Dance of Madness: Chapter 4

I can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s been days. And although my usual routine already involves pushing my body to the limit in rehearsal, it’s been overdrive since that night.

I’ve doubled my time in the studio, demanding more of myself and sweating my ass off until my reflection in the mirror looks like a ghost barely clinging to the body it once inhabited.

And still he’s there.

The man in the wolf mask at Greymoor Manor.

In my head. Under my skin.

In every breath, invading every thought.

I replay the way he materialized from the dark, as if his entire purpose was to consume me. The way his voice ensnared me before his hands did. The way he chased me.

Worse, the way I responded to that chase. Yes, there was panic. Yes, I was in sheer survival mode when I was running away. But days later, my sick mind refuses to let me get off that easily.

It wasn’t just fear or the survival instinct coursing through my veins as I ran through that dark house. It wasn’t just a need to escape as I felt him close in behind me.

There was…something else.

And that something else might be a whole lot like “excitement”.

A thrill. A diseased, toxic desire, like a gnawing hunger I’ve always denied myself.

When he grabbed me, the entire world narrowed to the pressure of his hand over my mouth; the hardness of his muscled body at my back, the rasping sound of his breath at my ear.

I should’ve been terrified. I was terrified.

But I was also⁠—

God, I can’t even say it.

I sink deeper into the plié, ignoring the way my thighs burn. Good. Pain is clean. Pain is pure. Pain has nothing to do with masked men and a fucked-up desire to be chased and caught, and the sickening ache that’s suddenly been living between my legs.

I breathe deep. Hold. Release.

Out of the corner of my eye, my reflection shifts, and for a moment, I swear I see something in the mirror behind me.

A black mask. A wolf.

I blink, but then it’s gone.

Get a hold of yourself, psycho.

My fingers clench the barre so hard my knuckles go white.

When I got home the other night—home, not back to the party—all I did was text Alicia the stupid video of me saying “there’s no such thing as monsters” along with a quick message:

She replied almost instantly.

I watched the three dots appear and disappear multiple times before they finally went away, like she’d been trying to figure out what the hell to say to me and then gave up.

Like she was annoyed. Like she expected more.

That’s when I knew, with complete certainty, that she’d sent me there on purpose.

Which is…insane.

I mean, Alicia’s been a class-A bitch and an absolute cunt since we were in prep school together. She was a total menace during her time at the Zakharova, and we definitely butted heads over her being a mean-girl bully to my friends more than once.

But sending me to a house where she clearly knew a masked man was going to chase me and apparently assault me—something she herself probably set up—is fucking ridiculous.

It’s insane enough that I’m tempted to tell Papa. He’d rain down hellfire on Alicia and probably everyone she knows. Which is comforting and more than a little satisfying to think about.

But I’m not going to do that.

I fight my own battles. More importantly, tattling to Daddy means admitting to Alicia that her plan worked, and I refuse to do that.

It’s way more satisfying to let her think her insane trap failed.

Even beyond that, there’s another thought that sticks in my head like glue: if I confront her, it makes it real.

Not just the fear and the danger—the other part. The one that lurks and lingers underneath the surface.

The dark thoughts. The nervous, eager yearning.

The demented spark of arousal that came with the adrenaline and the fear.

I’m not ready to acknowledge that yet. Not even when I wake up at night with my hand between my thighs and his voice in my ear.

There’s no such thing as monsters.

…Except for the one that’s living inside me.

“Did I hear you broke into a house the other night?”

Brooklyn’s voice shakes me out of my little black hole of thoughts and I turn to see her eyeing me dubiously with her arms folded over her chest.

“What?”

My gaze shifts from Brooklyn to Evelina, who’s standing next to her. Evie’s face immediately goes crimson, same as it does if you mention words like “sex”, “cock”, or “blowjob” anywhere remotely in her vicinity.

“I didn’t—” Her shoulders sag. “I didn’t say you broke in, I just mentioned⁠—”

“Jesus, Evie,” Val chuckles throatily as he walks up behind the two of them and slings his muscled, tattooed arms affectionately over their shoulders. “How does the daughter of a literal crime boss end up as such a nun?”

Brooklyn laughs. Evelina’s lips twist as her face heats even redder. “I am not!”

“Cum slut.”

I swear, the poor girl’s whole face turns a shade of near-purplish-red.

