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“We weren’t inviting you boys,” Paige snarks, voicing my attitude. “But I guess you can come too if you want. What do you say, Anya? Want to come out for a night of fun?”
“Oh, you have to go at least once. It’s one of the coolest nightclubs in Chicago.Andit’s owned by the Marchettis,” Tammy quips.
My heart stutters at the mention of the Marchettis. I hadn’t put two and two together until now. But after my conversation with Ilya this weekend, I’m suddenly intensely aware of their existence. Come to think of it, I have seen Nicolo there on occasion when the girls and I go dancing. No wonder Ilya chooses to take me other places when we go clubbing. But he’s never objected to me going to Danza with Paige and the twins.
“That mafia family that essentially runs the underground world of Chicago?” Logan asks, his eyebrows rising toward his red hair.
“Yeah, you didn’t know that?” Paige asks with mild surprise. “That’s part of the appeal. It gives the club a certain… mystique,” she says, dropping her voice secretively.
“I don’t know that I feel comfortable going to a club owned by the mob…” Anya hedges.
Oh, sweet, innocent girl. Doesn’t she know that most of Chicago is owned by some mafia family or Bratva clan?There’s no escaping that. Then again, I suppose I didn’t really understand it before meeting Ilya. He’s taught me a lot in our time together. Still, I want to set the nervous girl’s mind at ease. “Oh, it’s not like they’re ever really there anyway. And when they do come, they all sit in a separate section of the club.”
“Yeah, they’re far too important to mingle with the rest of us lowly college students and common people.” Paige rolls her eyes.
“Come on, Anya. As an honorary new member of the cool kids group, you have to come,” I press.
Anya’s wide eyes flick from face to expectant face. “Okay, I’ll come.”
The smile that spreads across her face tells me we were right to insist.She needs friends, and what better way to get to know a ballerina than to take her dancing?
“Yay!” I squeeze her shoulder supportively. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”
I don’t know what it is about this girl, but I get the distinct feeling that I’m going to like her. Maybe it’s just because I relate to her. Though she hasn’t said as much, I’m sure we come from a similarly impoverished background. Only, from the state of her clothes, I would say she’s still fighting to make her ends meet.
That makes me protective of her on instinct, and I want her to feel welcome and accepted because I don’t know what I would have done if the twins hadn’t befriended me. Their support often got me through my freshman year when I felt so tired and alone that I wasn’t sure I could keep on going. And if I can, I want to be that for Anya.
17
ILYA
I don’t like the way I left things with Whitney. Now that I’ve had time to cool off and think about it, I was too rough with her. It doesn’t matter that she’s a fucking minx who took her punishment like a star and still came twice, even though I intended to make it aboutmypleasure. Still, it’s no excuse. I was pissed off, and I chose to take my anger out on Whitney rather than being a man and managing my temper. Not that I plan on calling her up and groveling or anything. I’m a strong believer in actions speaking louder than words. So this weekend, I’ve planned something special for my sultry ballerina. Something that I hope will make up for my immature outburst last weekend.
As I ride the Edgewater Beach elevator up to the seventeenth floor, I fuss with the full windsor knot of my eggplant-purple paisley tie that lightly strangles my throat. I hate suits. Men with my amount of muscle mass aren’t built for them. No matter how perfectly tailored they are. I prefer something a little more casual. But formal wear is a necessity in my line of work, so I’m used to it. And what I have planned for Whitney requires the concession.
The elevator door dings, gliding open a moment later, and I stride to Whitney’s apartment door. When I rap on it, Whitney’s muffled “It’s open!” beckons me inside. Striding into the living area of the spacious apartment, I appreciate the neat state Whitney always leaves her place in. My eyes land on the thick-striped gray-and-white accent chair I had her tied to last weekend, and my cock pulses at the memory of her perfect ass on full display. The image of her guarded eyes and the echo of her silence afterwards falls like a lead ball in my stomach, and I shove the sudden guilt aside. Tonight is about making it up to her.
Sounds of her getting ready whisper from the bedroom along with hints of muted Black Sabbath, and I settle onto the couch to wait. I’m sure she’ll be done soon. Whitney never keeps me waiting. I don’t know if that’s because she just knows better or if she’s naturally a punctual person. But since it’s Friday, I’ve given her less time than usual to get dressed.
I watch the golden light of early evening dance across the water’s surface through her windows. It’s a nice view. I rarely take the time to admire it, focused more on the view inside.
Heels click across the wooden floor minutes later, and I turn to find Whitney in a stunning black dress. It hugs her body as it tapers to the floor, a long slit running up her left leg to mid-thigh. But what captures my eye most is the unusual one-sleeved top. The cut-out that leaves one shoulder and arm entirely bare almost twists across her chest before the fabric curves up, forming a high collar around her neck that’s plated in thick gold–a combination of necklace and restraint. Then the black fabric continues down into a full-length sleeve.
“You like it?” Whitney asks, doing a catwalk spin to reveal the open back aside from the thin slash of fabric covering the top of her right shoulder. Her wispy raven pixie cut and smokey eye only add to the severe beauty of the outfit.
I look her up and down once again and note that her stilettos match the dress perfectly–strappy black open toe with a gold plate around the ankle to hold the shoes in place.
“Very much,” I agree, rising from the chair to stroke my hands over her waist and hips, admiring the softness of the midnight fabric.
“Great! Well then, I’m ready to go.”
She flashes a smile, and I’m slightly taken aback by how normal she’s acting. She seems perfectly comfortable with me. And while our texts this week have been perfectly cordial, I thought she might be more resistant to my touch after how roughly I handled her. But when I offer her my elbow, she takes it without question, and we head toward the door. Relief loosens my chest. I underestimated Whitney if she can brush off our last encounter so easily. Then again, she’s always been a tough girl. Now that she spends so much of her time in nice dresses, I sometimes forget she was the girl dressed in a black biker’s coat and combat boots, looking for all the world like she was ready to throw down, the first day I laid eyes on her.
“How was your week back at school?” I ask as the elevator takes us down to the lobby.
“I feel like they replaced the dance program with boot camp.” Whitney laughs lightly. “But I’m excited for the new year and new professors. I think this will really push me to become a stronger dancer. We also have a new transfer student in the ballet track. Her name is Anya. She’s kind of shy, but the girls and I invited her to Danza tomorrow, so I’m hoping I can break her out of her shell a little more.”
I can hear the protective tenor in Whitney’s voice, and a smile tugs at my lips. She likes this Anya girl. I’m glad. She hasn’t sounded to happy with the other ballerina her friends like. Paige, I believe.
