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“Thanks.” I smile, though I’m still shy about the response my classmates had earlier. But having Anya compliment my choreography feels like an even bigger accomplishment, somehow. I’ve always admired the beautiful pieces she puts together, so it feels great to have her notice mine. “We only started trying it a couple of weeks ago, when I decided to up the complexity of our piece.”
“With moves like that, I’m sure you’re going to get multiple offers after the showcase.”
I snort as I shrug into my coat. “You have to say that because you’re my friend.”
Anya links arms with me as we head out the door on our way to our next class. “I promise you, you’re going to blow their minds. Seriously, I’ve never seen anyone get that kind of height before. You spun four times before he caught you! And, man, you two make it look so effortless.” Her voice shifts into a more solemn tone. “I know you’ve been working hard on it lately, spending a lot of extra hours in the practice studio, and I’m proud of you. I really think it’s all going to pay off in the end.”
I squeeze Anya’s arm as her confidence reassures me. “And I think everyone needs a friend like you to make them feel like a dance goddess.”
Anya giggles and shakes her head as we step out into the snowy day. The light is dim with the heavy gray clouds, and everything feels still and silent as the white flakes slowly glide toward the ground. My thoughts turn sad once again as my momentary relief from thinking about Ilya vanishes.
“Whitney?” Anya asks tentatively.
“Mmm?” I torn to meet my friend’s clear blue eyes, and it’s not lost on me that the sadness I used to see in them has long since disappeared. Ironic considering how deeply melancholic I feel at this moment.
“Is everything alright? You’ve just seemed so serious–or upset, really–over the last month or so, and I’m starting to worry about you. You know I’m here for you, right? Whatever you need? You’ve always been there for me, and I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Sweet, sensitive Anya. Of course she would read into my silence like I am an open book. She’s such a kind soul, and she’s been through enough to see it when another person is struggling, no matter how hard I’m trying to deny it.
“I don’t know, Anya. I’m honestly unsure of where my relationship with Ilya is going to end up after graduation, and it terrifies me.” My head droops as I envision my life at the end of this semester–possibly without a dance career, probably without Ilya in it. “I’m more emotionally invested than I’d intended to be, but I get the feeling that he might be ready to move on after our contract is done.” I glance over at Anya, and find a frown creasing her delicate features.
“You know, I’ve always seen something more than that between you two. You really seem more like a couple than a contractual agreement to me.” The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of her lip, and she meets my gaze more directly. “Even back when you two let me in on one of your scenes, I could just see it between you two.”
“See what?” I ask, my heart stuttering irregularly.
Anya’s eyes dance as her expression turns teasing. “Well, chemistry out the wazoo,” she says, then her face softens. “But more than that. You two just have this… connection. Even in that short amount of time I got to see you two together, you truly convinced me that arrangements like ours have the possibility of actually becomingreal.”
Her supportive smile breaks my heart. God love this girl for being such a hopeless romantic after everything she’s been through. Then again, she and Nicolo really seem to have found that connection she’s so confident she saw between Ilya and me. But it didn’t take long for Nicolo to realize what a complete idiot he would have to be to not fall in love with Anya. She’s a rare diamond in our world.
“Thank you, Anya. I hope you’re right.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her in for a side hug. “But I’m trying not to get my hopes up too high after Friday.”
Anya stops short, and I know I’ve said too much because, as open as I have been with my friend and as much as I trust her, I do not want have to explain that Ilya stripped me naked and fucked me in one of the practice rooms she uses multiple times a week. No friend needs to have that image in their head–not even if she’s seen me hanging in a sex swing once before.
“What happened Friday?” she asks, turning to me.
“Nothing!” I say too quickly, and she raises her eyebrows in that way that only mothers can. “Really, it’s not a big deal. It’s just that we kind of got in an argument, of sorts, and he might have interpreted something I said–or rather didn’t say–as confessing to cheating on him.” I shake my head and let my gaze fall to the toes of my boots. “After that, he said something along the lines of that he has me until the end of the semester. I don’t know. It just made me feel like he’s got his eye on the expiration date and just doesn’t want me to think our time together is going to be any more or any less.”
Anya’s lips twist as she considers that. “Have you spoken since?”
“Not really. He called Saturday, and we talked a bit. But I guess something happened with his Bratva, so he didn’t come see me on Sunday like he planned. I don’t know. I just feel like he’s gotten so closed off lately.” Especially after the night I took control at his house. I wonder if it might have impacted our relationship negatively without me realizing it at the time.
I shrug it off, trying to make it seem like I care less than I really do, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s coming up with excuses because he doesn’t really want to see me. “He promised he would make it up to me with another date this coming weekend–if he can’t break away from work before then.” God, I sound downright gloomy. I half expect an Eeyore rain cloud to open up over my head.
“I’m sure you two will work it out. Give him time. Sometimes, I think the line of work our men are in makes them struggle to make sense of their emotions.” Anya gives me a bright smile, and I can’t help but laugh. She might have a point there.
34
ILYA
One of the hardest parts of my job aspakhanis how little I get to dictate my own hours. Sometimes, I have all the freedom in the world to do as I please. That happens when things are running smoothly and I have a solid Bratva of men I can trust to do their jobs. But when things start to go south, I lose all control of my life. I have to be available for my men, day or night, no matter how trustworthy and good at their jobs they might be.
I thought my brief conversation with Whitney had gone well enough on Saturday. She agreed to it when I asked if we could get together and talk on Sunday. So, that was a good sign. But late that night I got a call from Fyodor informing me that someone set fire to one of our warehouses. So, at three in the morning, I dragged my ass out of bed to go to the warehouse to help my men put out the fire before the fire department or police could be notified. After all, we didn’t want law enforcement getting involved, seeing as the warehouse held a massive shipment of fresh contraband.
We managed to put out the fire, but the message I found spray painted onto the front of my building is what really disturbs me:You thought you could get rid of us, but you failed. Now it’s our turn to wipe the Shulaya from the streets of Chicago. Starting with you.It doesn’t take any stretch of the imagination to guess that I’m theyouin that scenario, and at least now the biggest mystery of these attacks have finally been solved. It is the Temkin. That bastard’s final words have, in fact, come back to haunt me, and now I’m facing an enemy that’s had years to regroup and find a new, far more successful plan of attack.
But with this new revelation, I had to put my conversation with Whitney on hold. After my discussion with Bianka, I’m confident I want to have an open conversation with Whitney about the potential of turning our contract into a real relationship. But I have to deal with this first. Now that I know it’s our old enemies coming out of the woodworks, I have to focus all my attention on hunting them down and annihilating them. And the good news is, with this most recent attack, I might actually have a lead.
Because the accelerant they used to set my warehouse on fire was bunker fuel–the thick black oil often used in cargo ships. I’m confident of it from the texture ofthe remnants splashed about along with the sulfuric smell of rotten eggs that lingers in the air of my building. And that can mean only one thing. They’re hiding on the water, or at least down by the shipping docks.
