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stage, someone grabbed my arm. “Um...sir? You can’t

go up there!”

I turned and glared...but it was just one of the ushers.

She shrank back and the fear on her face made me

stop. What the fuck are you doing, Angelo? You’re

acting crazy!

But I couldn’t help it. Something had taken control of

me.

I took a breath and tried to speak calmly. “The dancers.

I gotta speak to one of them. Where are they?”

The usher blinked. “They’ll be in their dressing rooms by

now,” she said uncertainly. “But the public’s not—”

I nodded and turned away from the stage, heading for

the nearest exit like a good boy. But as soon as I hit the

hallway, I peeled off and headed straight for a door

marked No Admittance.

I didn’t get where I was by following the fucking rules.

I thundered down a flight of stairs and emerged into a

hallway. I knew I was in the right place: there were

women in stage make-up chatting and laughing, but

most of them were already in their street clothes. Shit!

They’re leaving!

“Are you supposed to be back here?” asked a voice

behind me.

I turned and found one of the dancers looking up at me.

I hadn’t figured on how small they’d be, up close. The

top of her head was only up to my shoulder. She was

pretty enough, with long chestnut-colored hair hanging

in tresses down her back. But she wasn’t her.

“I’m looking for one of the dancers,” I told her. “The

one with the platinum-blonde hair.”

“Irina? She left already.”

Shit! But at least I had a name. Irina. I gave the dancer

my best smile. “Are you all in a ballet…”—shit, what was

the word—”team?” Maybe I could find out where they

were dancing next and get a ticket.

“Ballet company,” she said. “No, we’re—Wait, how did

you come to the ballet and you don’t even know which

company you’re seeing?”

I ran my hand up the back of my still-soaking hair. “I

kinda stumbled in.”

She gave me a doubtful look. “Yeah. I can tell. We’re

students from Fenbrook Academy.”

I’d vaguely heard of it. Some upscale performing arts

place. That TV star, Jasmine Kane, went there. “So I

can find her there? What’s her last name?”

The dancer gave me a what the fuck look and stepped

back, and I realized how stalkerish I sounded. It

probably didn’t help that I loomed over her, my

shoulders almost brushing the sides of the narrow

hallway. You moron! But I was out of my element, here.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone after a

woman: usually, I just showed up at a party and they’d

start sidling up to me, all big-eyed and breathy, hot for

the whole criminal thing. I’d take them to my

apartment, ride them hard and then have trouble

remembering their names the next morning.

This was different.

I took a deep breath and put out my hands in a show of

peace. “I’d just really like to run into her again.”

For a second, the dancer’s face seemed to soften and I

thought she was going to help me. Then she quickly

shook her head.

Shit! I’d blown it. The dancer shifted from foot to foot: I

was standing between her and the exit, blocking her. I

thought about staying there, making her tell me...but I

wasn’t going to start scaring women just to get my way.

With a sigh, I stepped out of her way and leaned back

against the wall, rainwater trickling down my neck as it

was squeezed out of my hair. What the fuck was wrong

with me? I didn’t even know this Irina, hadn’t so much

as spoken to her, but my heart was pounding.

The dancer walked past me. A few seconds later, I

heard the door at the end of the hallway open and night

air flood in. I waited for the door to close, but it didn’t.

Then, “Hey!”

I looked round at her.

“If you really want to meet her, she’ll be dancing in

Central Park tomorrow. Noon.”

It felt like my whole chest lifted. “Thank you!” I wanted

to shower the girl with flowers, or chocolate, or fucking

Rolexes.

“Yeah, well...I’ll be there too. So don’t turn out to be an

asshole,” And she was gone, the door banging shut

behind her.

In the sudden silence, reality started to set in. What the

hell am I doing? I felt like I’d been temporarily

possessed: why was I down in the basement of a

theater, chasing after a ballet dancer? I didn’t have time

for this. I had territory to protect, deals to make.

So why did the thought of seeing her again make a grin

tug at the corners of my mouth: the first time I

remembered smiling in a long time?

Irina, I thought. I’ll see you tomorrow.

2

Irina

It was so cold that our breath hung in the air: a trail of

tiny white clouds that marked where we’d danced before

another dancer’s outstretched arm or leg whipped them

away. We were dancing to a section of La Sylphide that

was fast and energetic - because energetic is what you

need when you’re in a leotard and the temperature’s

close to freezing.

Rachel, my roommate, was shivering. She gave me a

what the hell did you talk me into look as she leapt past

me and I gave her a sympathetic smile. But the truth

was, the cold didn’t bother me all that much. Maybe it’s

because even New York in February is nothing

compared to Moscow.

Or maybe it’s because I’ve started to welcome the cold.

Instead of fighting and shivering and trying to keep it

out, I want it to soak through my clothes and my skin

and into my bones.

If I was entirely numb, I couldn’t feel anything at all.

The past—the bad stuff—disappeared. And dancing took

so much concentration that it stopped me thinking about

the horror of my future. Between the two, I could

almost imagine I was free.

I leapt up onto a park bench, my shoes crunching in the

frost. Then I stepped up onto the arm, balanced on one

foot and began to tip forward towards fourth arabesque,

my other leg rising into the air behind me. I was making

the most of it because I knew we wouldn’t be able to

dance for long: I was going to lose feeling in my feet

pretty soon. Plus, the string quartet who provided the

music were freezing, too.

I extended my arms and let my upper body sink a little

further into the freezing air. It almost hurt to breathe it

in, the air was so icy. I reveled in it.

Dancing’s always been my escape. When I was a kid,

ballet classes let me pretend I was just like any of the

other little girls, right up until the time I had to get back

into the armor-plated limo. When things started to get

dangerous, around the time I was twelve or thirteen,

and I was first sent to stay with my uncle’s house for a

few days, I danced around the big, echoey hallways and

kidded myself I was really in some famous dance

school. And when the violence ripped my parents away

from me and I had to go to live with my uncle

permanently, dancing became my last-ditch plan to get

to America.

I’d thought, that day I stepped off the plane, that I’d

finally escaped. I was that naive.

I arched my back, pointed my toe...and that’s when I

saw him.

The crowd was big despite the cold, maybe a hundred

people. The charity music and ballet performances had

been running for a few years, now, and they’d become

a thing—we were even in the tourist guides. But it