Dancers passed by in sweatpants and leotards, and musicians carrying cases came and went. No one gave me a second glance.
I found a storage nook under one of the smaller stages. It was barely a crawl space, but it was hidden. I shoved my backpack deep in the corner, then made my way to the locker room to change into my usual attire—black dance pants, black leotard, and white T-shirt.
Today’s rehearsal went better than expected. Marquez seemed pleased with my progress, and I actually felt proud of myself for how much I threw into the dances, considering all my terrifying life circumstances. When we finished, I was beat, mentally and physically.
By eleven, most of the people in the building had cleared out.
I sneaked back through the hallway, into the connected rehearsal wing, and locked myself into my hiding spot under the stage. Then I pulled out my phone.
One bar of service—not much, but good enough.
I dialed The Sacrifice, asked for Carlos, and held my breath.
“Where the fuck are you?” he barked.
“I’m quitting,” I said quickly. “I—I got another job. I won’t be coming back.”
Silence.
Then a slow, angry exhale. “You think you can just walk away? Delgado paid good money for your act. That comes with a price, muñequita.”
My fingers trembled. “I never signed anything.”
“You danced on our stage. You made money off our floor. That’s a signature in our world.”
I said nothing.
“Get your ass down here now!”
The line went dead.
I dropped the phone.
My body shook hard and fast.
That wasn’t a warning. That was a threat.
I tried to breathe deeply. One down, one to go. But I couldn’t call Carmine. He’d hear the fear in my voice.
So I texted him instead.
Hey, just wanted to let you know I decided to listen. Heading back to Tennessee for a bit. Thanks for everything. For giving me a chance.
Immediately after,I disabled the GPS, cameras, and mic on my phone and then turned it off for good measure.
I ate a couple of granola bars, drank half a bottle of water, and curled up in my little hideaway, using my coat as a blanket.
Chapter twenty
Boston was quiet and polished on the surface, but beneath the charm and old-money facade, it had its own underworld.
A business associate and I were perched on the rooftop of one of Back Bay’s luxury hotels, sipping overpriced cocktails under heat lamps that barely cut the November chill. The skyline glowed softly in the distance as the city lights scattered across the harbor.
Brooke was laughing about offshore securities…or maybe the view. I’d tuned her out around martini number two.
Her fingers grazed my thigh, slow and possessive.
I let her touch linger.
