a deep breath and let the moment settle, before exhaling and relaxing, bent forward, spent.

The past couple of weeks since it came out that I was marrying Carmine Barone have been a whirlwind.

At the theater, the news swept through the company like wildfire. At first, I couldn’t set foot in the dressing room without hearing whispers—some curious, some tinged with a bit of jealously, or worse, scorn and judgement.

Some people were just outright confused. Milena had to shut down at least three ridiculous theories, ranging from she must be pregnant to she must have blackmailed him into it.

Which, technically, isn’t entirely false.

But it was Bianca who really put a stop to it. Not with any loud declarations or dramatic speeches. Just a few well-placed looks, a couple of quietly spoken words, and suddenly, the rumor mill, mercifully, died a swift death.

Of course, deflecting rumors hasn’t been the only hazard that comes with getting engaged to Carmine. Milena caught sight of the bite mark he left on my inner thigh when we were changing at the end of the afternoon—and, of course, had a fucking field day with it.

I’d barely tugged my tights off when she zeroed in on it like a shark scenting blood.

“Oh my fucking God,” she gasped, grinning. “Don’t tell me that is a bite mark.”

I’d whipped around to glare at her, but it was too late. She was already cackling, calling Evelina over, demanding a full forensic analysis.

But now, with just two days to go before I’m bound forever to that madman, it’s clear everyone around me understands that the time for joking is over.

“Well,” Vaughn mutters next to me on stage, still catching his breath. “That was sufficiently brutal.”

Brooklyn groans, rolling her shoulders. “Seriously. I need ice. Maybe a priest.”

“Speaking of priest…” Vaughn grins and turns to me. “What’s the countdown again?”

Brooklyn sighs, shooting Vaughn a look. “Two days. Seriously, how hard is it to remember that? Stop asking her.”

I flash her a grateful grin.

Vaughn rolls his eyes. “It might have helped if yours truly had gotten a fucking wedding invite,” he grunts, rolling his muscled shoulders and stretching his veined forearms.

I sigh. “Okay, a, I had nothing to do with the guest list, believe me. And b, it’s a small wedding.”

Vaughn snorts, arching a sarcasm-laden brow. “How small?”

Shit.

I wince as I raise my eyes to his. “Um, two hundred guests?”

Vaughn and Brooklyn laugh loudly, shaking their heads.

“Just two hundred of your closest personal friends,” Vaughn snickers. “Dude, I don’t even know two hundred people.”

Brooklyn snorts loudly. “If we include people your dick knows, are we getting closer?”

Vaughn feigns mock indignation.

“I feel like I’m being slut-shamed.”

“Well, that’s because you’re kinda a slut,” Brooklyn grins.

Vaughn rolls his eyes and flips her off before turning back to me. “Let me at least see it.”

I frown. “See what?”

He grins salaciously. “The fucking bite mark I heard The Godfather gave you on your pussy.”

My jaw drops.

“Okay, first of all, no,” I snap testily. “And secondly, he did not bite me on my…my…” I swallow. “That’s just not true.”

“Milena said that psycho bit your fucking pussy⁠—”

“It was my thigh! Jesus!!” I shriek, before realizing what I’ve done.

Goddammit.

Vaughn’s grin gets even wider. “So, how is it, fucking mafia royalty?”

My face throbs as I turn away, sliding to the floor to stretch my calves.

“I have no idea.”

“Seriously?” Vaughn walks over and plants himself directly back in my line of sight.

“Seriously,” I mutter.

“Hold up. You’ve been engaged to Mr. Broody Psycho-hot Mafia for weeks now, and you haven’t fucked him?”

When I just shrug, Vaughn groans.

“Banging a mafia prince or princess is totally on my sexual bucket list. You get it served up on a platter and you say ‘pass’.” He sighs and turns to Brooklyn. “The fucking unmitigated gall.”

I snort, shaking my head as the three of us move to exit the stage. Just as I’m about to step into the wings, my name is called from the shadows of the fourth row.

“Lyra.”

I freeze.

Madame Kuzmina’s voice is, as always, calm but commanding—the kind of tone that’s never really a request.

Brooklyn and Vaughn pause, glancing at me.

Kuzmina barely misses a beat. “You two can go,” she says simply.

Vaughn lifts a brow, but Brooklyn nudges him, pushing him toward the dressing rooms.

Crap. Madame Kuzmina isn’t someone who just summons people without reason.

She moves down the aisle a few rows, still barely lit by the stage lights. She raises one of her hands and beckons.

“Come.”

I nod, quickly stepping to the edge of the stage and clambering down before making my way to her.

Madame Kuzmina has a way of coming off as ancient, like she’s a witch who’s mastered time spells or something. But in reality, she’s not actually that old. Gun to my head, I’d have to say mid-to-late thirties.

