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The captive shrugged and jeered lewdly, “You have better girls. Besides, what’s yours will be ours soon, haven’t you heard?”
The cold-eyed man glared at him with unbridled hatred. “I would sooner die than call the Baranovs family,” he rumbled.
The captive lifted his chin and smirked, exposing his throat for the knife. “Then you’ll die, Mikhail Sokolov,” he tossed back with utter disgust.
A cruel grin spread across Mikhail’s handsome face as he raised the knife.
“You first,” he grunted, and slashed the man’s throat from ear to ear.
CHAPTER2
ANNIKA
The ballerina liftedher arm up over her head in an elegant arch, her dainty fingers curling against her soft palm. The sunshine filtering in through the wide window at the end of the studio space washed across her body. The light seemed to adore her, warming her pale skin and giving her a glow from within. Every swell and soft line of her body gleamed with an edge of sunlight and followed her subtle, balanced movements. Her legs were long and slender, with the perfectly toned muscles of a dancer with an innate sense of discipline. She could hold any position for as long as the tutor asked her to without so much as a tremble. She could easily reach her toes or do a backbend. She was a natural, the kind of dancer who appeared to float from one end of the room to the other, so light on her toes that she seemed to levitate. It was as though gravity didn’t pull at her the same way it affected everyone else.
Everything about the young woman was delicate and precise, from the way she laced up her pointe shoes to the tight spiral bun at the nape of her neck. Her long, pin-straight black hair was parted straight down the middle and smoothed down with not a single flyaway in sight. Her skin was pale and smooth and looked soft to the touch. Even the dimples on her cheeks were completely symmetrical, as though placed by an artist’s hands. Her eyes were large and expressive with a slight upturn at the outer corners, which gave her a catlike gaze. They followed her own motions with rapt attention in the mirror, her jade-green eyes constantly scanning for even the faintest hint of a mistake. Not that there was ever any to be found. The dancer held herself to an impossibly high standard, and it was more likely that she would notice (but never mention) a mistake in another dancer’s routine than her own.
She was always self-correcting, always striving to improve upon her previously established perfection. She had to be the very best, and once she achieved that, she would set her sights even higher. There was always another level, she told herself inwardly. She was not the only dancer in the studio; there were three other young women matching her movements as the tutor called out each position. They were all dressed in identical black leotards with white tights and well-worn, pale pink toe shoes. Their hair was secured tightly, and their eyes followed their reflections in the mirror, every now and then flitting to someone else’s for a split-second comparison. The girls were classmates, bordering on friends. They had been dancing together since they were children. But no amount of camaraderie could quash the underlying current of competition. Someone had to be the best, and usually, Annika was the obvious answer to fill that slot.
Her green eyes widened as the tutor called out, “Plié!”
Annika bent at the knees, her arms lowering into curves as her feet pointed outward. The other students immediately copied her, just milliseconds behind.
The small studio pulsed with classical music emanating from the speakers built into the ceiling and walls. From the window, one could see the stunning private property the studio belonged to. It was on the second floor of a big house, with a view of the massive lawn with meticulous landscaping and a twelve-foot privacy fence just outside. It wasn’t a free-standing studio, nor even part of one of many strip mall outlets throughout the city. The studio was simply a repurposed and well-designed fifth bedroom within a large, sprawling estate in the luxurious Seven Hills area of Las Vegas. It was a gated community, and the twelve-foot fences around the estate made it more like a fortress. The property also contained a home gym, a swimming pool, an elegant staircase, and a full staff to maintain the grounds, cook, and clean for the residents.
The ballet studio itself was simply made with pure white walls, hardwood flooring, cubby shelving, and the traditional mirrored wall for the dancers to watch themselves practice. It boasted an attached en-suite bathroom, which was outfitted to suit a class of ballet dancers and their tutor, who was a gray-haired, no-nonsense woman in her fifties with a penchant for comparison. She was always lining the ballerinas up against each other, calling out their triumphs and their mistakes with equal pleasure. Annika was well accustomed to Miss Claire’s critical opinions, but she did wonder sometimes if it was trulyballetthe tutor loved, or just the opportunity to point out the girls’ flaws. She did seem to take a unique delight in belittling her students from the sidelines, her own dancing career long passed.
“Vika! No slouching!” Miss Claire barked. “You look like a sausage!”
