Dance of Deception: Chapter 2

I’m shaking as I stare out the window of the cab, watching the darkened buildings whiz past. My breath is still uneven, knuckles white and fingers curled tightly around the strap of my dance bag.

We’d never met before tonight. But I know who Carmine Barone is. Everyone does. The heir to the Barone family. Bianca’s older brother.

I knew he was mafia, but holy fucking hell, I didn’t know he was this dark malevolent force, or whatever the hell that was back there.

A leering, looming shadow.

An all-consuming blackness.

There was something so sinister about him, and it wasn’t just the mafia angle. It was like a darkness, bubbling like molten tar just beneath his perfect exterior.

The way he wrapped his hand around my throat and stroked my pulse as he studied me—it wasn’t just dominance. That was something much darker.

If this is startled, I’d love to see what it looks like when you’re truly scared.

I pull my hoodie tighter around me.

Again, it was like he was getting off on my terror.

Like a psychopath.

I should be thinking about the grocery money I don’t have. The rent that’s due. My mother, who I can almost guarantee is passed out drunk on the couch again, or if she’s awake is ready with a fresh round of biting words and bitter resentment.

Instead, all I can think about is the press of Carmine’s rough palm against my throat, the way his eyes lingered. How my pulse thrummed against his skin.

He liked that.

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. Get out of your head, girl.

I force my gaze down to my lap and my wallet sitting there, then up to the meter on the cab. My dumb pride still wants to tell Brooklyn thanks but no thanks. But pride has a way of taking a back seat to hunger and desperation. Mercifully, she slid me enough money for two cab rides. That solves my hunger problem for the evening and probably the next few days, if I can stretch it.

“Here’s good, thanks,” I murmur to the driver as we get to the 24-hour corner bodega a block away from my building. I pay him and slip out of the cab, slamming the door behind me.

The street is mostly deserted at this hour. I turn toward the familiar glow of Francisco’s, shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket and already making a mental list of the basics I can grab.

Bread. Instant ramen. Maybe some canned soup?

The bell over the door jingles as I step inside. The bodega is warm and smells like stale coffee and overripe fruit. I nod at Francisco behind the counter, a man too old and tired to care about anything except making sure nobody steals from him.

I grab a basket and head toward the shelves.

I don’t notice the man standing at the end of the aisle, blocking my exit, until it’s too late.

My chest tightens. He’s not someone I recognize, but there’s something off about the way he’s staring at me with such focused intensity.

Not this again. Please. I thought these psychos were done with me.

I grip the basket tighter. “Excuse me…”

He doesn’t move.

“How did you not know?” His voice is quiet, but the steel in it is unmistakable.

I go still.

“What?”

His head tips slightly, dark eyes burning into mine. “How the fuck did you not know the girls were down there, Lyra?”

The ground tilts beneath me.

A rush of cold sweeps through my limbs, my grip tightening even more on the basket. “I don’t—” I shake my head, taking a step back. “I think you have me confused with⁠—”

He takes a step forward. I step back again, the metal shelves biting into my spine.

“You covered for him,” the man mutters, voice shaking with rage. “The Truth Report says it’s got new information that you covered for that motherfucker.”

A buzzing starts in my ears, drowning out the sound of the flickering overhead fluorescent light, the hum of the refrigerator case behind me.

Not here. Not now.

“I’m sorry,” I say, forcing steel into my voice. “Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it here.”

The man’s lips curl into a sneer.

Then I see the knife, glinting in his hand.

My pulse skyrockets and I drop the basket. It clatters to the floor, cans rolling across the tile, but I don’t care. I turn, shoving past him, my breath coming in quick bursts.

He grabs my wrist.

“My sister,” he hisses. “Her name was Jordana Hodgkins.”

I wrench my arm free, heart pounding against my ribs.

His sister.

Oh, God.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” I snap, barely recognizing my own voice. I stumble back, knocking into a display of energy drinks, sending them crashing to the floor.

