Chapter 7
brOOKLYN
I stay late after everyone else has gone home.
Ostensibly, it’s because I’ve told my friends that I’ll clean up the feast we had right after rehearsal.
Naomi and Lyra’s father-in-law, Vito Barone, swung by right as we were finishing for the night with this gigantic spread of Italian and chicken parm sandwiches, along with an obscene quantity of cannoli.
“Even though they’re Sicilian,” he made sure to add with a wink.
I made a big show of telling everyone that this was my way of paying Lyra and Naomi back for the meal—by cleaning up and bringing the leftovers to the food pantry down the street.
I am going to do that. But I’m also going to be taking as much of this home to Pearl as I think will fit in the cooler in her trunk.
I mean, free food is free food.
I’ve got everything boxed up for the food bank, along with a crazy amount of chicken parm and cannoli for myself, when a sudden noise has me jerking around, pulse racing as I peer into the darkness outside the practice studio.
“H-hello?” I blurt.
Dove steps out of the shadows, dance bag slung over her shoulder, her wet pinkish-silver hair pulled up in a loose ponytail.
Dove is, for lack of a better word, cool , in that effortlessly chic, rock n’ roll way.
She’s gorgeous, firstly, with silvery-pink hair, tattoos, and serious mystery vibes constantly swirling around her.
You’d never guess that she’s the daughter of Cesare Marchetti, head of the Marchetti Italian mafia family.
“Aloof” isn’t really the word you’d use to describe her, though she can be.
She’s only been with the Zakharova for a couple of months, and while she’s friendly enough when she feels like it, she mostly keeps to herself.
I always think the secret sauce to her “cool” factor is that no one knows where she was before this.
It certainly wasn’t New York, but other than that, the rumors range from an arranged marriage in Italy, to a reform school in France, to a high-end drug rehab in Switzerland.
I highly doubt it’s any of those, but wherever she was, the girl got some serious dance training in. She’s insanely talented, and her dancing appears effortless. Which, honestly, is intimidating as fuck.
“Shit, sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was still here,” she says as she walks over to where I’ve got the sandwich boxes stacked.
“I decided to get some running in on the treadmill downstairs and then grabbed a shower.” She glances at the tower of Italian subs and drops her bag to the ground. “Want a hand with those?”
“Actually…yeah,” I smile at her. “If you don’t mind, I was just going to bring them to the First Congregational food bank down on 54 th .”
“You were going to carry two hundred pounds of chicken parm there by yourself?”
I grin. “Vito really went overboard with that, didn’t he?”
She groans and holds her stomach. “God, why do you think I hit the treadmill?”
We end up splitting the stack of to-go boxes and making small talk as we walk the few blocks to the church food bank.
“Hey…” Dove scrunches her face up, her lips twisting as she glances at me. “This is weird, but…” She shakes her head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow.”
I arch a brow. “Well, now I’m intrigued…”
Dove makes a face. “I was just wondering, if you aren’t busy right now… Do you think you could give me a hand moving something?” She clears her throat. “Like…discreetly?”
Umm…
She laughs, sensing the alarm bells in my head. “Not a body, I swear.”
My shift at The Mirage doesn’t start until later tonight, so I grin. “I’m in.”
And just like that, I’m hanging out with Dove for the first time.
“I live with my dad,” she suddenly says in the dim back seat of the Uber as we cross the bridge into Brooklyn Heights.
“That must be…nice?”
She glances at me, a wry look on her face. “You do know who my dad is, right?”
I smile at her. “I might have heard.”
She shrugs and turns to stare out the window. “I’m trying to get my own place but…” Her brow furrows slightly. “It’s complicated.”
“From what I hear, family always is,” I offer.
“Trust me,” she sighs. “You’re not missing out. Feel free to borrow mine any time.”
I don’t really know much about the Marchetti family. I know Dove’s got a sister, Chiara, who’s apparently a mafia princess straight out of a movie. I’ve also heard that Cesare, Dove’s father, is a real asshole.
Bet that’s a fun house to live in.
I stare out the window in awe as we pull up to a huge gothic mansion, surrounded by a high stone wall and half-shrouded in towering oak trees.
I don’t let it drag me down, because I can’t , but sometimes, it’s truly shocking to me how different people in the same city can live such vastly opposite lives.