She’s perpetually dressed in dark shawls, adding to her vibe of a Roma fortune teller, or a witch. But up close, she’s got an elegant edge. Her features are sharp, but there’s a shrewd beauty to her, with dark eyes that seem to be constantly assessing.

“M-madame?” I ask with a nervous smile.

She just nods her chin. “Follow me.”

She turns and walks away. I swallow uncomfortably, wiping my damp palms on my leotard, and follow.

I’ve never been in Madame Kuzmina’s private study in the three years I’ve been dancing with the Zakharova. I don’t know if anyone in the company has.

The room is dark, old-world elegant, the air thick with the scent of aged paper and faded perfume. Behind her desk, a bank of windows overlooks the upper orchestra seats and the stage below.

Posters of legendary ballet productions line the walls, alongside framed black-and-white photos of dancers frozen in action.

A piano sits in the corner, its black lacquered surface gleaming in the dim light. Shelves upon shelves of vinyl records fill the space, meticulously categorized.

Madame Kuzmina gestures toward a chair.

“Please, sit,” she purrs in her slightly Russian accent.

I do so, back ramrod straight, hands clasped in my lap.

There’s a pause.

I finally break the silence. “Why did you wish to talk to me, Madame?”

Kuzmina arches a brow fiercely.

“I didn’t.”

I blink. “What?”

She turns, moving toward the door, then opens it, and I jump to my feet when a man I know walks in.

“Thank you, Magda,” Kir Nikolayev murmurs, his deep, smooth voice laced with authority.

Madame Kuzmina nods quietly to him before turning to let her eyes sweep over me impassively. Then she closes the door behind her, leaving us alone.

For a moment, the room is silent. Kir stands by the door in a dark gray suit, his piercing eyes appraising me. Then, with a nod, he moves across the room, sweeping past me to sit in Madame Kuzmina’s chair across the desk from me. He settles back, clearly waiting for me to sit as well. When I do, he clears his throat.

“It’s been some time, hasn’t it, Lyra?”

Kir’s voice is smooth, like a blade dragging along silk. I grip the arms of the chair, my pulse skipping painfully in my neck.

We’ve seen each other at Zakharova events. But it’s been years since we spoke alone like this. But I remember exactly where I was the last time we did.

It was a hotel room in the Bronx, the air stale from my mother’s cigarettes. The walls too thin, the cheap comforter scratchy on my arms as I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling as hollow as the house we’d left behind.

The house that was now marked off with crime scene tape.

I was fourteen and had just had the foundations of my reality destroyed, my faith in men shattered, my belief in family, love, and truth all broken thanks to my fateful exploration of the far end of our basement that my father had always told me to stay away from.

Kir had walked into the hotel room like he owned the place—calm, controlled—but hadn’t looked at me with cruelty.

He’d looked at me like I was a problem to be solved.

“Your father has been excommunicated from my organization, Lyra,” Kir had said, his voice tight. “Do you know what that means?”

I’d shaken my head.

“It means he’s not protected by us anymore, not after what he did. Which means you are free to tell the police everything you know to put him in a deep hole, which is where he belongs.”

I’d hesitated.

Kir had leaned in slightly, his presence heavy and suffocating.

“You and your mother will not face any kind of reprisal for aiding in the case against your father.”

So, I talked.

I testified.

And Arkadi went to prison.

Now, years later, Kir is studying me like I’m still that girl sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, waiting to see what happens next.

“Forgive the dramatics of meeting you this way,” Kir finally says, turning slightly, his hands steepled against the dark suit pulled across his firm chest. “You’ll understand in a moment why I didn’t want our conversation overheard.”

I lick my lips, swallowing. “What do you want?”

Kir’s lips tilt into something that isn’t quite a smile as he shifts, leaning closer, and I swear, the actual air in the room tightens.

Kir is, objectively, gorgeous. The kind of good-looking that sucks all the air out of the room. It’s not in the way Carmine is attractive—sharp, savage, and untamed.

Kir is refined, carrying himself with quiet, utterly devastating confidence. He’s older, radiates power, and always seems dangerously in control.

“I wanted to speak to you,” he says lightly, tapping his fingers on the desk in front of him, “because I’ve been thinking about your father’s enemies—of which, you’ll be I’m sure completely unsurprised to hear, he had plenty.”

The blood in my veins chills.

Kir leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Yet they’ve left you and your mother alone up till now. Do you know why?”

I shake my head.

“Because you had nothing to offer them.” His tone is neutral, detached. “You and your mother were barely scraping by. Therefore, no reason for them to care.”

His gaze narrows.

“But now you’re marrying Carmine Barone.”

He lets that sink in.

“Arkadi made a lot of enemies,” Kir continues. “In life, and in death.”