The sudden sound startles Francisco behind the counter. “Hey! What the hell⁠—”

I don’t wait. I bolt for the door, shoving it open so hard the bell nearly tears from the frame.

Run.

I sprint down the block, shoes slamming on the pavement, the cold air slicing into my lungs.

I can hear him following me.

I don’t look back. I don’t stop.

I’m already jamming my hand into my pocket and feeling for my keys as I round the corner, my apartment building in sight. I grab the front door handle, jam in the keys and yank hard, bursting into the dim lobby.

I slam the door shut behind me, the lock clicking into place. Then I whirl, pushing through the door to the stairwell, my hands shaking as I grip the railing, my legs barely carrying me up the first few steps.

I don’t go straight to my apartment.

Instead, I sink down on the stairs, curling my knees into my chest, my pulse still pounding, bile rising in my throat.

Jordana Hodgkins.

Her name echoes in my head along with his other victims.

I try to shove the memory back into its cage but it breaks free, slamming into me with the force of a tidal wave.

The girl with the haunted eyes. The ugly bruises, the dirty chains. The smell. The sheer, abject horror.

I gag, shoving my fist to my mouth to keep from making a sound.

Arkadi, my father, is dead. He was killed in prison four months ago. But the ghosts he left behind are still screaming for the vengeance they never got and never will truly get.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my forehead pressed against my knees. People like Jordana’s brother will never believe I didn’t know. The world decided my guilt a long time ago.

The tabloid reporters. The clickbait conspiracy theorists like The Truth Report spouting their ludicrous theories online to increase their view counts, claiming that I had to have been involved. Saying that I knew. That I turned a blind eye. Or worst of all, that I helped.

It makes me want to scream until I can’t scream anymore.

No matter what I say, there will always be people who believe I belonged in that prison cell, too.

And sometimes, when the nightmares claw their way into my head, when I wake up drenched in sweat, a scream lodged in my throat⁠—

I wonder if they’re right.

I force the memories away, burying them deep, where they belong, and stand.

The stairwell is silent except for the dull creak of my weight shifting on the warped wooden steps. My body is still wired, my pulse running too high, but exhaustion is starting to settle in now, weighing down my limbs. I just need to make it inside, lock the door, and go to bed.

I take the stairs to our fourth-floor apartment, clenching the railing, barely aware of how my hands shake. My heart hasn’t settled since the bodega, since I heard that man’s voice twisted with rage when he said her name.

Jordana Hodgkins.

Daniela Garcia.

Kerri Ayers.

Pamela Gill.

Yolanda Gonzales.

Sophia Ferguson.

I get to our floor before I can possibly finish listing all the names forever burned into my psyche.

The hall light flickers weakly as I approach the door. The paint is peeling, the number is slightly crooked, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke mixed with something vaguely chemical hangs in the air. I brace myself before unlocking the door, already knowing what’s waiting on the other side.

As soon as I push the door open, the smell of cheap vodka slams into me.

Vera is exactly how I expected—sprawled out on the couch in her ratty bathrobe, the television muttering some late-night talk show in the background. A glass sits half-full in her hand, the neck of the bottle within easy reach on the coffee table.

She barely glances at me, her gaze flicking up just long enough to take in my disheveled appearance before returning to the TV. “It’s late.”

I get that almost everyone has a complex relationship with their mother. But I’m willing to bet mine takes the prize.

It’s not just that she’s got a drinking problem. It’s not only that she’s a gambling addict, a textbook narcissist, and what pretty much any psychologist would label as “emotionally abusive.” It’s that—and I know this is going to sound dramatic, but it’s true—I have never, ever felt a single drop of “motherly love” from her.

Not once.

She didn’t outright neglect me as a child, of course. I was fed. I had clothes and a roof over my head. But parental affection? Snuggles? Being told I was loved?

It’s just not in her DNA. It used to bother me more. Or maybe I’ve just grown numb to it over the years.