“I rest my case.” He grins salaciously, shrugging his lean, sculpted shoulders.

“Give me a break!” she mutters back. “Anyone would blush if you blurted porn words into their ear.”

Val cocks a brow, then switches his attention to Brooklyn. He clears his throat dramatically and then leans closer. “Cum. Slut. Cock. Pussy. Facial. Anal. Gangbang. Good girl.”

In fairness, there is a slight change to Brooklyn’s otherwise composed expression when he says that last one, but it’s gone pretty quick, and Val doesn’t seem to notice it before he turns back to poor Evie.

“Yep, nice theory, but no dice. The convent awaits, baby girl.”

Evelina rolls her eyes as she escapes from under Val’s arm.

“Whatever,” she mutters, still blushing.

“Aww, c’mere,” I grin, pulling her close and wrapping an arm protectively around her. “Leave my Evie alone, Val,” I say with dramatic bravado. “We like her sweet and innocent.”

“I am not⁠—”

“You one thousand percent are,” I correct her with a sharp brow and a grin. “But…again… It’s why we love you.”

She pouts. “I still didn’t tell them you broke in.”

“Hmm. Entering a locked building that isn’t yours is, you know, by most definitions…” Brooklyn eyes me significantly.

I roll my eyes. “It was a stupid dare.”

“So we heard.” She scowls. “How is Cunty McCunt-face, anyway?”

Needless to say, not many tears were shed with Alicia announced she’d be quitting the company. More like boo-fucking-hoo, and good riddance. Alicia and her equally shitty friend Irina, who left at the same time, were both very talented, but they lacked that thing that all great dancers need, even more than practiced, precise movement: heart.

“Eh, still a walking yeast infection,” I shrug.

Brooklyn snorts. Val tosses his head back and hoots out a loud laugh.

“So you did break into Greymoor Manor?”

I sigh. “Guys, I didn’t break in. Alicia gave me the front door lock combo.”

Val frowns. “How’d she get that?”

“No fucking clue.”

Brooklyn smirks. “So…any monsters or ghosts?”

For a second, my voice fails me. My entire body shivers, and my heart and lungs constrict.

“Oddly—no,” I finally toss out, as sarcastically as I can.

Brooklyn arches a brow. “What was the dare, anyway?”

“She had to take something, leave something, and record herself saying ‘there’s no such thing as monsters’,” Evie blurts out. “In Lady Greymoor’s old bedroom,” she adds with a tremble.

Val snickers. “Wow, craaaazy dare. I’m so sad I missed this rager of a party, Evie.”

Evelina rolls her eyes. “Hey, it was fun.” She frowns. “Well, except for Irina showing up with Alicia.” Her lips purse. “And Roman getting wasted later on.”

I turn to her, my brow furrowing. “He all right?”

She shrugs. “I guess. He didn’t black out in the pool like he did that other time. But…jeez. It’s like there’s no off switch sometimes with him. And I can’t babysit him. I mean, he’s a grown man.”

Val’s lips curl up at the corners salaciously and he clears his throat.

“Maybe he just needs another grown man to babysit him.”

Evie frowns. “What does that mean?”

Brooklyn sighs, shooting Val a look. “It means he wants to bang your brother.”

Eveline turns red again. “Oh my God, Brooklyn!” She blurts. “Eww! He does not!”

“No, that’s pretty much exactly what I meant,” Val grins.

Evelina rolls her eyes. “Roman is straight, Val. He has sex with girls.”

Val shrugs. “I have sex with girls too. And guys. It’s called having your cake and eating it too,” Val smirks. “I highly recommend it.”

“So,” Brooklyn interjects, pointedly shutting down the other two as we all head to the changing room. “What did you take and what did you leave?”

Nothing. My sanity.

“A book,” I lie, shrugging. “And I left a buck.”

“What book?” Val asks, following us in.

It’s not like he makes a habit of it, but Val often ends up using the women’s changing room. It’s not a “Val frequently dates men so la-di-da we can all get changed with him because he’s safe” thing. It’s more that he’s like a brother to all of us.

“Is this about you breaking into Greymoor Manor the other night?” Naomi interjects as she pulls a hoodie over shower-wet hair.

“I didn’t…” I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Never mind.”

“Yeah,” Val says, peeling off his t-shirt to reveal his chiseled, inked chest. “She had to leave something and take something for a dare from the one and only Alicia.”

