Finding a suitable fuck was usually tricky, but it had nothing to do with my face. A lot of women from our circle were eager to lure the Bratva's Butcher into their bed, but they became significantly less eager when I presented them with the rules: only remove enough clothes to get the job done, strictly from behind, and no touching of any kind.
The civilians had different reactions. Most tended to avoid looking directly at me. Others liked to stare. I was perfectly fine with either approach.
So, why the fuck does it bother me now? Why am I hiding in dark corners, stalking this girl I’ve only seen from afar, like a psycho? I’m still debating my sanity when the solo violin theme begins and my eyes snap back to the stage. I know nothing about music, but I haven’t missed any of her shows for months, and by now, I recognize exactly when her part comes. When my gaze finds her gliding toward the center of the stage, I feel my breath catch in my chest.
She’s a vision, spinning along the stage in that long gauzy skirt, and I am mesmerized as I follow each of her moves. Her light blonde hair is twisted at the back of her neck, but instead of making her look stern, the harsh hairstyle only accentuates her perfect doll-like features. She’s like a little bird—gracious and fragile—and God . . . so painfully young. I lean on the wall behind me and shake my head. If I don’t break out of this madness, I’ll go crazy.
After her part is finished, I leave, but instead of going straight to the exit, I make a detour to the big table near the backstage door. It’s packed with flower arrangements visitors have left to be sent to the dancers’ dressing rooms. Strange setup, but it works for me. As always, I leave a single rose and proceed to the exit.
“Your father wants to talk with you,” my mother says from the doorway.
I ignore her and wrap the last of my costumes in thin white paper, tracing the gauzy fabric of the tulle skirt along the way. Then, I pack it into the big white box on my bed, where I already stored the rest of my stage outfits, and secure the lid over it. Everything that remains of my career as a professional dancer, ready to collect dust. I never expected it to end so quickly. The star of the Chicago Opera Theater, who rose to a position of principal dancer in her company at sixteen. Now retired at barely twenty-one years of age. Fifteen years of hard work just gone because of one stupid injury. As I turn to place the box at the bottom of the closet, I want to weep, but I keep the tears from falling. What’s the point anyway?
“He’s in his office,” my mother continues. “Don’t make him wait, Bianca. It’s important.”
I wait for her to leave, then start toward the door only to stop in front of my vanity and look at the crystal vase holding a single yellow rose. Usually, I donate all the flowers I get after a performance to the children’s hospital. This is the only one I kept. I reach out with my hand and trace the long thornless stem wrapped in a yellow silk ribbon with gold details. There has been one left for me after every performance for the past six months. No message. No signature. Nothing. Well, this is the last one I’ll ever get.
I exit my room and head downstairs to the furthest part of the house where my father’s and brother’s offices are situated. The dull pain in my back is almost gone now, but I stopped deluding myself that it was just a passing thing months ago. I will never be able to withstand six-hour practices, five days a week, again.
The door to my father’s office is open, so I go inside without knocking, close the door behind me, and stand in front of his desk. He doesn’t acknowledge me, just keeps scribbling notes in his leather organizer. Bruno Scardoni never acknowledges people he considers beneath him a second sooner than he feels fit. He enjoys seeing them fidget while he practices his might over them. Unfortunately, I never really gave a fuck about his power games, so I sit in the chair opposite him without an invitation and cross my arms over my chest.
“Ill-behaving, as ever, I see,” he says without lifting his head from the organizer. “I’m glad your disobedience will soon become someone else’s problem.”
My heartbeat speeds up at his words, but I school my features not to show any reaction. Father is like a predator, just waiting for his prey to show weakness so he can attack, aiming for the jugular.
“We’re signing a truce with the Russians,” he says and looks up at me. “And you’re getting married to one of Petrov’s men next week.”
It takes me a few seconds to collect myself from the shock, then I look my father right in the eyes and mouth “No.”