And yes, I ask myself all the fucking time why it is that after an entire childhood of getting the cold shoulder from her, I’ve found myself letting her live with me the last two years.

I still don’t really have an answer.

Maybe we’re just stuck with family for life, even family like Vera. Maybe I’m still holding out hope that one day, she’ll wake up and change.

But apparently, that day is not today.

I exhale, shutting the door behind me. “Rehearsal ran late.”

Vera snorts, shifting in her seat. “Re-hear-sal,” she repeats, like the word itself is funny. “Right. All that time dancing—tell me, when does it start paying the bills?”

I don’t answer. There’s no point. We’ve had this conversation so many times.

I drop my bag next to the door, my muscles screaming for rest as I roll my shoulders. All I want is to go to my room, lock the door, and collapse into bed for a few hours before I wake up and do it all over again tomorrow.

“What’s wrong?”

My brow furrows as I glance over at my mom. “What?”

“What’s wrong,” she slurs. “You’ve got a look on your face.”

I shake my head. “I’m just tired.”

“Lyra.”

I make the mistake of hesitating, just for a second.

“Tell me,” she insists, peering at me with alcohol-numbed but viciously focused eyes.

I exhale slowly. “Some guy recognized me,” I say, the words falling out before I can pull them back in. “Just now, at the bodega on the corner.”

Vera doesn’t react at first. Her glass hovers near her lips, the vodka sloshing against the rim as she sways slightly in her seat. Then, she sniffs and takes a slow sip, her bleary gaze shifting to me.

“Recognized you?”

“From the trial.” The word tastes bitter.

Vera’s eyes sharpen in a way I haven’t seen for a long time, cutting through the haze of alcohol. Her lips twist into a sneering smirk and she lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head.

“Of course he did,” she mutters. “Who was he? One of those cocksucking reporters? Another vulture?”

My gaze drops to my hands. “Chris Hodgkins.”

I remembered the name on my way upstairs. I recall seeing him outside the courtroom during those manic, fever-dream days. I also recall the biting, ruthless interview he gave to the press following my dad’s sentencing, vowing to ‘make sure Arkadi’s accomplices see justice too’.”

Vera’s brow’s knit. “Who?” she grunts.

“Jordana Hodgkins’ brother.”

My mother scowls. “I don’t know who the hell that⁠—”

“She’s one of the girls your husband raped and murdered,” I blurt coldly.

The room goes quiet. My mother’s eyes narrow on me, her lips pursing.

“All those cops, the lawyers, the goddamn reporters. They twisted it. Turned you against him.”

I groan, turning away.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard Mom’s insane version of history, especially when she’s shitfaced like this. But I don’t have it in me tonight to listen.

“Mom—”

“God knows Arkadi wasn’t perfect,” she scoffs. “I knew he had his girls on the side. I wasn’t happy about it, but I wasn’t gonna throw him in prison for life for a bunch of shit they made up just because I was mad at⁠—”

“Oh my God, Mom,” I hurl back. “Enough! He didn’t go to prison for cheating on you! He went to prison because⁠—”

“Because you put him there!” she screeches, lurching to her feet and splashing her drink all over the place. “Because those fuckers got to you and turned you against your own father! You stood up there in that courtroom, all high and mighty, and ran your mouth,” she spits, her voice thick with scorn. “Cried your little crocodile tears and told them everything they wanted to hear. Gave them everything they needed to put him away.”

Tears sting the corners of my eyes. “I told the truth.”

Vera’s laugh is sharp, cutting. “Yeah. And look where that got you.” She spreads her arms wide, gesturing to the shabby apartment around us. “Look where it got me.”

I shake my head, turning away. There’s no use arguing. There never is.

“Good night, Vera.”

But before I can take a step, there’s a loud, heavy knock on the door.

My mom stiffens slightly, her grip tightening around her glass.

The knock comes again, harder this time.

My stomach knots. A knock on the door at five minutes to midnight is never a good thing.

