Dance of Ruin: Chapter 14

It’s windy enough that I wish I’d brought a jacket when I fled my apartment earlier to avoid the mad prince.

Or that I hadn’t worn a skirt

I quicken my pace, heading down 5th Avenue toward the wind-sheltered entrance to the back alley that runs behind the Mercury, where we all tend to congregate before rehearsal. For a second, I wonder about getting a coffee, but when another gust of wind blows up my damn skirt…again…I nuke that idea.

Instead, I pause just long enough to look longingly across the street toward Urban Grind Café. Maybe I can put on my puppy-dog face and convince Vaughn to go grab⁠—

The very man I was just thinking about steps out of Urban Grind, coffee in hand.

Perfect.

I shout his name, but the traffic between us is too loud this time of day for him to hear me. I wave my arms, but he’s not looking in my direction. I groan, then yank out my phone and text him “oat milk latte pleeeeeeaassse!” with about ten heart emojis afterward. But after I hit send I watch him, and he doesn’t make a move to reach for his phone.

Dammit.

Then I stop, my brow furrowing as I look at him again.

Something seems…off with him. He’s standing half-shadowed by the café awning, sipping his coffee. But instead of the leather jacket which is basically his all-season look, he’s wearing a gray windbreaker with the hood pulled up.

He looks…well, off.

Brooding, sure. But there’s also a tension in the way he holds himself. A stiffness in his posture, like a spring coiled too tight.

For a second, I’m confused: it looks like he’s staring right at me, but there’s no hint of recognition. I wave my arms again, wondering if he’s just being extra weird today. Then I realize he’s actually staring past me, down the length of the alley behind the Mercury.

I almost call out to him again, but there’s something in his demeanor that stops me. In all the years I’ve known Vaughn, I’ve never once seen him look like this. It’s like he’s not seeing anything at all.

Like he’s gone somewhere else.

I shake it off and duck into the alleyway, my footsteps echoing on the brick as I make my way toward the back entrance.

Whatever that was, it’s his own thing, not mine to interrupt.

And seriously, who the hell am I right now to be giving people shit for being lost in thought?

The wind dies down as I step off the main street and head into the alley. Lyra’s perched on an old crate by the back door to the theater, sipping what’s probably her second espresso of the morning, legs crossed in ripped leggings, headphones looped around her neck. Milena stands beside her, eying Lyra’s coffee longingly.

Milena always makes me grin. I mean, the girl comes from serious wealth and power. Her father, Marko, is the head of the Kalishnik Bratva, one of the families that sits on the Bratva High Council alongside the likes of Reznikov-Tsarenko, Kashenko, Volkov, and Javanović.

But the girl really tries to cover that up. Not out any sense of embarrassment, more that I think she just wants to “fit in” a little more.

The key word there, of course, is “tries”. Most of the time, her efforts are to various degrees of success. Like today, for example: she’s wearing ripped jeans and an oversized men’s white dress shirt knotted at the midsection, with a tank top underneath.

But the “I just grabbed this from wherever” shirt is Armani, those shoes with the red soles are flipping Louboutins, and I’d bet my last dollar that the giant glittery rock on her necklace is an actual diamond.

Evelina bounces on her toes in front of them, too full of energy to stay still. Her twin long blond braids whip behind her as she turns to me.

“Naomi!” she grins widely.

Evelina is also a Bratva princess. Unlike Milena, though, she leans right the hell into it.

She can be described in one word. One color: pink. Specifically, Barbie pink.

That is not to say that she’s a ditz. She’s just fully embraced that she’s a princess, and that she’ll most likely have to marry a mafia prince not that far down the road. And given both those realities, it’s like she’s made a conscious choice to approach life with an infectious, bubbly spirit and the energy level of a Jack Russel puppy. She’s also one of the sweetest, most genuine girls I’ve ever met, and it’s impossible not to like her.

