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Prologue
Twelve years ago
A door bursting open pierces through my hazy consciousness, followed by the sense of falling in slow motion. Unfamiliar voices whisper somewhere far away, gradually becoming louder, until all I can hear is hurried shouting.
A gasp to my left, “Dear God.”
I try opening my eyes but fail. It takes me a few tries before I manage to peel my eyelids apart, but all I can see are blurry shapes.
And then comes the pain.
It feels like I've been stabbed by a thousand knives, with blades lodged into my flesh. The sharp, searing, body-wide sensation encompasses everything.
I choke on my breath and try to talk, but the only thing that comes out is a pained wheezing gasp. The void closes in again, the sounds slowly fade, and I let myself float away. The last thing I remember are broken sentences that breach my fading consciousness until there is nothing left. Only the pain.
“Roman!... Mikhail is still alive!”
“Jesus... press something over his face...”
“I’m not sure he’ll make it...”
“Anyone else?”
“No, they are all dead.”
Chapter 1
Present
My shoes echo in the empty anteroom of the Chicago Opera Theater, mixing with the faint opening notes ofSwan Lakecoming from the hallway on the left. With the ballet already starting, the entrance is vacated. I nod to the security guy, then turn and follow the long hallway toward the double wooden doors at the far end, where a poster hanging on the wall attracts my attention.
They changed the photo. The previous one showed the whole troupe in the middle of the group jump, taken from afar so the whole stage was visible, but the new one shows only one dancer, the shot zoomed in. I take a step closer until I’m standing right before the image. Without conscious thought, my hand rises and traces the contour of her face—her sharp cheekbones, her cherry blossom mouth, down her slender neck, then back up over the outline of her eyes, which seem to be looking straight at me. The big letters at the top of the poster announce this evening’s show as her last performance. Looks like the season is closing.
Sometimes, I imagine approaching her, maybe after one of her shows. We would exchange a few words and I would invite her to dinner. Nothing fancy, perhaps that cozy tavern downtown. They have the best wine and... I catch my reflection visible on the glass covering the poster, and I instantly let my hand fall back, feeling like my touch somehow tainted her. I guess this is as close as someone like me, hideous inside and out, should be allowed near such perfection.
I carefully open the big wooden door and quietly slip inside. With the only source of light coming from the stage, the space is rather obscure, but I still keep myself to the back where the darkness is the thickest. I’ve been extremely careful in pursuing my obsession, always making sure I come after the play starts and leave before it ends. It's better to keep a low profile. Saying I don’t blend into the crowd would be an understatement.
My looks have never really bothered me. In my line of business, the scarier you look, the easier it is to make people talk. Sometimes, the only thing needed was for me to enter the room and they would spill all they know. My reputation has helped as well.
Finding a suitable fuck was usually tricky, but it had nothing to do with my face. A lot of women from our circle were eager to lure the Bratva's Butcher into their bed, but they became significantly less eager when I presented them with the rules: only remove enough clothes to get the job done, strictly from behind, and no touching of any kind.
The civilians had different reactions. Most tended to avoid looking directly at me. Others liked to stare. I was perfectly fine with either approach.
So, why the fuck does it bother me now? Why am I hiding in dark corners, stalking this girl I’ve only seen from afar, like a psycho? I’m still debating my sanity when the solo violin theme begins and my eyes snap back to the stage. I know nothing about music, but I haven’t missed any of her shows for months, and by now, I recognize exactly when her part comes. When my gaze finds her gliding toward the center of the stage, I feel my breath catch in my chest.
She’s a vision, spinning along the stage in that long gauzy skirt, and I am mesmerized as I follow each of her moves. Her light blonde hair is twisted at the back of her neck, but instead of making her look stern, the harsh hairstyle only accentuates her perfect doll-like features. She’s like a little bird—gracious and fragile—and God... so painfully young. I lean on the wall behind me and shake my head. If I don’t break out of this madness, I’ll go crazy.
After her part is finished, I leave, but instead of going straight to the exit, I make a detour to the big table near the backstage door. It’s packed with flower arrangements visitors have left to be sent to the dancers’ dressing rooms. Strange setup, but it works for me. As always, I leave a single rose and proceed to the exit.
“Your father wants to talk with you,” my mother says from the doorway.
I ignore her and wrap the last of my costumes in thin white paper, tracing the gauzy fabric of the tulle skirt along the way. Then, I pack it into the big white box on my bed, where I already stored the rest of my stage outfits, and secure the lid over it. Everything that remains of my career as a professional dancer, ready to collect dust. I never expected it to end so quickly. The star of the Chicago Opera Theater, who rose to a position of principal dancer in her company at sixteen. Now retired at barely twenty-one years of age. Fifteen years of hard work just gone because of one stupid injury. As I turn to place the box at the bottom of the closet, I want to weep, but I keep the tears from falling. What’s the point anyway?
“He’s in his office,” my mother continues. “Don’t make him wait, Bianca. It’s important.”
I wait for her to leave, then start toward the door only to stop in front of my vanity and look at the crystal vase holding a single yellow rose. Usually, I donate all the flowers I get after a performance to the children’s hospital. This is the only one I kept. I reach out with my hand and trace the long thornless stem wrapped in a yellow silk ribbon with gold details. There has been one left for me after every performance for the past six months. No message. No signature. Nothing. Well, this is the last one I’ll ever get.
I exit my room and head downstairs to the furthest part of the house where my father’s and brother’s offices are situated. The dull pain in my back is almost gone now, but I stopped deluding myself that it was just a passing thing months ago. I will never be able to withstand six-hour practices, five days a week, again.
