Dance of Deception: Chapter 7

“Psychopathy is one of the most studied yet misunderstood conditions in forensic psychology.”

I twirl my pen between my fingers, only half-listening as Professor Armitage paces at the front of the lecture hall.

“A true psychopath lacks empathy and the ability to form genuine emotional connections. They can, however, be very charming, and incredibly skilled at mimicking normal human behavior. This is what makes them so dangerous.”

My fingers tighten on my pen as the memory flashes through my mind.

Cold, unyielding stone pressing against my back. Candlelight flickering in my eyes.

The Hound’s breath on my skin, his voice curling around me like smoke.

“Fight back.”

A shudder teases down my spine, a familiar war raging inside me between fear, anxiety, and…something else.

Excitement.

Desire.

The thought should make me sick.

I shouldn’t have wanted it. I shouldn’t still feel the throb of heat between my legs every time I close my eyes at night, my fingers brushing over the places he touched.

“Psychopaths seek control,” Professor Armitage continues. “They’re highly skilled at reading people, understanding their desires, their weaknesses. They enjoy the game of breaking them down.”

My throat tightens.

Because it’s not just The Hound snarling into my neck and sinking his fingers between my thighs, making me squirm and gasp for more.

I’m also thinking of my other recent scary encounter: the one with Carmine Barone in the alley behind the Mercury Opera House.

The way he stood in the shadows outside the theater, staring down into my face, blocking my path.

The way he touched my throat, fingers pressing just enough to remind me how much power he held.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to force the thoughts away.

Two encounters with two different men. And yet, they made me feel the same way: terrified.

Afraid.

Excited.

And turned on.

Sourness curdles in my stomach as I try to focus on the Behavioral Studies lecture.

“Psychopaths seek control,” Professor Armitage continues, her hands moving expressively as she speaks. “What makes a psychopath truly dangerous isn’t just their capacity for violence…”

My mind flashes to the brutal sound of a blade cutting flesh, to blood spraying across the stone floor like spilled wine, the thick, iron-slick scent of it filling my nostrils as I tried to keep dancing.

“It’s their ability to blend in, to manipulate those around them into believing they are something they aren’t. They perform emotions they don’t feel. They learn your vulnerabilities without you realizing it, and may use those vulnerabilities to their advantage.”

I press my lips together, thinking of the man who chased me through a dark, cavernous labyrinth, who whispered filthy, terrifying things into my ear as his fingers pushed me over the edge.

The thing is, whether he knows it or not, he is using my vulnerabilities against me. In a sane or rational world, I’d never even consider going back to that place.

Except “sane” and “rational” are currently taking a back seat to the cold reality that I need to come up with five thousand dollars a fucking week to pay back Arkadi’s debt. And the only way I can possibly think of to get that kind of money is to do exactly what I shouldn’t after what happened the other night: go back to that place.

Back to him.

My body reacts to the memories before my brain can stop it—a flush creeping up my neck, a pulse beating low in my stomach, a tight ache curling deep within me.

Shame burns in my chest.

Why the hell was I turned on by any of that—vividly, feverishly so?

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Many psychopaths operate in positions of power. They thrive in places where manipulation and ruthlessness are considered assets, not weaknesses.”

I exhale sharply and drag a hand through my hair, trying to focus, forcing the thoughts down.

Professor Armitage steps to the front of the stage, clasping her hands in front of her.

“In summary, the defining trait of a psychopath is simple: they do not stop.”

The air outside is crisp and biting, the afternoon sky pale and overcast. I tuck my hands in my pockets, my bag slung over my shoulder as I head for the subway to go uptown for rehearsal. My phone presses against my palm, sending a nervous tick through my fingers.

I should message Brooklyn’s contact about another job.

I ended up texting Milena, whose family is Bratva, asking her if she knew a “Mr. Popov”; I claimed I’d heard some guys giving my local bodega owner a hard time, and mentioning that name. Milena said that it was most likely a guy named Grigori Popov, a mid-level Russian gangster who Milena characterized as a ‘serious lunatic’.

Apparently, I have a neon sign over my head welcoming those into my life lately. Great.

A shiver ripples up my spine as I yet again replay the sordid details of the other night. But this time, I shove them down as I pull my phone out of my pocket. It hasn’t been a full week yet since Grigori’s guys kicked in our door. But if I’m going to be magically producing five thousand dollars a week, I’m going to need to go back to wherever that was and dance again⁠—

A hand grabs my arm, and I yelp.