“Da, Miss Claire,” the nervous dancer replied from behind Annika.
“Tasha, I can tell you haven’t been doing your ankle exercises. You’re as wobbly as a newborn giraffe,” the tutor lashed out at another student.
“Izvinit, Miss Claire,” Tasha replied.
She was the dancer next to Annika, and the two girls exchanged subtly knowing expressions in the large mirrored wall before them. Annika gave her the faintest of pity smiles. Just enough for Tasha to catch, but not enough for Miss Claire to notice. Much of their communication happened like this; in the margins, in the tiny breaks between sets, and at the start and end of class. Secret smiles and stolen whispers.
The girls didn’t get the opportunity to spend much time together, except for these weekly ballet lessons. The majority of the class did their practices at home, only coming together on Mondays for a formal class. Annika, however, was on a different schedule. She had lessons six days a week, always under the demanding supervision of Miss Claire or Annika’s mother, Yulia. She spent more time wearing spandex than otherwise. Her thoughts and dreams were filled with pirouettes and arabesques. The walls of her frilly pink bedroom were plastered with posters depicting scenes fromThe Nutcrackerand other iconic ballets. Trophies and medals adorned the shelves and hung over the headboard of her four-poster bed. Everything was painted in shades of delicate pink and white. On the desk by the window sat a ceramic paperweight in the shape of two ballet slippers next to a handmade scrapbook filled with photos from years of ballet recitals. On the windowsill, a music box sat open, with a tiny ballerina captured in a perpetual state ofemboité. The crystalline box caught the light, splintering it into shards across the pale walls.
But down the hall, the ballet studio still buzzed with movement and sound. The lesson was winding down as the clock ticked toward noon. The dancers were starting to slow down, their reflexes not as sharp as they had been at the start of the class hours earlier. Their muscles ached, their stomachs growled, and their patience for Miss Claire’s criticism had worn thin.
Well, apart from Annika. Herpenchéwas as flawless now as it had been at the start. Her cheeks glowed rosy pink, her green eyes looking brighter than ever. Far from being tired of dancing, Annika seemed to gain power as she danced. No amount of practice was too much. She would happily listen to the same swell of classical music again and again, watching herself in the mirror as she hammered out every subtle dip and leap to pure perfection. Annika didn’t have much else to focus on. Her schooling took place at home. Most interactions with others occurred within the home, as well. She’d made friends with the groundskeeper and the maid. She talked for hours to the chef as she prepared meals. Annika’s cell phone and laptop were closely monitored. Her time was cleanly split into practices, lessons, and family dinners. The estate was so well outfitted, there was little need to ever leave. And so, under the sheltering grip of her parents, Annika stayed there… almost all of the time.
It was the only life she knew, and ballet was the axis of it. And so, when today’s lesson came to a close, she was the only one sad to see it end. She lingered in front of the mirror, holding the final pose while the other three dancers dropped their arms and slouched over to the cubbies where their clothes and personal items were kept. The girls’ chests heaved. Sweat rolled down their backs. They rubbed their aching calves as they got to work unlacing their shoes.
Miss Claire stepped up behind Annika and rested her hands gently on the young woman’s shoulders. She peered at Annika’s face in the mirror, and something about the look in her eyes made Annika pay close attention. She thought she was about to get in trouble for something, the tutor looked so serious. The dancer racked her brain for a reason, some perceived tiny misstep in the routine.
But in a surprisingly soft tone, Miss Claire said, “You have always been my favorite.”
Annika tilted her head in confusion. It was unusual for the tutor to give out compliments, much less an outward show of affection. She smiled politely and said, “Thank you.”
Miss Claire opened her mouth like she was going to say something more, but caught herself first. Instead, she heaved a sigh and shook her head for a moment. She patted Annika’s bare shoulders and said, “Well, let’s get moving. Your classmates are heading home. Your father will be here any moment.”
The tutor stepped away and took her usual place by the door, almost as though she was standing guard. Annika joined her classmates in the corner of the room where they sat unlacing their shoes and chatting quietly.
“My knees have been killing me lately,” said Vika. “I think I’m doing something wrong in fourth position.”
“Your posture looked fine to me,” piped up Mariya. “And believe me, if you were messing up fourth position, Miss Claire would say something.”
