Page 9 of Ruinous Need

VIKTOR

THE BALLET STUDIO door is ajar, the way the killers left it. It’s early in the morning and the place is deserted.

Markov is guarding the room while I inspect the scene. He texted me as soon as he found out what had happened during one of his nightly patrols.

I walk into the space and the mirrors on the wall show me everything. The blood is splattered over the glass and the barre.

Marianne Barbier, Lisette’s ballet teacher and mentor, lies on the wooden floor.

I only know it’s her because of my week of watching the ballet studio means I recognize her black loafers. The shoes are the only item of clothing the assailants left on her body.

The corpse on the ground is unrecognizably maimed.

Skin has been peeled back from the flesh in the centre of the body, the bones of the ribcage exposed, and the face is so extensively bruised from a beating that the eyes aren’t even visible. The woman must have been beaten within an inch of her life.

Not to mention the blood. The pool of thick crimson spread across the floor from a ragged gash in her neck that looks like it was made by multiple separate cuts, all feathered together in the injury that ultimately killed her. She would have bled out quickly, at least.

She’s been like this for a few hours. Thankfully it’s winter or else the flies would be swarming already.

I pace over the wooden floorboards, alternating between taking in the details and analyzing what this means.

Markov appears beside me. “Torture, right?”

“Irish torture, specifically. They probably wanted information about Lisette.”

“But they’re also sending a signal.”

“That they know about her and they’re on the trail.”

“This is all getting very serious.”

“I know.” I wonder if Semyon knew how determined the Irish were to kidnap his fiancée when he gave me the assignment. If he did, he gave me no indication.

This is the work of someone focused on getting information at all costs, who also wants to send a message.

It means one thing. The danger surrounding Lisette is growing, to encompass the people around her as well.

I make a note to tell Semyon to increase security protections for her family. They’re at risk of an identically gruesome fate.

“Fuck.”

Lisette gives that one, short sharp cry before folding herself up into a ball and burying her face in her knees, her body shaking as she cries.

I don’t know what to do. I wonder if she’s ever had someone close to her die like this. An innocent young thing like her almost certainly hasn’t encountered a brutal murder.

I sit on the couch beside her, extend a hand in her direction, then bring it back. She wouldn’t want the comfort of the person holding her in captivity. But I can’t leave her like this.

Were it anyone else, the tears would be enough to drive me out the door. Crying was drilled out of me as a child.

I don’t know how to handle these kinds of displays of emotion.

When I tried to help my mother after my father beat her, she would push me away, saying she didn’t want me to see her like that. At funerals, I often leave early, before I have to face anyone and see their faces stained with tears.

With Lisette, I have the urge to help her somehow.

Which is absurd. There’s no help to be given once someone is dead.

So why, then, do I feel the need to stay close by, just in case she needs me?

After a few minutes of sobbing, Lisette looks up at me. Her voice is hoarse.

“It wasn’t your people, was it? The Bratva?”

I shake my head. This has the Irish all over it. Their torture methods are messy and they like to send a message to the world when they’re done. The Bratva doesn’t kill people with that kind of gruesome flair.

“Good. Because if it was, I think I’d rather die than marry him.”

She props her head up on her hand and turns to face me.

“What brought this on? Why would they kill Marianne?” Her voice cracks at the end.

I don’t think I should tell her the full story.

“It was an assassination by the Irish.”

Lisette’s face is already white and drawn, her eyes rimmed with red from crying, but she shakes her head.

“You’re hiding something. What is it?”

I shake my head, but she narrows her eyes at me.

I sigh. “Do you really want to know?”

She pauses at that, then nods her head. “Yes. Tell me.”

“They tortured her before she died. For information about you, Lisette. They thought she might know where you’d gone.”

Lisette meets my eyes and I watch the tears gleam in her eyes for a second before she returns her head to her knees.

“If I wasn’t marrying Semyon, she never would have been in danger.” Her voice is muffled. “So it’s partially my fault.”

“There’s danger around every corner in this world. Not just for us, but the people we love.”

I don’t know why someone like Lisette Du Pont has been involved in all this by Semyon.

She’s clearly not ready to face this level of danger or risk — no one from a normal background could be equipped to deal with the things that we handle on a daily basis.

She keeps talking about her dance teacher, like she needs to get it off her chest, even if it means interacting with me.

“Marianne was one of my favorite people. She never gave up on me, not even when I let her down. And I let her down so much.” She breaks off into sobs again.

“I miss her. And I miss dancing. And I wish I could go to her funeral. But you’re probably not going to let me out for that, are you?”

I shake my head. It’s too obvious. The funeral will be closely watched by the Irish. “No. That won’t be up to me, but almost definitely not.”

She sniffs. “I knew it.”

A look of anguish crosses her face. “I’ve been prepared to marry the Pakhan for years, but no one ever told me it would mean losing people I loved. That was never part of the deal.”

I can feel the flames of her anger mingling with her grief. She starts to sob again, louder this time, her face scrunched up and the tears streaming all over her face. This poor girl.

Whatever Semyon said to get her to marry him, I’m sure it didn’t give her a genuine picture of the fucked-up world he exists at the center of. My cousin loves to trick people.

I put an arm around Lisette’s shoulders and she doesn’t shrug me off. I hold her tight and it seems to calm her tears.

“It’s fucking unfair. I know,” I murmur against the top of her head.