I’m barely able to react before I’m yanked hard into an alley.

Panic explodes in my chest as my back slams against the brick wall, my breath leaving me in a sharp gasp.

The same two guys from the other night—Grigori Popov’s men—leer down at me.

“Well, now,” the taller one sneers, his lip curled. “Look what we have here.”

His partner leans in, his gaze trailing down my body. “You been avoiding us, little girl?”

I shake my head frantically, heart slamming against my ribs. “It—it hasn’t been a week yet!”

The taller one smirks. “If you don’t have it now, I’m not sure how the fuck you think you’re going to get it in two⁠—”

“I have it!” I blurt.

Well, most of it.

With trembling fingers, I dig into my bag, pulling out the envelope I was handed as I was dropped off the other night.

It’s not the full five grand. I mean, we had to eat, and I pulled a thousand out to set aside for rent. That’s why I’ve been working up the nerve to text the contact again, asking when I can dance again for more money.

The shorter one yanks the envelope out of my hand, flips through the bills.

His face darkens.

“You’re short,” he growls.

My pulse kicks into overdrive.

“I—I know, but it hasn’t been a full week yet,” I plead, my voice wavering.

He grunts. The taller one watches me closely, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“You know,” he murmurs, “there are other ways to pay off a debt.”

Disgust seeps through me, like sour milk.

“Pretty little thing like you?” He grins lecherously. “You know how to work a cock, baby?”

My face pales as I draw back from him.

He chuckles. “Trust me, if sucking my dick got you off the hook with Mr. Popov, I’d have had you on your knees two minutes ago.”

Fuck you.

“Maybe you should be out there using what God gave you to make that money, hmm?”

I shake my head violently, and the man shrugs.

“Just a suggestion. Believe me, turning tricks is way better than what will happen if you miss a payment to Mr. Popov.”

He suddenly frowns as his gaze drops to my collarbone. In a panic, my hand flies to the necklace, gripping it like a lifeline.

This belonged to Aunt Alison, whom I never knew and never met. But I had an old photo when I was younger of my father’s sister wearing this necklace with the little ballet slipper pendant, sitting in a rocking chair by a window, holding me as a baby.

There are zero pictures of Arkadi or Vera holding me like that or looking at me like people are supposed to look at babies they’re related to. So that one of Aunt Alison holding me, my little hand reaching for the pendant necklace that she ended up leaving me, was always incredibly precious to me.

The taller man slaps my hand away, and his fingers snatch the chain, breaking it as he yanks it roughly from my neck.

No.

I cry out, lurching forward and desperately trying to retrieve it. “Please!” I gasp. “Don’t⁠—”

“It’s collateral, since you’re short,” he chuckles smugly, pocketing the necklace.

“Relax, you’ll get it back,” the other one sneers. “When you pay us what you owe.”

Then, just as fast as they grabbed me, they’re gone.

I’m left there shaking, raw, breathless. And for the first time since this all started, I feel something like hopelessness creeping in.

I need more money.

And I need it now.

I stop at the corner, pressing my fingers against my temples, forcing my breath to slow.

I can still feel Popov’s men—grabbing me, their fingers digging into my arms, ripping my necklace away like it was nothing.

Shaking, I tug my phone out of my pocket and scroll to Brooklyn’s contact. The last time I called this number, not having any idea what I was getting into, a man with an even, smooth tone interviewed me briefly, then told me where to meet to be picked up for the job. I was, strangely, less nervous then.

Because this time, I know exactly what I’m getting myself into as my finger hovers over the dial button, my pulse thudding anxiously in my ears.

Heat curls through my stomach, spreading like a slow burn, embarrassment prickling my skin as memories rush in unbidden.

Of him.

The way he chased me. Caught me.

…Everything else that came next. Things I should be disgusted or feel utterly violated by. Not events that I should be replaying nightly to myself in my most private thoughts.

I breathe deeply, shoving the memory down where it belongs. Then a darker, more nagging thought takes hold.

Did he tell them?

Did he tell the Court that my blindfold slipped? That I saw something I wasn’t supposed to? Are they even going to let me back?

Well, only one way to find out.

I press call.

The line rings once.

Twice.

Then—

A soft chime.

“We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

My heart drops.

No.

No, no, no.

I stare at the screen, then hit the call button again.

The same chime. The same flat, robotic voice telling me I’m fucked.

