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I don't miss the way his eyes flit down to my lips and linger there for a few moments too long.
“Dinner,” he says, blunt and to the point. “Tonight. Are you free?”
His question takes me by surprise. I'd honestly love to go out to dinner with him, but the moment I open my mouth to tell him yes, Mother Dearest decides thatnowis the time to stomp over.
“I don't think that's a very good idea,” she says, her tone saccharine. I don't know who she thinks she's fooling. “Nikita has a very early morning tomorrow. And besides, she needs to watch her figure if she's going to fit into her costume.”
Embarrassment floods my veins. I wish I could tell her to leave me alone, but as both my motherandtechnically my boss, I'm in no position to do either. For as long as I can remember, Inessa has policed every single aspect of my life. What I eat. When I go to bed and when I wake up. The kinds of friends I'm allowed to make—which is to say, next to none. I'd say yes to Leo in a heartbeat, but I can decipher Inessa's look of disapproval well enough.
“Sorry,” I murmur to him.
Leo shakes his head. He doesn't seem offended, only mildly annoyed—and rightly so—at my mother's interference. “It's no matter. Perhaps another time.” With a final dip of his head, he turns and stalks off, the director general following quickly on his tail.
Mother grips my wrist tightly. “Dodged a bullet there.”
“What do you mean?”
“Were we even looking at the same person?” Inessa hisses. “What a nasty scar! He looks like trouble.”
“You're being mean,” I reply tersely. She can’t know that we’ve already met in oh, so many ways. “He seems perfectly nice.”
“Don't be foolish, Nikita. A man like that… He's bad news.”
I clench my fists and grit my teeth. There she goes again calling me foolish. She says it so often that sometimes I wonder if it's true.
“Go cool down and go home,” she tells me, already turning to address the rest of the ballet company. “Make sure to do your stretches. Your flexibility is abysmal.”
I bite my tongue hard enough that I taste the bitter metal of iron. “Yes, Mother. Whatever you say.”
Chapter 6
Leo
When I get back to the office later that evening, I bury myself in my work. I drown in the sea of numbers before me as I struggle to keep my head above water. The Bratva is bleeding money. It's not fatal, but wearein need of medical attention. The traitor in our midst is getting bolder by the day, more and more of our funds draining away somewhere I can't trace no matter how hard I try. I need to staunch the wound.
I debate whether or not I should be patient or turn over every stone in Moscow to find the rat bastard. Sooner or later, they're going to make a mistake that leads me right to them, but there's no telling when that will be. I don't like the thought of sitting idly by while they steal hundreds of thousands of rubles from us.
Fuck that.
It's a disgrace. It's an insult. And it cannot go unpunished.
I strum my fingers against the desk, uneasy and distracted by thoughts of Nikita. I can still see her, dancing across my mind with such startling beauty it's a struggle to concentrate on anything else.
I shouldn't have asked her out to dinner. That was a bad call on my part. Not because I didn't mean it, but because it wouldn't make sense. We don't match. Nikita is too sweet, too beautiful, and I'm… I'm from the other side of the tracks, from a completely different world. She exists where things are pristine, bright, and safe. I dwell in the criminal underbelly, danger and betrayal lurking around every corner. That night we had was supposed to be a one-off. That’s it. That’s all it can be. I have no business trying to pursue someone like Nikita.
She's a princess up in her tower.
I'm the troll that lives under the adjacent bridge.
“Knock knock!” Roman announces cheerfully as he enters. Funnily enough, he doesn't actually knock. I'm really going to have to start locking that damn door.
“Did you bring me the ledgers from the businesses in the south?” I ask him, getting straight to it.
“Sort of.”
“The hell do you mean,sort of?”
Roman reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a list of printed names. There are roughly forty to fifty on the page, organized in neat columns and rows. All except one are crossed out.