Vera sets her drink down on the coffee table, rubbing her face. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “Who the hell is banging like that at⁠—”

The next knock isn’t a knock. It’s a fist, slamming heavy and impatient against the door.

Mom tightens the belt of her robe and crosses the room slowly, stepping barefoot over the scuffed wood floor, leaning in, pressing an ear to the door. “Who is it?”

There’s silence.

But then suddenly, the door shudders violently when someone slams into it.

I jolt back instinctively. Vera stumbles away from the door, her face twisting in shock as the lock bends inward with a crack.

A second later the wood splinters when the door is kicked in.

I scream as two men in dark tracksuits burst inside like they own the place. Everything in the room seems to get smaller as their presence fills the space.

Mom stumbles back a step, her hand clutching the front of her robe. “What do you want!” she barks, trying to sound angry, but there’s a tremor in her tone.

The taller of the two men reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and dangles it in front of her face.

“Arkadi owed a debt that was never paid back,” he rumbles in a deep, Russian-accented voice. “That debt needs to be settled. Now.”

He drops the paper to the ground and shifts back on his heels, folding his arms over his chest. The other guy glances around the apartment disdainfully before his eyes settle on me, my skin crawling and my stomach souring when he grins a toothy, leering grin at me.

Vera stoops down and plucks the paper from the ground, scowling. She stands, opening it and staring at it with barely focused eyes before she barks out a laugh.

“One hundred thousand dollars?” she crows, her voice slurred. “Are you fucking serious?”

The first man, with his arms still crossed over his chest, merely shrugs. “With interest, that’s what you two owe Mr. Popov now.”

My blood runs cold.

Vera lets out a short, humorless laugh, like this is some kind of mistake. “What? No. That’s—” She shakes her head. “That’s not our problem.”

The man’s expression doesn’t change.

The other one, the one who hasn’t spoken yet but has been looking at me like he’s removing my clothes with his eyes, steps closer.

Vera swallows, trying again. “Arkadi’s fucking dead,” she says, quieter now. “He died four months ago.”

The taller man leans against the counter, his fingers drumming on the crumpled paper. “Yes, and he left behind unfinished business.” His voice is calm, casual, but there’s a razor-sharp edge beneath it.

Vera opens her mouth, but he lifts a finger, silencing her.

“Five thousand a week,” he continues. “Until the debt is paid off.”

I suck in a breath.

Five thousand?

That’s impossible. It might as well be a million a week. A gazillion. It could be five hundred and still be as unattainable as a ticket to Mars right now.

Vera shakes her head, frantic. “We don’t have that kind of money!”

His lips curl slightly with the barest hint of amusement. “Then you’d better figure it out.”

He turns his head, eyes flicking toward me for the first time.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The air between us stretches thin, humming. Then he gives the slightest, faintest smirk.

“Or next time,” he murmurs, “we’ll take something else instead.”

His gaze drags over me.

My skin prickles, with fear or rage I don’t know, and my breath stays locked away in my chest.

The man lets the moment hang before brushing down his track suit like this has all been some friendly business arrangement, then glances at his partner. They step back toward the door. The one who did all the talking pauses, fingers tapping twice on the doorframe as he looks back at Vera.

“First payment’s due in a week,” he reminds her.

Then the door slams behind them, rattling in its hinges and jangling the broken lock and splintered doorframe.

I don’t move.

“Mom…”

“Let me think, Lyra!” she snaps, her face pale as she staggers back to the couch before exhaling a slow, shaky breath and reaching for her drink.

“Even dead, that piece of shit keeps ruining my life,” she mumbles, sinking onto the couch and staring haggardly at the wall.

I barely hear her. My mind is already elsewhere.

One hundred thousand dollars. Five grand a week.

The weight of it presses down on me, suffocating.

Like Vera’s, my hands are trembling. But I don’t reach for a bottle. I reach for my phone and scroll to Brooklyn’s contact, my thumb hovering over the call button.

I don’t want to do this.

But I don’t think I have a choice.