Shit.

I straighten my shoulders, dragging in a steadying breath, slipping everything behind a carefully controlled mask as panic begins to overtake me.

No. This isn’t the time to fall apart. I’ll figure it out. Somehow.

I count to three. Then I round the corner.

The alley behind the Mercury Opera House is crowded with dancers, as it usually is at the start of the day. Some stretch against the railing despite the cold, others sip coffee or smoke cigarettes, huddled together in quiet conversation.

It’s an unspoken ritual, this lingering. The calm before the storm. Because the second we step through those doors, we stop belonging to ourselves.

Inside, we are Madame Kuzmina’s.

I spot Milena and Naomi immediately. Naomi is bundled up in a scarf, her dark hair piled into a tight bun, her hands wrapped around a steaming coffee. Milena is bare-shouldered despite the chill, and her sleek blonde ponytail swishes when she turns at the sound of my footsteps.

“Hey!” Milena says, a small grin curling her pouty lips. “We were about to send a search party.”

Naomi huffs, blowing on her coffee. “She’s literally two minutes later than usual.”

“Exactly,” Milena teases. “Highly suspicious.”

Naomi rolls her eyes, smiling. “You and your Bratva paranoia.”

Milena winks. “Survival instinct, solnishka.”

I laugh, stepping into their circle, letting their banter settle over me like a blanket.

Milena is one of my closest friends. Confident, beautiful, with an effortless cool that makes people gravitate toward her.

But still—she’s a Kalishnik. Her father, Marko, is the head of the Kalishnik Bratva. Milena doesn’t talk about it much, but she doesn’t have to.

I know what it means.

Milena grew up in the same world that I did. But she was raised as a princess within it.

I was a prisoner of it.

Naomi, meanwhile, is the opposite of both of us. A ‘good girl’, born into a privileged if suffocating life. Her father, Leonard Kim, is a congressman, her mother a retired ballerina turned socialite.

And yet, I know it would be naive to say that unlike Milena and me, she has the option to run away from it all.

…Because I’m not actually sure she does.

Naomi takes a slow sip of her coffee, sighing as she stares at the theater doors. “I swear, if Madame Kuzmina makes me run the fouettés today, I’m going to fake an injury and take up pottery.”

Milena smirks. “You’re playing Odile. Fouettés are kind of a key part of the job description.”

Naomi groans. “Yeah, well, Odile needs a union rep. This is starting to feel like workplace abuse.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I mean, if you want to switch, I’ll happily take the role off your hands⁠—”

“Over my dead body,” Naomi mutters.

Milena grins, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder. “Hey, I’m a cygnet. In the middle! Those pas de chats, I keep worrying I’m going to smack my neighbor’s knee. Why couldn’t I at least be on the end?” She puts the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically.

Naomi stretches, groaning. “I think Kuzmina is going to be extra hard on me this week.”

“Why?” I ask.

“She thinks my Odile isn’t mean enough,” Naomi huffs. “She wants me to ‘summon my darkness’.”

“Uh, hello?” Milena points at herself, grinning. “Bratva princess here. You’re welcome to my TED Talk on inner darkness any time, lady.”

Naomi snorts. “I’ve seen you three margaritas deep, rocking Britney Spears at karaoke. I have a hard time seeing you as dark after that.”

“Fine,” Milena waves her off. “Then ask Lyra. She’s got darkness to spare.”

That hits a little too close to home.

I force a tight smile as we all laugh, but something inside me itches, coils, burns.

“C’mon, let’s get in there before Kuzmina sends her flying monkeys.”

We’re heading for the door when I get a tap on the shoulder. I turn to see Brooklyn looking at me, tightness in her expression.

“See you in there,” I say to Naomi and Milena before I let Brooklyn pull me aside.

“I’ve been worried about you,” she says, biting her lip.

I force an easy smile to my lips. “I told you, I’m totally fine!”

We texted the other night, after…what happened. I had dozens of missed calls and texts from her, because she was terrified for me when she didn’t see me in the dressing room afterward along with everyone else.

She frowns. “Lyra, when you didn’t come back…”

My stomach knots.

I do not plan on telling her what happened.

“I told you,” I say lightly. “That voice in my earbuds told me to stay behind to dance a little longer, that’s all.”

She exhales, looking down. “I tried waiting for you, but they made me leave.”

I squeeze her arm. “All good.”