Naomi makes a face. “What a cow.”

Again, zero tears.

“So… You took a book?” Naomi grins. “Bet I know which one.”

I shoot her a look.

“What?” she giggles. “Dude, you’re predictable. You’ve looked for that book every single time I’ve ever been in a bookstore with you.”

Brooklyn frowns. “Wait, what book?”

“The Sorrows of Young Werther,” Naomi says with dramatic fanfare. “By Goethe.”

Val arches a brow. “Wasn’t Goethe German?”

“Yes, but it’s been translated into English,” I sigh. “And for the record, I love it because I read it right after my mom died, and it’s always felt comforting to me.”

I’m about to ask Naomi how her day off was—she and Nico were planning on driving out to Long Island to visit Nico’s dad, Vito. But before I can do so, I’m distracted by the sight of Brooklyn turning away from me to peel off her leotard, revealing some very ugly-looking bruises on her ribs.

“Duuude—”

I whirl and shoot Val a hard look, shutting him up. He gets the message, and the two of us exchange another worried glance before I shake my head and silently mouth “I’ll talk to her.”

Evelina ends up leaving with Naomi. I linger, waiting for Val to finish up, while Brooklyn showers.

“Is she still seeing that motherfucker?” he growls quietly as he yanks on a sleeveless sweatshirt.

“I’ll talk to her,” I say quietly.

“Yeah, you do that,” he mutters. “If she says yes, tell me and I’ll go snap the little fuck in half.”

Bless his heart. Val really is like a protective brother sometimes.

He’s gone and I’m dressed when Brooklyn finally steps out of the shower with a towel around her.

“Just you and me shutting down the joint, huh?” she quips as she dries off and starts pulling clothes on.

“Brook…”

She glances at me. “Huh?”

I frown, nodding gently at the bruises on her ribs. I instantly see the clash of emotions on her face, even if she tries to bury them quickly.

“Oh, that…” She lifts a shoulder easily as she quickly does up her bra and yanks on a t-shirt. “Yeah, I was out seeing a band and the crowd got a little wild. This dickhead knocked into me and slammed me against the bar⁠—”

“Did James do this to you?”

“James and I broke up months ago, Milena,” she says quietly.

“Brooklyn, c’mon, if he⁠—”

“I’m fine,” she smiles, walking over and putting a hand on my arm. “Really. Yes, James was and is an asshole and a piece of shit. No, this isn’t from him. I honestly did get pushed into a bar, okay?”

I hesitate, unconvinced.

“Milena,” she sighs. “I’m fine, I promise. Can we drop this?”

“Promise me again.”

She smiles. “I promise. Can we go now?”

“Yeah,” I smile, hefting my dance bag onto my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

Brooklyn and I end up meeting Lyra for a drink, so it’s late by the time I get home.

By home, I mean Papa’s home. Yes, I still live here at the age of twenty-two. I tried moving out on my own about a year ago, not even because I wanted to, I just felt I was at the age where I should.

I ended up hating it, so I moved back here with Papa.

I know it’s a cliché, people of my generation still living with their parents. But it’s not like we’re sharing a two-bedroom apartment. The Kalishnik house—more like a castle—is huge.

Bigger than Greymoor, even: six stories of elegance on Central Park West, overlooking the reservoir in the park. Seven bedrooms, ten bathrooms, rooftop garden and terrace, indoor pool, underground garage space for twelve cars…even a full Russian bath and sauna in the basement.

But it’s not just the opulence and luxury that made me want to move home.

It’s Papa.

We’ve always been close—I suppose only children are like that with their parents—but after mom died, we got even closer. I mean, it was just the two of us facing some pretty heavy shit. First Mom, then Papa’s cancer that almost left me an orphan at seventeen.

I drop my bag in the mudroom just off the front foyer and then pop into the kitchen to say hello to our chef Angelina and our housekeeper Vasilisa. They’ve both been with us since I was probably nine; at this point, they feel more like aunties than anything else.

Vasilisa, as always, wants to know all the latest gossip from work. Angelina—also as always—insists I’m “too skinny” and ends up all but force-feeding me a raspberry cream pastry she’s just whipped up.

Which is fucking delicious, by the way.

“Oh, and your Papa wanted to see you when you got home. He’s up in the throne room.”

