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“I thought I would wait for you outside, devochka,” he murmurs. “I know you’re lying to me about the Campano brother. But I wanted to enjoy you inside, so I thought, why not both? Why not enjoy a good stroke while I watch you dance, and then question you again, here where no one will bother us?” He reaches out, grabbing my arm, his fingers digging hard into the soft flesh. “Out here, there is no rule against touching. So be honest, devochka, or we will finish where we started. There.” He jerks his head towards the dumpster. “Would you like that, gryaz? To be fucked behind the trash, where you belong?”
My face flushes. “Leave me alone!” I snatch my arm free, my pulse beating wildly, fear rising up in me like a wild animal. “Get away from me!” I turn, driving my elbow hard into his chest. It’s hard as a rock, and I cry out with pain at the impact, but he’s just shocked enough to give me a moment to get away.
I bolt forward, running for my life.
“Suka! Shlyukha!” He curses in Russian, and I hear his heavy footfalls behind me, pursuing. I speed up, veering around a corner towards the more brightly-lit parking lot without fully looking where I’m going—and my foot catches over a parking block.
The gravel scrapes my knee and leg, but the pain is nothing compared to the wrenching, blinding pain in my ankle. I think I hear it snap, and I look up, the fear of the injury warring with the fear of the man coming at me in a rush. A broken ankle won’t stop him; I know that. My life might end here, tonight, behind a filthy strip club dumpster—or he’ll do worse things to me, things that will make me wish I were dead.
I close my eyes, trying to crawl away. I make it inches before I hear Egor cry out in surprise, and the sudden, hard thud of a fist meeting flesh. Again and again—and I open my eyes just in time to see what I think for a moment must be my imagination.
Lorenzo is standing there, shirt spattered with blood, looming over Egor’s body on the ground, his hands balled into fists. Egor is whimpering in the gravel, his fists coming up to cover his face, and I see blood on Lorenzo’s hands, too.
The moment I realize it’s really him, I burst into tears.
Lorenzo
The sound of Mila crying makes me want to run to her. But there’s not a chance in hell I’m letting this bastard get back up again. I lean down, grabbing the front of his shirt to haul him up and beat his face into the ground—and then I hear Mila’s low moan of pain through her sobs.
I look sharply over at where she’s lying, my fist still wrapped in Egor’s bloodied shirt, and my blood runs cold when I see the angle that her ankle is turned at.
It’s broken. I can see it from here. And I might not know much about the art of ballet, but I know one thing for certain—if I don’t get her to the hospital quickly, she might never dance again.
I slam my fist into Egor’s nose, hard enough to knock him out cold, and deliver a hard kick to his gut. I want to kill him—I had planned on killing him for daring to come near her, but I don’t have the time. I didn’t bring a gun with me, and Mila is more important than revenge. Egor can be finished later, but this can’t wait.
I all but run to her, crossing the distance in quick strides and crouching down next to her. Her face is tear-streaked, puffy, and blotchy, as if she’s already cried once tonight, but she still looks utterly beautiful to me.
“Mila,” I murmur her name, softly, reaching out to touch her cheek. “I need to get you up.” Here, closer, I can see that the break is bad. Her ankle has already swollen to twice its usual size, purpling, and I wince as I reach for her. “This might hurt a bit,” I say softly, trying to soothe her. “But if we get you to my car, we can get you to the hospital quickly.”
She nods, biting her lip as I start to gently get her up. Her small cry as her ankle shifts feels as if it cuts directly into my chest, and I wrap an arm around her, sliding my other arm beneath her knees as I lift her into my arms. Her ankle shifts again, and she moans with pain, but she curls against my chest in a way that makes me ache with an unfamiliar desire.
I want to hold her close, and never let her go. I want to keep her safe, always. And I want to kill anyone who gets in the way of that. All those feelings at once collide inside of my chest, making my breath come short.
Even in the dim light of the parking lot, I can see the fear in her eyes. “My ankle,” Mila whispers softly, her voice breaking, and I hold her a little more tightly.
“We’ll get you to the hospital,” I promise her, trying not to jostle her too much as I walk quickly to the black SUV waiting in the parking lot. “They’ll set it, and you’ll be fine. I promise.”
It’s a promise that I can’t be certain will be kept, but it’s all I can think of to say at the moment. The thought of her never dancing again makes me feel a wave of near-unhinged rage—if her career is destroyed because of Egor, I’ll be glad I left him alive—so I can ensure his death is slower, later. Him, and anyone associated with what he’s done.
I carefully put her into the back of the SUV, climbing in after her and holding her against me. “Go to the nearest hospital,” I tell the driver sharply, smoothing a hand over Mila’s hair. She’s still crying quietly, sobs interspersed with tiny whimpers of pain, and I grit my teeth. Egor deserves more pain than I inflicted on him tonight, and I intend to make sure that he feels it.
The moment we get to the hospital, and she’s put in a wheelchair, the nurse tries to tell me that I’ll need to stay in the waiting room. I fix her with a glare, my hand on Mila’s shoulder protectively. “I’m going with her.”
The nurse narrows her eyes. “Are you family? Her husband? Rules say?—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the rules. Ask whoever is in charge if the name Lorenzo Campano means anything to them. I’m going with her.”
The nurse pales slightly, and she nods. “Alright,” she says stiffly, and she leads me back to a room, where Mila is helped onto a bed with her leg stretched out in front of her. “I just need to get her vitals.”
I sink down into a chair next to the bed, jaw tight as the nurse goes through the motions of taking Mila’s temperature and blood pressure. She leaves a moment later, and I start to speak, only to be interrupted by someone coming in to get Mila’s health insurance. Her face falls immediately.
“I have insurance through the Los Angeles ballet.” She swallows hard. “I don’t have my card with me. But I can’t afford?—”
“I’ll cover it,” I interrupt her. “The co-pay, whatever the bills are. It will be handled. Make sure she gets the best care,” I sharply tell the nurse standing there with her laptop. “She’s a ballerina. The lead ballerina. I want her to have only the best.”
The nurse nods, giving me a suspicious look, but she says nothing. I reach out to take Mila’s hand, and her fingers curl around mine immediately, clinging as if for dear life.
“I might never dance again,” she whispers, staring down at her swollen ankle as if in shock. “All because he?—”
