Page 28 of Dance of Devils

“Fuck conventions, Kir.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “Indeed.”

Fuck conventions. And fuckme, because soon, I’m going to have to crush Brooklyn Ellis’s dream under my heel.

And I’m strangely unwilling to do that.

When Magda goes downstairsto sow terror among her dancers, I stay in the office to watch for a bit. Magda’s office is perched above the lighting booth at the rear of the theater, up in the balcony, with two windows that give a clear view of the stage.

Everyonein the Zakharova—and I say this as modestly as I can, given that it’smycompany now, ever since I bought out the other investors—is beyond talented. The obvious standouts, as Magda correctly identified, are people like Naomi and Dove. But Lyra Ostrova, Milena Kalishnik, and Evelina Nikitin are alsophenomenal, and as obnoxious as I find his fuck-boy antics most of the time, there’s no denying that Val Bancroft is an exceptional dancer, too.

But today, I find myself watching one dancer in particular, and ignoring the rest.

Notjustbecause the image of her lying in my guest room bed in just a pair of thong panties is permanently etched into my brain.

…Although I’d be lying if I said that particular visual didn’t dance through my head as I watchherdance across the stage.

And as I watch her, I do so through the lens of what Magda just told me.

Fuck me. She’s right.

I’ve never really noticed it before, because as Magda correctly pointed out, Brooklyn has a way of hiding her talent. Holding back. Not quite letting herself put the gas pedal all the way down.

But fucking hell, she’s astonishing.

I know firsthand the grueling, rigid discipline that ballet demands. I lived that life foryears.

Ballet was part of the demanding physical regime—along with gymnastics and hand-to-hand combat—hammered into the boys at the boarding school I was sent to after my time in the gulag in Siberia. Not with a view to a career or anything; I think they liked the incredible self-discipline it instils in you. As a teacher once said to me, “I can tell you to use that muscle all I like. You’re the only one who can actually do it.”

I kept dancing when I went to Oxford. But Magda is right: after that, I just…stopped. Boxing became more my thing. Still, I’ve never forgotten the discipline of those days in the studio, pounding out the movements and drilling the positions over and over again, until they were a part of you.

It’s with that mindset that I watch Brooklyn as she dances across the stage below.

Sheisgood. Beyond good: she’s phenomenal. But as I watch, my brow furrows with curiosity as I notice something Magda didn’t mention, which makes me wonder if she has noticed it herself.

Brooklyn isverytalented. But she’s alsoscared. She’s afraid to truly let go, and it’s holding her back.

Part of me starts to say “TheImperiyawill never let her in with that sort of mindset,” but then I catch myself.

She won’t get inat all.

Because of me.

The Aston Martinis hardly a subtle car. But it sticks out even more in East Harlem, up by the Willis Avenue Bridge.

I pull to a stop in front of a shitty-looking graffiti-sprayed building and a burned-out dumpster half blocking the alley next to it.

I’m still looking up at the building with a scowl on my face when a young guy in a baggy hoodie walks over and raps his knuckles on my window.

“What up,” he grunts as I roll the window partway down. “What’re you lookin’ for?”

“Nothing, thanks,” I growl.

A scowl etches over his brow. “Then move the fuck off, man. This is a prime shopping district.”

Prime for crack, fentanyl, or whatever the fuck else he’s hawking.

“I’m going to be here a minute,” I say evenly.