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“They killed Artem,” I say bluntly. She’s being obstinate, and I need her to take this seriously–to be scared, even–for her own safety. “And seven of his men.”
Bianka’s mouth freezes midchew, and her eyes grow wide. Sadness flickers across her face. “How?” she breathes.
She always liked Artem. I could see it in the way she teased him. I wouldn’t doubt if she’d come to think of him as an honorary older brother of sorts. Hell, he was practically like a brother to me. It hurts me to see the pain in her expression, but she needs to know the gravity of the situation–even if I’m not about to tell her his head was delivered to me in a cardboard box.
“The how doesn’t matter. It’s the why that does. Whoever it is that’s been provoking this conflict killed him as a sign of war. What happens next is going to be brutal, ruthless, and I wouldn’t put it past them to use you to hurt me.”
Bianka sets her silverware down and straightens as she listens to me more intently now.
“I think you should take this semester off. You should come home, where I can protect you. You’re too vulnerable at Rosehill, in the Marchettis’ territory. I can’t keep you safe there. It was risky enough sending Yefim to look after you, when it could be perceived as a power play. But really, one man is not enough. Whoever this is, they have the resources to kill eight of my best men. And I have no doubts they would be willing to kill one girl to prove a point to me.”
“No,” Bianka refuses bluntly, her tone flat with conviction. “I’m sorry, Ilya, but I’m not going to put my schooling on hold over some conflict happening in your world. What are the chances they even know I’m connected to you?”
“We have the same last name. It isn’t a far leap, especially considering your school records have this house listed as your primary residence just a few years back. It wouldn’t take them much to find you,” I growl.
Bianka rolls her eyes. “No one’s going to bother hunting down some worthless half sister of yours when they’ve clearly learned how to push your buttons without harming a hair on my head. Besides, I’m friends with the Marchetti twins, and they won’t let anything happen to me.”
She says it with a conviction that makes my eyes narrow. I don’t trust that they alone can protect her. They’re little more than teenagers with a tendency toward the immature as far as I can tell, and I don’t trust they would consider the situation with the necessary gravity–let alone be inclined to put their family resources toward protecting my sister. No, she needs to come home. I’ll make that happen, whatever it takes.
“Let me put this more clearly. It’s not a suggestion. You’re taking the semester off and moving home. I will stop paying your tuition if that’s what will make you take this seriously.”
Bianka’s cheeks blush with anger beneath her freckles, and her lips press into a thin line. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t test me, Bianka,” I warn.
My sister crosses her arms over her chest as she slumps back against her chair in a pout. Then her eyes ignite with a rebellious fire, and she leans forward. “You know what? Go ahead. Cut me off. If you do, I’ll find my own way. I’ve saved enough money to cover expenses for long enough to find another solution. Hell, maybe I’ll just get someone to pay my way like you are for Whitney.”
Frustration flares inside me. “I will not have my sister selling herself like a common whore!” I growl between my teeth as I slam my silverware down onto the table.
Bianka scoffs. “You sound like an idiot. I know that’s not what you think of Whitney, so you can’t put that on me just to make me feel bad.” She shoves roughly away from the table, rising in the same motion as she glares at me. “Why don’t you call me when you’re done trying to have a stupid power trip? I’m sorry about Artem and that things are going to shit right now, but that doesn’t give you the right to speak to me that way.”
Spinning on her heel, Bianka storms out, leaving me speechless and beyond enraged by her unruly behavior. I’m still frozen with fury as the front door slams. To top it off, she cut right to the core of my confusion over Whitney. Not that I would ever admit Bianka’s right, but whatever I have with Whitney is beyond a prostitute and her benefactor. Groaning, I rake my fingers through my hair and tilt my head back against the head of my chair. This dinner didn’t go at all as planned.
29
WHITNEY
“Let’s do it again from the start,” I state, striding to the far end of the studio and facing Trent.
“Yes, ma’am.” He gives me a teasing solute. “Let me get some water first. I’m only human after all.” Striding across the empty room, he stoops to pick up his water bottle and takes a long pull. From the coloring in his cheeks and the sweat dripping from his brow, I know he’s not faking it.
I suppose I have been more like a drill sergeant than a partner over the last few weeks as I’ve thrown myself into our senior showcase. We’ve been practicing late into the evenings at school, long after the rest of our classmates have gone home. But I’m determined to bring our performance to the next level since this will be my last opportunity to convince the talent scouts that I’m worth hiring as a dancer.
It’s also proven to be the only sufficient outlet where I can release my growing pain and confusion at Ilya’s behavior–or, frankly, lack thereof. I’ve been pouring all my energy into dance, trying to forget about how I haven’t heard barely a word from him since our passionate night together. After the night he tore his office apart–the night I realized I was coming dangerously close to falling for him–Ilya hasn’t sent for me a single time. No calls, no texts aside from curt messages canceling our usual weekends together because he’s busy. That’s the only sign I’ve had to reassure me that he’s even alive. It seems that while our passionate night felt like a life-altering moment to me, it might actually have been Ilya’s way of saying goodbye. And now he’s just done with me, letting the clock run out on our contract while he keeps himself busy.
Meanwhile, I haven’t had anyone to fill my suddenly vacant calendar because even Anya’s busy falling in love and enjoying her new family with Nicolo. I can’t bring myself to tear her away from that any more than necessary just to watch me wallow in misery. I could spend my time with Paige and the twins, but I can’t bring myself to go clubbing and let loose when I’m in such emotional turmoil.
Instead, I’ve insisted on practicing with Trent until we’re both ready to drop from exhaustion, rehearsing our routine again and again until my choreography suddenly feels second nature, our moves as natural as breathing. The bright side is that with my newfound determination, we’ve had a breakthrough. I’ve even added more challenging moves that will take us to the next level. We’re still working on a few of the harder lifts, which is why we’re here so late on a weeknight. But we’re getting closer, and for the first time, Trent and I are really coming together as a team.
To top it off, I’m not sure if Trent’s just been too tired to say his usual stupid shit, if I’m growing used to it, or if my partner has finally starting to grow up just a hair, but I’ve even found his presence tolerable over the last few weeks of grueling practice.
“I think we’re getting close on that last lift,” he says as he sets down his water bottle and mops his face with a sweat rag.
I do a more rudimentary job with the back of my wrist. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“I don’t know if another attempt is going to be another step forward or if I might really biff it. My arms are exhausted,” he admits.
“Don’t be a baby,” I tease. “Unless you’re just whining in an attempt to hint that I should lose some weight.”