But it’s not all good. Not when I continuously, constantly, keep thinking of that chase, making something tingle inside me.

We turn for the door, but I can’t help myself.

“Hey, I…” I clear my throat as Brooklyn glances back at me curiously. “I went to call that number. You know, to see about dancing again…”

“Yeah—disconnected, right?”

The tension melts a little from around my chest at the easy way Brooklyn says it, like it’s to be expected.

“They do that.” She shrugs. “Security thing, I guess. They burn the number after every gig.”

Thank God.

So that’s why the number was no longer in service. Not because they know I saw. Not because The Hound told them I came on his fingers.

I exhale, my shoulders lowering as the stress melts out of them.

“They’ll text you from a new number when they⁠—”

Her phone dings loudly, as if on cue. Brooklyn pulls it out of her pocket and grins.

“See? Speak of the devil.”

She turns the phone to me, displaying a message from an unsaved number that simply reads “further instructions forthcoming.”

I pull my phone out, my eyes dropping to the screen.

No text.

Fuck.

“I’ll reach out,” Brooklyn says quietly, flashing me a forced smile. “I’m sure it’s an oversight. I mean, they asked you to stay longer last time, right?”

“Yeah, no, totally,” I mumble, trying not to spiral. “Anyway, we should head in.”

Inside the theater, the dressing room is buzzing, with dancers huddled together, whispering.

“What’s going on?” I ask as we walk over to Naomi and Milena.

Milena’s brow furrows as she turns. “It’s Bianca’s dad,” she says. “Apparently he had a heart attack last night.”

Holy shit.

“Vito Barone?”

She nods. “He got to hospital in time, but fuck. Can you imagine your dad⁠—”

Her mouth snaps shut instantly, and I catch the cold glare Naomi shoots her way. I shake my head.

“Guys, it’s fine,” I laugh—maybe a bit too loudly. “You can say the word ‘dad’ around me. I’m not going to turn to stone or anything.”

He has no power over you.

Not anymore.

Just then, the dressing room door swings open, and Bianca walks in, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed.

The conversation dies, and for a moment, no one knows what to say.

Finally Naomi steps forward, hugging her. “Are you okay?”

Bianca lets out a soft breath. “Yeah—I mean, no, but…” She shakes her head. “He’s stable now. That’s all that matters.”

Milena rubs her back. “How are you?”

Bianca lets out a short laugh. “A fucking wreck. But we’re working through it. For now, it’s making sure it doesn’t happen again. Then we figure out what comes next.” Her mouth twists into a wry grin as she looks up at us. “Actually, that’s the one amusing thing about all of this…”

Naomi frowns. “What is?”

“Carmine has to get married now.”

I blink. “What?”

Bianca nods. “They’re sure Dad’s going to be just fine. But I think it was a huge wake-up call for him. He’s gotta start eating better, slowing down, taking stress off his plate.” She looks around and leans closer to the three of us. “Look, please don’t share this yet. But…” She swallows. “Dad’s stepping down. Carmine’s going to be taking his place.”

Milena lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I thought your brother wasn’t in any hurry to take over.”

“He’s not,” Bianca mutters, rubbing her temples tiredly. “But it is what it is. He’s Dad’s oldest heir, so…”

Naomi tilts her head. “But why does he have to get married?”

Bianca’s expression is flat, unimpressed. “Some old-school crap about how the head of the family needs a wife.” She snorts. “I mean, bullshit, but amusing bullshit if you’re me. Can you imagine Carmine of all people married?”

Milena snickers. “I mean… He’s hot.”

“Milena!”

“What?” she laughs. “I’m just stating fact. All your brothers are.”

Biance wrinkles her nose.

“Is he even seeing anyone?” Naomi asks.

Bianca leans against the lockers. “Nope. So, get this, he’s holding auditions tonight. Like it’s the fucking Bachelor.” She shakes her head. “And it gets better. Whoever he picks? He’s offering them a million dollars.”

Sharp hunger twists in my stomach.

One. Million. Dollars.

I think of the men, coming to collect my father’s debt.

I think of my mother slumped on the couch, drowning in her latest bottle.

I think of the fact that I’m most definitely not getting called again to dance for the men in the black animal masks.

Bianca sighs. “I pity whoever wins.”

I don’t say anything. I’m already thinking about what it would be like to be the one who does.

To have that kind of money.

To finally, finally, be free.

And suddenly, I know exactly where I’ll be tonight.