The Don’s Possession

1. Kit

CHAPTER 1

KIT

My muscles burn as I hold the arabesque, sweat dripping down my neck despite the studio's air conditioning. Master Liu watches with sharp eyes, his weathered face revealing nothing.

"Again," he commands. "Your line must be perfect."

I repeat the sequence, pushing through exhaustion. The morning sun streams through the wall of windows, casting long shadows across the sprung floor. My reflection shows every minor flaw in my form—the slight tremor in my supporting leg, the infinitesimal drop in my extended arm.

"Better." Master Liu nods once. "Cool down and go home. Rest before tonight's performance."

If only rest were an option. I have exactly three hours before I need to be at Obsidian for my night shift. The stack of past-due notices in my apartment won't pay themselves.

I take my time stretching, savoring these last peaceful moments in the sunlit studio. Here, I'm just a dancer—disciplined, focused, pure. No one knows about my other life, about the things I do when darkness falls.

The locker room is empty when I shower and change. Most of the company dancers are still in rehearsal for next month's production of Swan Lake. I didn't make the cut this time— my technique is strong, but politics matter more than talent. Without the right connections or family money backing you, advancing beyond the corps is nearly impossible.

My phone buzzes as I'm leaving the studio. Another text from Lady Ashworth:

"Private room tonight. Triple your usual fee."

My stomach clenches. The smart thing would be to decline. Lady Ashworth's "private sessions" have been getting increasingly strange—whispered questions about Obsidian's owner, about shipments and schedules, about things a simple exotic dancer has no business knowing.

But triple pay would cover this month's rent and put a dent in my credit card debt. I can't afford pride right now.

"I'll be there," I text back.

The subway ride home is a blur of mental calculations. If I pick up extra private dances for the next three months and live on ramen, I might catch up on the most urgent bills. Maybe then I can focus purely on ballet again, the way I did before my scholarship funds ran out.

My apartment is a shoebox on the fifteenth floor of a crumbling building. The elevator's been broken for weeks, and my legs protest the climb. Inside, bills and final notices litter the kitchen counter. I sweep them into a drawer—out of sight, out of mind.

There's just enough time for a protein shake and power nap before I need to start getting ready for Obsidian. I set three alarms, not trusting my exhausted body to wake naturally.

The dreams, when they come, are a confused jumble of pirouettes and dollar bills, of spotlight-bright stages and dark private rooms. I wake gasping, heart racing, the phantom sensation of watching eyes still prickling my skin.

Obsidian looms dark and gleaming when I arrive, its black glass facade reflecting the city lights. The staff entrance leads to a maze of backstage corridors, each one temperature-controlled to protect our minimal costumes.

"You're with Lady A again?" Marcus, one of the other dancers, raises an eyebrow as I check the private room schedule. "Better you than me. That woman gives me the creeps."

"She tips well," I say with a shrug, not meeting his eyes.

"Just watch yourself. Word is she's connected to some dangerous people."

I ignore the warning, focusing instead on my pre-show routine. Base makeup first, then the theatrical highlights that will catch the stage lights. My hands are steady as I line my eyes with kohl, years of stage makeup experience making the process automatic.

The main floor is already packed when I emerge. Music throbs through hidden speakers, the bass deep enough to vibrate in my bones. Wealthy patrons fill the VIP sections, their designer clothes and gleaming jewelry marking them as members of the city's elite.

I scan the crowd automatically, noting who's drinking heavily, who might be generous with tips. My gaze catches on an empty booth in the corner—the owner's private section. In six months of dancing here, I've never seen Raphael Kova? in person. He's a shadow figure, spoken of in whispers and rumors.

Some say he's old money, others insist he's new blood rising through the ranks of the city's underworld. The only thing everyone agrees on is that he's dangerous. Even Lady Ashworth lowers her voice when asking about him.

I push those thoughts aside as I take my position for the first group number. This is just another performance, another role to play. I let the music flow through me, transforming nervous energy into fluid motion.

The crowd fades away as I dance. Here, suspended between light and shadow, I can pretend I'm on a real stage. My body moves with practiced precision, each gesture calculated to entice while maintaining artistic integrity.

But the fantasy shatters when Lady Ashworth's assistant appears at my elbow between sets.

"She's ready for you now."

The private room is plush and dimly lit, all dark velvet and gleaming mirrors. Lady Ashworth reclines on a chaise lounge, her silver hair immaculate, diamonds glittering at her throat. She looks exactly like what she is—old money, old power.

"Kit, darling." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "You look lovely tonight."

"Thank you, my lady." I bow slightly, playing my part.

"Such beautiful manners. Come closer, let me look at you properly."

I approach with measured steps, maintaining the fluid grace of a trained dancer. Her eyes track my movement with predatory focus.

"You must hear all sorts of interesting things, working here," she muses. "The servants always know the best gossip."

"I try not to pay attention to rumors, my lady."

"Oh, but surely you notice things. Patterns of who comes and goes, what gets delivered, when the owner makes his rare appearances..."

I keep my expression neutral. "I focus on my dancing."

"Come now." She leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Surely we can help each other. I could make your financial troubles disappear. All I need is some simple information."

My heart pounds. This is dangerous territory, far beyond our usual subtle probing. But the thought of freedom from debt makes me reckless.

"What kind of information?"

Her smile widens. "Nothing too difficult. Just keep track of any unusual deliveries, any special visitors. Pay attention when the owner is here—who he meets with, what they discuss."

"I don't know..."

"Triple your usual fee, every time you have something interesting to share." She pulls out an envelope, thick with cash. "Consider this a down payment."

The envelope is heavy in my hands. Three months' rent, maybe four, just for paying attention to things I see anyway. What's the harm?

"I'll see what I notice," I say carefully.

"Excellent." She settles back, satisfied. "You're a smart boy, Kit. I think this will be the beginning of a very profitable arrangement."

Later, counting out crisp hundreds in my apartment, I try to silence my unease. It's just gossip, just observation. I'm not really betraying anyone's trust.

But as I fall into exhausted sleep, my dreams are haunted by shadows and whispers, by the weight of unseen eyes. In the darkness between consciousness and dreams, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Marcus whispers: "Watch yourself. She's connected to dangerous people."

I should have listened. I should have run. But by then, it was already too late.