Page 79 of Mafia and Scars

Babulya waves me away without looking up, but her eyes hold that familiar sparkle of understanding. Her weathered expression softensinto a smile as Sofia stumbles over a difficult word. Watching them together makes leaving easier somehow.

I grab my bag and keys from Viktor’s room, slipping out into the cool night without another word. Most of the men are gone, including Viktor. If I told him where I was going, he’d insist on coming or send someone to shadow me. I truly appreciate everything he’s doing for me, but honestly, I’m wrung out by the constant presence of protection and the knowledge that I’m never truly alone. When I skate, it’s because I need something that’s just mine. Just for a little while. And I always make sure that I’m extra careful.

The streets are empty, that particular stillness that settles over the city after it exhales at the day’s end, and we’re far enough from the Strip that the quiet feels genuine.

Then it appears. A large, unremarkable brick building tucked behind a strip of shops and hidden by trees. The parking lot is empty at this hour. I look up at the rink, and my insides tighten with recognition. I haven’t been here since losing my position at the university, back when we’d rent ice time whenever the hockey team claimed priority over the university’s own rink.

My key still works. I slip inside, grateful for the offer from the owners, as if they’d known I’d return someday. The familiar chill wraps around me, sharp and unforgiving, carrying the scent of old wax and something sterile. I breathe it in like a prayer.

In the locker room, I pull the outfit from the bottom of my bag. Pale green fabric shimmers with hand-stitched sequins and fake stones. My Tinkerbell dress, with its gossamer sleeves and light skirt. The material feels well-worn between my fingers, hugging me like a whisper of who I used to be.The girl who believed in magic and safety, who thought the world would open its arms to welcome her.

I lace up my skates with practiced muscle memory, each movement automatic. At the edge of the boards, I pause, listening to the hum of blowers, the distant creak of pipes, and the echo of silence.

My eyes close.

And I glide onto the ice.

It greets me like an old lover. My blades hiss against the surface astension melts from my spine with each push forward. Arms extending, my heart finds a rhythm that feels sacred.

I connect my phone to my speaker, cueing up the playlist. The music begins softly. Piano and violin, gentle as snowfall. My body responds before my mind can question whether I remember the choreography. It’s buried too deep to forget.

A slow spiral first, leg extending behind me in a perfect line as I coast the rink’s length. Arms arch, fingers flutter. Elegant. Precise. Controlled.

A three-turn flows into a double toe loop, landed clean. My mind empties, and my muscles remember.

Another pass, building speed. Arms cutting through air, legs pumping strong. Double loop into Salchow. Airborne, spinning once, twice, landing with a small spray of ice and wind rushing past my face.

My cheeks flush, lips parting as I breathe through the exertion. Spin sequences flow. My back arches, fingers reaching toward the ceiling as my blade lifts overhead. The burn is exquisite, familiar, and I hold it until the music crescendos before releasing.

I let my body interpret each note, every emotion and ache pouring into glides, spins, and jumps. I leap. I twirl. I lose myself in the feelings, in the music, and in the profound familiarity.

The final minute builds, and I go for it breathlessly.

Triple toe loop.

Perfect takeoff. One rotation, two, three, and I land as the final note fades. I extend into an arabesque, coasting to a stop with chest heaving and arms lifted like wings.

The rink falls silent.

No applause.

No cheers.

Just me.

Alone in the cold.

My hands tremble as I lower my arms. Adrenaline fades, leaving only labored breathing, burning muscles, and an ache so deep that a sob strangles my throat.

Tears burn my eyes. My knees buckle. I fold onto the ice, legs tucked beneath me, fingers spread against the cold surface that stings even through my tights. My breath creates soft puffs of fog. The tears come without warning. Fast and hard, shaking my chest with each silent sob. I press my forehead to the ice.

Maybe it’s because this place, once magical and full of possibilities, was where I felt most in control. Where I was valued for my skill. I cry until my tears freeze against my cheeks. Until I can’t breathe. Until I have nothing left for this cold, glittering stage but quiet gasps.

When I finally sit up, the rink feels too large. And even lonelier than before. “Pull it together, Ave,” I whisper, wiping my cheeks with trembling fingers.

But the words ring hollow. I don’t want to pull it together, to piece myself back and smile pretty. I want someone to sit with me, to notice that I need to fall apart. To hold my hand and say I did well, that I’m worth loving even without competing. That I matter beyond any accomplishment.

No one—not the nuns at the orphanage, not Geliy, not anyone in my fleeting life—ever made me stop longing for it.For that acceptance, for that approval, and for that unconditional love.