stop at on your way to work? A percentage of every one
of your lattes goes to us, to pay for our protection. The
guy you voted in as mayor? His success was decided
long before you ever heard his name. He’s a friend to
us, as is the chief of police.
We make New York work and you don’t even know it.
We are the Cosa Nostra and I am the youngest,
hungriest boss in twenty years. I love New York. I love
my piece of it, one of the most fiercely-contested
territories there is. And I will never, ever let anyone take
it away from me. Not the Irish, not the street gangs and
especially not the Russians.
Downstairs, my driver—Tony—was gone. Goddammit!
When I called him, he confirmed what I’d thought: the
cops had made him move, so he’d had to circle. Now he
was stuck in traffic. “It’ll be twenty minutes,” he
grumbled. “We’re not even moving.”
I sighed. But I didn’t chew him out: it wasn’t his fault.
And if it took twenty minutes to even reach me, then a
half hour to get to my apartment… “Don’t you have your
kid’s game tonight?” I asked.
I could almost hear his embarrassed shrug. “That’s
okay, boss. I gotta pick you up.”
I looked through the building’s doors: the rain had
eased off. “Forget it,” I said. “Go home. Go to your kid’s
game. I’ll find a cab.” No need to make his day shitty
just because mine was.
“Thanks, boss.”
Out on the street, the rain was lighter, but a bitter wind
turned every drop into a vicious little bit of ice. By the
end of the block, I was starting to regret my decision. I
could have called for a limo, but nothing was moving
and I grew up poor enough that paying to sit in traffic
was unthinkable.
As I moved downtown, the rain came back, heavier than
ever, so hard it bounced up from the sidewalk and
drowned out the traffic noise. My overcoat shielded me
for a while, but I could feel the icy drops working their
way under my collar and down my back. My pants were
getting soaked, too, the expensive fabric clinging wetly
to my legs. I’d be soaked to the skin in minutes.
Goddamn it! I looked around for a cab but, as always,
the rain had made them all disappear.
I growled in frustration and looked around for a bar or a
coffee shop to shelter in, but there wasn’t one. Then I
frowned. I was outside a theater and the name on the
poster was familiar: some sort of ballet thing. I dug in
my pocket and found the tickets Peterson had given me.
Yep, it was starting right now.
Do I look like I go to the fucking ballet? But it would be
dry inside. What the hell… I pushed open the door.
A smiling woman took my tickets and showed me to my
seat. I was still shaking water from my coat and hair
when the lights dimmed. I had no idea what I was
going to be watching. Ballet, to me, was little kids in
pink tutus or guys in tights. It was something the New
York elite went to see, along with art galleries and
operas. These days, I had that kind of money—I even
moved in those kinds of circles, though I scared the shit
out of those people. But I’d never considered going to
see anything like that. I didn’t have time for art, not
with an empire to run. Not with the Russian mob
invading my territory.
Then the dancers came out on stage and I frowned and
leaned forward in my seat.
It wasn’t dancing—at least not like I’d ever seen. The
women seemed to float as if they didn’t weigh anything
at all, making long, graceful leaps, coming down on one
delicate foot and then powering back up into the air
without apparent effort. I watched, still frowning but
transfixed. Maybe those rich New Yorkers were onto
something. In their tight white costumes and gauzy
skirts, the dancers seemed otherworldly, like elves or
pixies or whatever the fuck they have in those fantasy
movies.
And then my life changed.
As the music swelled, she leapt onto the stage, long
legs extended almost horizontally, doing the splits in
midair. How the fuck is she doing that? I felt my jaw
drop. Wires. There must be wires…. But there weren’t
any. She could just move with a grace so far outside
anything I’d known, it seemed like magic.
She seemed to hang there, the stage lights picking out
every detail of her body: her perfectly-pointed toes, the
exquisite smoothness of her thighs, the twin hillocks of
her upthrust breasts. Her lips were pursed in
concentration, satin-soft and pink, contrasting with the
delicate tan of her skin. I’ve never wanted to kiss a pair
of lips so much: her expression was just so noble, so
richly fucking unknowable. If the others were elves, she
was their queen, untouchable by mortal man. Her hair,
tightly pinned into a bun, was platinum-blonde and that
only enhanced the look: she was an ice queen, regal
and perfect.
My hands tightened on the arms of my seat. I didn’t
care how unknowable she was. I had to know her. I
didn’t care how untouchable she was: I had to touch
her. I needed to feel those lips under mine, now. I
needed to run my hands along the length of those long
legs, feeling the warm flesh through the thin fabric of
her tights, and cup her there, right where she lived, and
rub her until she moaned into my mouth. I had no idea
who she was but I needed to find out. Right now.
She landed and spun on one leg, going faster and
faster. Each time she’d whip around to face the
audience, I caught a glimpse of her face: those pursed
lips, that tightly-pinned hair. I was seeing her in freeze-
frames, drinking in the image of her until the next one
replaced it. Her eyes were so cold, so imperious, yet
with just a hint of molten heat….
Jesus, I needed to do bad things to this girl.
She bounded across the stage and was gone.
Immediately, the other dancers were forgotten: all I
cared about was seeing her again. I was leaning so far
forward in my seat, it creaked. The guy in front of me
twisted around in irritation, but I just gave him a glare
and he paled and faced front.
Then she reappeared, lifting herself right up onto the
points of her toes and stepping so lightly across the
stage that she could have danced on a soap bubble.
How did she do that? Didn’t it hurt?! I was noticing
detail after detail, now, and every one of them was
sweet fucking perfection: the soft skin of her neck,
revealed by her pinned-up hair, ripe for kissing. The firm
curves of her ass, when that gauzy skirt floated up,
athletic and yet feminine. Her long, supple legs, one
moment stretching out into the splits, the next
scissoring together and propelling her skyward: I
wanted them wrapped around my waist, wanted those
ankles hooked behind my ass, urging me on.
I sat there for an hour, spellbound. I’d never sat in such
rapt attention in my life, not even watching the Yankees
take on the Mets with ten thousand on the table.
Then the dancers were taking bows, the lights were
coming up and, too late, I realized it was over. And
something I’d never felt before seemed to clutch at my
chest and grip tight. Shit! I didn’t even know her name!
I jumped to my feet, my heart suddenly thumping in my
chest. I’m never going to see her again!
My hands tightened into fists. Unacceptable.
Backstage. That’s where she’d be, right? I headed for
the stage, fighting through the tide of people heading
towards the exits. But when I tried to vault up onto the