Page 97 of Violent Pawn

Documents. A man within the mob for as long as their father was would have known a lot. Maybe even recorded things. Things about Anastasia. Things that…I don’t really fully know what, but the passing idea doesn’t go far.

There might be something in the Cayman Islands to help fix this. A piece of him I can give her that she can trash or burn, and it can represent the man himself.

“She has a ballet show coming up in a few days,” he remarks distantly. “It was sudden. Her first in a while. Serafina encouraged me to tell you. She said you’d know what to do with the information.”

“I do.” My head bobs, though he can’t see it. “You’ve given me a lot of information to use.”

“Good. I’ll go now. And Nero?”

“Hmm?”

“Fix her.”

Click.

49

ANASTASIA

Even with the dimmed lights, my position off to the stage’s side leaves my family in view from where they fill the front row.

Serafina chats quietly with Lev, who appears to be ignoring her, but his thumb stroking her knuckles implies otherwise. Vanessa points out the various venue fixtures to Zeno and Katya, both of whom listen raptly. Dimitri’s eyes are glazed and unfocused as they stare into the far corner, seemingly lost in thought while his arm remains around the back of Katya’s chair.

More and more of the crowd settles into the auditorium for what was a last-minute addition to the performance lineup. I honestly couldn’t guess how many attendees would show up with only a month’s warning, but tickets still got snatched within the first week of going on sale—a fact great for my pride and where the proceeds would be headed.

Last month, when accidentally thinking about him, I decided to erase all the positive moments from my mind. With no performances lined up, my studio practice was exactly that—practice. It went nowhere, and his presence tainted my latest show. I needed more, something to occupy my obsessive pre-show tendencies.

So I reached out to Anya, my business manager, and demanded she schedule something. She believed that, with the last-minute nature of my request, selling it to the public would be harder without extra motivation, and proposed a charity show.

The Bratva doesn’t really do charity. It’s practically a swear word in our world, but needing something to fill my mind that isn’t ocean eyes, dark hair, and a grin that tore me apart, I agreed on the premise of choosing the charities, but then left it up to my family.

Vanessa voted for donating to women’s shelters. Serafina wanted animal rescues. Katya proposed looking into underfunded organizations that work with trauma survivors. So the proceeds will be split across the three—something that skyrocketed ticket sales when that news went public.

Anya taps me on my shoulder before sliding a paper into my hands. “Before you begin, I thought you may want to see this. It’s pretty impressive. Good job.”

It’s a printout spreadsheet of profits, except the numbers are higher than should be possible. I’m no Lev, but a brief calculation… “This can’t be right. There’d need to be double the amount of seats sold to bring this in. A miscalculation?”

“Flip it over.”

On the other side, there are two numbers scribbled. One labelled venue sales and the other from an anonymous donor. The two added together equate to the profit amount from the opposite side.

“An hour ago, a call came in asking for you or, to quote, ‘whoever is in charge there’, so they handed it off to me. Some kind soul must feel highly of this cause because they wanted to make a donation, matching whatever the ticket sales brought in. They didn’t even ask for that amount before agreeing.” She plucks the paper from my hand with a cheery, “Good luck out there,” and disappears down the hall.

I’ve seen some largely funded cheques. Weapons and drugs don’t come cheap for the buyer or seller. But for a ballet show…

“One minute ’til curtain’s up,” one of the stagehands calls from behind me, which means rewiping my hands along the dress, then erasing the number from my mind. Whoever made the call probably wants a damn good performance, and it’s my job to provide it for them and everyone else—to thank them for their donations and ensure they leave later feeling good about where their money is headed.

When the curtain lifts, the music begins, and my signal is reached, I let myself float away on the cloud that dancing provides. One where my focus is entirely on each movement, the positions of my muscles, and not on the hands that once held me in my studio, or the face that infiltrates my mind every time my eyes shut.

At the end, the crowd erupts into a thunderous noise, and through it, a piercing whistle reaches me. The lights dim in time for me to catch Serafina’s fingers lowering from her mouth.

The crowd starts filing out, and my family heads to the side exit that’ll take them to the back hallway and later the staff parking lot. I back up, intending to head to my changing room and embed these memories as my latest show, rather than what used to be.

As I turn, a sole form on one of the upper balconies pulls me to a stop. Seated in the chair closest to the stage, they don’t seem bothered by being the only one still sitting. Most of the other guests have lined up to leave.

While it’s not abnormal for one guest to wait until last to evacuate the auditorium, something about this one has me shifting to get a better view. He’s too far away to make out clearly, but his dark hair, the shape of his face…something seems too familiar. The guest reminds me of the man appearing in my dreams, even two months later. Sometimes they’re good, but often they’re nightmares about abandonment.

That’s what feels like happened. I abandoned him by leaving, but he did it first by betraying me.