I was on my feet before I thought about it, leaning over, voice low and deadly. “Stop that.”
He didn’t even look at me. Just kept staring at her, hand still moving.
I grabbed his wrist—hard, fingers digging into bone. “I said stop. Or I’ll cut it the fuck off.”
His head snapped toward me, eyes wide, mouth opening to protest.
I leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper that promised violence. “You think I’m joking? Keep your hands where I can see them, or I’ll make sure you never use them again.”
He went pale. Hands shot up, visible, trembling.
“Good.” I let go, shoving his arm away like it was contaminated. “Now sit there and keep your fucking eyes on the stage. No touching. No sounds. Or I’ll break every finger you’ve got.”
He nodded, frantic, and I sat back down, pulse hammering, fists still clenched.
On stage, Alena’s eyes flicked toward our section—just for a second. Like she’d sensed the disturbance. Her rhythm didn’t break, didn’t falter, but I saw it. The slight tilt of her head. The way her gaze sharpened.
She knew something happened. She always knew.
Then she spun away, reclaiming the stage, and the moment passed.
I couldn’t protect her from my father. Couldn’t keep the Bratva from knowing where she lived. Couldn’t stop the choice that was coming.
But I could stop this one pathetic bastard from jerking off to her in public.
I turned back to the stage, teeth gritted, hands shaking with adrenaline and something darker.
Alena kept dancing, unaware. Untouchable. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at.
The music built to its climax. She spun one last time, cane raised, head tilted back—a dark queen claiming her throne.
Then her eyes found mine across the crowd.
Locked. Held. Knowing.
For one second, the whole room disappeared. Just her and me and seventeen years of things I’d never said.
Then she spun away—but the look lingered. Like she knew. Like she was daring me to finally do something.
Then the lights cut to black.
And I sat there in the dark, hard as stone, heart pounding, knowing I was about to lose the only thing that ever mattered.
Tomorrow.
Heathrow.
New York.
The right choice.
Fuck.
Because the wrong choice meant losing her forever. And I wasn’t sure I could survive that.
8
ALENA