I flinch. Kir notices.

He shifts again, his voice dropping lower. “I heard about Popov.” Kir shakes his head. “If you needed money, you should have come to me.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t⁠—”

“You’re marrying him for it,” Kir says evenly. “Carmine, I mean.”

I shake my head too quickly. “It’s—it’s not like that.”

Kir doesn’t look convinced.

“Can I assume your new fiancé is the reason Popov no longer has a pulse?” He arches his brow. “Or hands, for that matter?”

I freeze, eyes bulging.

Kir leans back, studying me again. ‘That, however, is not why I wanted to sit down with you today.’ He frowns, tapping the desk again with one hand as he strokes his chiseled jawline with the other thoughtfully. ‘I don’t want to alarm you,’ he murmurs, ‘but I heard a rumor.’

A rumor.

My fingers tighten in my lap. ‘What kind of rumor?’

Kir’s expression doesn’t change, but his ice-blue, predatory eyes hold mine in place.

‘The kind that’s designed to scare you.’

He sighs, rubbing his jaw. “I can assume you know who Marcus Chen is?”

My stomach turns. Of course I do.

Marcus Chen is the conspiracy theorist-slash-snake-oil-salesman who run The Truth Report podcast and blog. He’s basically the epicenter of all of the especially ridiculous, horrifying theories about my father’s crimes and my connection to them.

The motherfucker who’s leaked my phone number and my address to his rabid, lunatic fans multiple times. The one who sends grieving people like Chris Hodgkins my way with twisted lies roaring in their heads about my connection to their dead loved ones.

Kir watches my reaction carefully.

“He’s publishing a new article later tonight,” he says smoothly. “And it’s…not pretty.”

I swallow hard. ‘What does it say?’

Kir exhales slowly. ‘That your father isn’t dead. That his body was never recovered. That the prison autopsy was fabricated.’ He holds up a hand as I open my mouth. ‘It’s all bullshit. But bullshit spreads fast.’

I sway slightly. The room tilts.

Kir sits back, crossing one leg over the other. ‘I could, of course, pay him a visit. Make him rethink his career choices.’ His tone is dry and laced with something sharp. ‘But that would only make him double down. If I go after him, he’ll publish the story with twice the effort.’

I drag my tongue over my lips, trying to swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. ‘So why are you telling me this?’

Kir studies me. ‘Because I wanted to reassure you before you heard it from someone else.’

The air feels too thick.

He adjusts his suit jacket. ‘I wanted you to know that I am handling it. And that you have nothing to fear.’

Something sharp twists inside of me. Darkness from the past claws up from the shadows, strangling me for a moment. But I force a tight smile, swallowing the unease curling through me. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

Kir inclines his head. ‘One last thing.’

I blink. ‘What?’

His piercing gaze hardens, voice dropping. ‘Are you being forced into this wedding?’

The words hit like a gunshot.

Kir leans forward slightly, his hands steepled in front of him. ‘If you’re feeling pressured—whether for money, or for any other reason that makes you feel as if you don’t have a choice—’ He clears his throat, resting his hands on the edge of the desk, his gaze steel-cutting into me.

‘Now is the time to say something. And I am the one to say it to.’

The room goes still.

‘I’m your way out, Lyra. I’m your lifeline, if you need it. But you have to tell me right the fuck now.’

He leans in. ‘Do you need me to stop your wedding to Carmine Barone. Yes or no?’

The fact that I hesitate at all tells me I should probably be committed.

The fact that I don’t immediately scream “YES, SAVE ME, KIR!” and leap across the desk into his arms is proof that I’m unwell, unfit to take care of myself.

I could lie and say the reason I don’t say yes is that I’m scared of Carmine.

But the truth?

I don’t say yes because I might already be too tangled up in his darkness to break free.

I meet Kir’s gaze, forcing a smile. ‘Thank you,’ I say quietly. ‘But I’m okay.’

Kir’s expression doesn’t change. He watches me, his gaze a little too sharp, a little too knowing.

Then he nods. ‘Very well.’

He stands, adjusting his suit jacket. ‘I wish you a very happy and fulfilling marriage,’ he adds dryly.

He stops beside me as I rise. His brow furrows slightly. ‘Again, my intention wasn’t to scare you. Just to inform you.’

I swallow. ‘Thanks.’

Kir nods, his expression unreadable.

“Your father is not walking around like some vengeful ghost, Lyra.’

He places a firm, powerful hand on my tense shoulder.

‘Ghosts aren’t real.’

I manage to keep my composure.

But the second he’s gone, the words I can’t shake from my head slither through my skull like a death sentence.

You’ll pay dearly for putting me away, moya dorogaya doch’.

Ghosts aren’t real.

But what happens if they are?