She practically skips toward me, grabbing my arm with both hands before leaning in dramatically, like she’s about to spill some great secret. “We’re talking about Bianca,” she stage whispers.

This is another reason I love her. She’ll have this dramatic buildup where you think she’s going to tell you this Earth-shattering news, and it ends up being “I could use a coffee”.

I make a face as I join the group. “I went to visit her this morning,” I say softly.

“Oh, good,” Lyra says, standing. “I mean to go earlier, but I…we…” Her face turns crimson before she coughs and glances away. “Something caught me.”

For a second, I catch a glimpse of a dark bruise on her neck, near her collarbone.

…Or is it a bite?

“How’s she doing?” Lyra continues, clearly trying to change the subject as she tugs at the neckline of her hoodie to cover the mark.

“She’s good,” I nod. “Resting. Bossing people around already.”

Milena grins. “Of course she is.”

We laugh, and it feels… normal. Which feels good, after my giant dose of not normal, courtesy Nico Barone.

“I still can’t believe it,” Evelina murmurs. “I mean, someone actually tried to kill her. That’s insane.”

“Not that insane,” Milena says, her tone blunt. “We live in a world, Evie, where our families have serious enemies. We forget that until shit like this happens.”

Evelina’s brow furrows. “I didn’t forget.”

Milena softens. “Just saying, solnishka… It’s easy enough to pretend we’re all normal bunheads until something goes boom.”

The whole group of us goes silent for a couple of long seconds.

Lyra glances at her phone and groans. “Shit, it’s almost time. I need another shot of espresso before I can face Kuzmina today.”

Milena arches a brow, nodding at the cup in Lyra’s hand. “How many of those bad boys have you had today?”

Lyra shrugs, running her hand through her red hair. “I dunno. A…few? I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“And why is that?” I tease with a grin.

She shoots me a look, her face reddening. “Nothing,” she mumbles. “I just had…things to do.”

“Yeah, more like had things done to you, Mrs. Barone,” Milena snickers.

Lyra flips her off, still blushing as the rest of us crack up.

“I’ll come with,” Evelina pipes up.

“Me too,” Milena says, brushing past Evelina and jerking a thumb at her. “Can’t let this one order another lavender-mocha-unicorn nightmare.”

“Hey, I like that drink,” Evelina mumbles.

“I know,” Milena tosses over her shoulder. “But it’s like giving a toddler a bag of pure sugar, which is why we’re banning it.” She turns to me. “You coming?”

I shake my head. “I’m just going to chill here before the sadism starts.”

“Want anything?”

“Uhh… Maybe an oat milk latte?” I ask.

The moment they’re gone, I feel a presence behind me. For a second, I stiffen, smelling a hint of masculine scent mixed with tobacco. My heart lurches as I whirl. Instantly, the breath whooshes out of me.

“Uh… What the fuck was that?” Vaughn says, lifting a brow questioningly at me.

I shake my head. “Nothing… You just startled me, I guess.”

“Well, I am quite startling.”

I roll my eyes. Then my brows pull together in confusion.

“Wait: where did you come from?”

Vaughn shoves his fingers through his hair. “Think you know the answer is no fucking idea. But I do know wherever it was, they broke the mold, baby girl.”

I roll my eyes.

Vaughn and I are tight in a squabbling siblings kind of way. I mean, he’s like that with all the girls in the company, at least our immediate circle. But for some reason, he and I just click a little better than most.

Enough so that while no one else does, I happen to know the joke behind “no fucking idea”.

Vaughn was found abandoned as a small kid with some amnesia issues. He went into foster care until he was sixteen, at which point he declared himself a legally emancipated minor.

Dude’s been through some shit. But somehow, he turned out kinda spectacular.

But right now, I’m confused. He’s already dressed and ready for rehearsal, in cutoff sweat pant shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt that shows off the huge swaths of tattoos covering his well-defined biceps, forearms, shoulders, and even ribs through the huge armholes.

“How the hell did you get changed so fast?”