I grin. Angelina means his office, but they’ve both been calling it the throne room for about a decade now.

I snag one more pastry, promise to fill Vasilisa in on Val’s latest situationship drama-rama later, and head upstairs.

The door is open a crack, which is Marko Kalishnik-speak for “I’m expecting you, and you may come in.”

So I do.

“Ahh, my prima ballerina is home.”

I grin as I push the door open and enter the massive, elegant room paneled in dark wood and lined with old bookcases. I’ve always loved the smell of his study. I mean, I hated when he smoked, and he hasn’t in years, thank God. But the lingering tobacco smell, mixed with leather, old wood, and I guess power, always warms my heart a little.

Marko Kalishnik sits behind his desk, shirt crisp, sleeves rolled up. He’s in his early fifties, and his hair is silvering at the temples these days. But he’s still handsome in a dangerous, old-world way. Papa’s always reminded me of a movie star from a previous generation, like a Paul Newman or a Marlon Brando. He hasn’t dated at all since Mom passed, but he still turns plenty of heads when we’re out.

There’s a crystal decanter of vodka on the corner of his desk, and a glass already poured. He drinks far less now than he did when I was younger. I’m not saying he was a drunk or anything. But, hello… We are Russian, after all.

The vodka on the desk is more Marko-speak, and I know it clearly means: “something fucky is afoot, but Papa is tackling it.”

The other obvious clue there is that my uncle Levka is also here, sitting by one of the windows that overlooks Central Park, a glass of vodka in his hand.

“Privet, dyadya.” I smile at him as he stands and walks over to me.

Hello, Uncle.

There was a time when Papa was sick—a long time—that Uncle Levka lived here with us. He ran the empire during the worst of it, when Papa was barely able to get out of bed and in heavy treatment for his aggressive cancer, which is thankfully in total remission now.

…He was running things that night, actually.

I hug my uncle tightly before he pulls away and grins at me. “And how is my little Anna Pavlova?”

I roll my eyes. Anna Pavlova is probably the most famous Russian ballerina of all time. It’s also Uncle Levka‘s favorite nickname for me.

“Oh, fine,” I shrug. Then I glance warily at my father. He’s smiling, but there’s a look on his face that says the same thing as the vodka sitting on the desk.

Something’s up.

“What…” I clear my throat and start again. “Angelina said you wanted to see me?”

His smile falters just a little bit. “Why don’t you sit. I’m sure you could use the rest after a day like yours.”

I shrug. “I’m fine⁠—”

“Please sit, Milena.”

My stomach clenches, but I nod and obey. Uncle Levka moves back to his seat by the window. Across from me, my father clears his throat.

“Leo Debolsky is back in New York.”

My chest lurches, and there’s no stopping the grimace that spreads over my face.

“That’s…a thing,” I mumble.

Papa’s brows lift. “Indeed.”

Yeah, it’s a thing. A terrible thing. Leo Debolsky is a fucking pig.

Trust me: I once spent a weekend with him in the Hamptons.

Not like that. It was about four years ago, when Papa was at his sickest, and Levka was running things. The Debolsky Bratva came knocking, and Leo’s father Vladimir fielded the idea of his fucker of a son marrying yours truly.

Papa would have never even considered marrying me off like that, especially not to a piece of shit like Leo. But Levka… He’s a bit more old-school sometimes. And in his defense, our family was going through it back then. No one knew if Papa would actually pull through, but the Bratva High Council, the United Nations-style governing body that holds a lot of sway over the Bratva world, was unwilling to vote preemptively on Levka taking Papa’s seat at the table.

Under that sort of pressure, I guess I can see now why Levka entertained the idea of me marrying Leo.

So I got shipped off to a “get to know your prospective husband” weekend in the Hamptons. The idea was to wine and dine with Leo, get comfortable with each other, and see if maybe this was something that might happen.

In reality, I spent the entire time aggressively fighting off his drunken advances and learning just how negatively the asshole responds to the word “no”.

It was so bad that I literally ended up barricading myself in my room with the dresser in front of the door the last night we were out there.

“Why are we talking about Leo Debolsky?” I say quietly.

“His family has expanded their business dealings,” Papa replies, his tone cold. “They’re operating in Brooklyn, Jersey, and parts of Queens now. And they’re looking to secure alliances in the city.”

There’s a beat before he continues.