Vaughn gives me a weird look. “Huh?”

“How…” I shake my head. “I didn’t see you go inside. How did you dress so fast?”

He arches a brow. “You feeling okay?”

I shake my head, but I shove the confusion away.

There’s a not so small chance that yesterday’s events involving Nico are very much still messing with my head. Big time.

“You just missed the crew,” I say, changing subjects.

“I know.”

I glance at him. “You trying to avoid us all of a sudden, Mr. Bancroft?”

“Avoid you?” He clutches his heart dramatically. “Never. Avoid being the token queer in the girl squad?” He lifts a muscled shoulder. “I mean, sometimes, yeah.”

I give him a half-smile. “Totally fair.”

“And it feels like sometimes it gets tragically overlooked that I also happen to enjoy fucking pussies?”

I snort a laugh. “Please. You do an excellent job of reminding everyone exactly how not particular you are when it comes to holes and fucking.”

Vaughn grins. “That feels vaguely like an insult?”

“I’m just saying you’re a popular guy.”

“Fuck, now I feel slut shamed.”

I smirk. “Your words, buddy.”

He chuckles deeply and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, slipping one between his lips and lighting it. Then his eyes drag to me as his head tilts slightly.

I shift uncomfortably, feeling like a bug under a microscope. “What?”

“You look… tussled.”

I freeze. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” he says, waving vaguely at my face. “Your hair’s a little wild. Kinda flushed. Like you’ve been doing some extracurricular cardio.”

I flush all the way to the roots of my hair. “I do not look tussled. And I thought you were quitting,” I mutter, jabbing a finger at his cigarette. “Those are terrible for you.”

“She said, radically changing the subject,” he snickers.

“I do not look tussled,” I huff again. “And if I do, it’s because I just came from the hospital, ass. I went to visit Bianca.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine,” he sighs as he takes another pull from his cigarette before glancing at me. “Her giant husband there?”

I nod.

“Man.” Vaughn shakes his head, grinning. “I seriously don’t see how they conceived a child. Like, from a purely mechanical standpoint.”

I snort.

“I’m serious!” he laughs. “I feel like it would be like a St. Bernard or a Great Dane fucking a Chihuahua.”

“Coke can?” I offer, raising a brow.

Vaughn laughs uproariously. “Two coke cans. Stacked.”

I’m still wheezing with laughter when he ambushes me out of nowhere.

“So,” he says conversationally, “wanna tell me who you’re fucking?”

I almost choke as my breath catches in my throat, and I feel my face throb with heat as I stumble for a response.

“E-excuse me?” I stammer.

Smooth, self.

Vaughn smirks. “Don’t play innocent, baby girl. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“You’ve got that look. Like a sex glow. The I-haven’t-slept-properly-because-someone-ruined-my-circadian-rhythm-with-their-dick kind of look.”

I vainly try to will the flame in my cheeks away. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” he singsongs. “I see bruises.”

I stiffen. “What⁠—”

He steps closer, tugging on my sleeve before I can stop him and yanking it up to show the slight bruising from the other day in Nico’s office.

“Nice,” he says approvingly. “Rope? Or is that silk?”

“Vaughn!”

I yank my arm away.

Silk, for the fucking record…

He just laughs, unbothered. “Relax, you know I don’t judge. I just want to know who’s responsible for the ‘freshly ravaged’ vibe you’re rocking.”

“There is no ravaged vibe,” I hiss.

“Sure.” His gaze drops lower, zeroing in on the hem of my skirt. “Bet you’ve got more bruises under here.”

He reaches teasingly toward the hem.

I bat his hand away. “Don’t you fucking dare!” I laugh.

He grins wider, fingers feeling again for the edge of my skirt. “Come on. Bet you fifty bucks you’ve got handprints on your⁠—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Because in a blink, he’s gone,yanked away from me and slammed against the wall with a hand at his throat and a face snarling into his.

“Touch her again and I’ll cut your fucking hand off.”