“Vladimir has…expressed interest in re-opening discussions.”

I scowl. “What kind of discussions?”

“The same ones we had four years ago, Milena,” my uncle mutters from his chair.

My eyes widen with disbelief and anger as I whirl first to Levka, then my father.

“What? Also, isn’t Leo is already engaged, last I heard?”

“She recently passed away,” Papa says quietly. “Car crash.”

I stare at him. “When?”

“About four weeks ago,” my uncle murmurs.

My jaw drops as I look at Papa. “And he’s already looking for another one?!”

Papa sighs. “The Debolsky bratva is growing exponentially in power. I’ll admit, an alliance would strengthen our position.”

My heartbeat ticks louder. My chest tightens.

“You want me to marry Leo.”

“I’m merely saying it’s an option,” Papa says. “The choice remains yours⁠—”

“You can’t be fucking ser⁠—!”

“I have no male heir, Milena!” Papa roars, pounding his fist on the desk between us and making the vodka in his glass splash over the rim a little.

He takes a breath, composing himself as he shakes his head.

“I have no male heir,” he repeats, more calmly. “Even if you did want the throne after I’m gone⁠—”

“Which I don’t.”

“I’m aware of that, my daughter,” he sighs. “But if you did, it would be an uphill battle for a woman to take over the empire, and we both know it.”

He’s right.

Papa might be one of my biggest champions, and though he is old-school in some ways, I know without question that if I did want to succeed him as the head of the family, he’d move Heaven and Earth to make it happen.

But while there are female heads of Bratva families, like Anastasia Javanović or the formidable Yelizaveta Solovyova, aka the White Queen, it’s not common. The Bratva world is still deeply rooted in patriarchal, old-fashioned ideas.

“Look, Milena,” Papa continues. “I know he was prick four years ago⁠—”

“He tried to kick in my bedroom door while I was sleeping after I told him I wouldn’t fuck him!” I yell back.

Papa’s face darkens with anger, even though he’s heard this story before.

“Vladimir has spoken to me about his son’s…issues with alcohol,” Levka adds.

“Oh, we’re going to blame his behavior on the fact that he was drunk?” I snap.

My father shakes his head. “You have every right to be angry about what happened four years ago, Milena. You also have every right never to see or speak to Leo Debolsky again. But…”

“But people can change,” my uncle grunts. “And your father is right. Neither he nor I is going to live forever. And you have no brothers.” He shakes his head. “This, like it or not, is how our world works, Milena.”

He forces a tight smile to his face.

“Leo’s no angel. But he’s a useful devil. And a manageable one.”

“And I’m just a pawn.”

Papa’s mouth tightens. “You’re not. This would be a powerful bond, I won’t pretend otherwise. But you are still my daughter. And you will never be asked to do anything you don’t want to. I promise you that.”

Eventually I say goodnight to them both, then leave the study with my head high.

They say it’s my choice.

I’ve lived long enough in this house, though, to know there’s a second part to that statement: but choose wisely.

By the time I reach my bedroom, I feel like I’m splintering.

I shut the door behind me, lean against it, and exhale heavily. My reflection stares back at me from the vanity mirror—hair scraped back, collarbones sharp, eyes hollow.

Dancer. Daughter. Pawn.

I used to think ballet was my escape from this world. The one place where no one else got to choreograph my future.

Now I’m not so sure.

Because even there, I’m losing control.

Even there, he follows me.

I peel off my clothes and shower quickly before changing into pajamas and crawling into bed. My body aches in all the ways it usually does at the end of a workday, but tonight, there’s something deeper there.

Leo Debolsky wants to marry me. I should be thinking about that, and how my decision to do so or not could affect the future of my family’s empire.

But all I can think about is the masked man who chased me like I was his prey, bent me over the piano and rasped filthy promises into my skin.

Worse, the black, venomous thought that lingers after I replay the whole thing start to finish, to the part where I got away from him.

The little voice that wonders—maybe even wishes—that I hadn’t gotten away, a dark part deep inside me dying to know what might have come next…

There’s something wrong with me. Something rotten and hungry.

I press my thighs together and close my eyes.

I think about the masked man, and about running. I think about the rush and the exhilaration of almost touching that part of me I’ve never explored. The part of me I’ve only ever shared with one person.

One boy, four years ago.

Someone I told my every black secret to.

…Who then became a monster.