I live in a Honda Accord. Dove lives in a mansion in the quaintest neighborhood in New York. I mean, obviously a haunted as fuck mansion. But still.
“This is me, back here.”
Dove purposely steers clear of the imposing front door of the Marchetti mansion. Instead, she directs the Uber around the side of the house and up the driveway that loops through the gothic porte-cochère until we’re in front of a super-cute carriage house.
“The one perk of moving back home,” she says dryly. “I don’t actually have to be inside the actual home.”
When we step in through the side door, she flips on the lights, and my jaw drops.
Wait, what?
I blink, turning slowly, drinking in the dozens of huge canvases covered in vibrant paint leaning against walls, the stairs to the lofted section, stacked up at the back of the couch, even one resting against the side of the refrigerator.
Splatters, dark, vicious streaks of paint. Explosive patterns of rage or passion.
I turn to stare openly at Dove.
“Are these… yours ? Like, did you paint them?”
She grins sheepishly and lifts a shoulder. “Yeah,” she shrugs. “This is me.”
“Get the fuck out,” I laugh, shaking my head. “That is super unfair.”
She grins nervously, shaking her hair out of the ponytail and letting the silvery-pink strands frame her face. “What is?”
“You’re an insanely good dancer and a freaking genius artist. I mean, come on !”
She giggles, rolling her eyes. “Well, thank you. But this is just like…I don’t know. A hobby. Therapeutic, I guess?”
I shake my head, turning to stare open-mouthed at her work again. “Dove, I’m serious. These are really fucking good. You should show these to people.”
She flashes an awkward smile. “Uh…That’s kinda what I need your help with.”
My brow furrows in confusion before she grins and nods her chin up the stairs to the loft area. “Up here.”
“ Fuck .”
The word falls unbidden from my mouth when I get to the top of the stairs and stare at the enormous work of art hung on the wall above a quickly made bed.
It’s gorgeous: huge, bold streaks of red and black over exploding splatters of blue and white.
“ Damn ,” I breathe, turning to her, my eyes wide. “ So fucking good, Dove.”
She grins. “Thanks. I’m putting it in a show tomorrow.” She puffs air through her lips nervously. “My first show, actually.”
“Dove!” I whirl on her. “That’s amazing!”
A big, honest smile tugs at her lips. “Thanks, Brooklyn.” She makes a face as she glances up at the painting. “But I need to get it downstairs to pack up for the gallery movers tomorrow, and it’s…kinda heavy.”
“Say less,” I grin at her. “I’m in.” Then I frown. “Wait—why did you say we have to move this discreetly ?”
She gives me a small grin. “Because it needs to go into the back of my truck, but my dad can’t know I’m entering a show.” Her brow furrows deeply. “He…uh…” She looks away. “He’d just be a real prick about it if he knew.”
“Got it,” I say, earnestly nodding. “Then let’s do this and not get caught.”
It’s a seriously heavy painting, because it’s huge , and in a wooden frame.
But we eventually manage to finagle it down the stairs and into the bubble wrap that Dove has ready.
From there, we quickly carry it outside and slide it into the back of the insanely cool old Land Rover Defender parked next to the carriage house.
“When’s the show?” I ask her when we’re back inside after our great art heist caper. “We should tell everyone at work. They’d freak if they saw your work.”
She winces, wagging her head side to side. “I’m…not that open about this with most people.”
I frown. “The painting stuff? Really?”
She nods. “Yeah. It’s weird, I know. But if you could not…”
I smile and zip my lips. “I won’t say a word. I get secrecy, trust me.”
“Thanks,” she smiles back. Then she eyes me, her brow arching. “I hope you know that you’re a seriously good dancer.” She frowns. “I’m not sure I’ve said that to you before, but… You’re incredible. I love watching you dance.”
I blush, grinning. “Sorry, I’m shitty at taking compliments. But…thanks?”
She laughs. “I see we have the same childhood trauma. Awesome!”
I laugh back, but then she clears her throat and peers at me a little closer.
“I know you auditioned for the Ballet Imperiya Korona .”
My mouth falls open before I can stop it.
“Uh…what?”
She smirks at me. “When Liliya Rostova was in New York a month or so ago? Ringing any bells?”
I groan. “Okay, okay. Guilty.”
Dove laughs and plops down on one end of the sofa, and I follow suit on the other side.
My brows knit. “Wait. How did you know that?”
She shrugs with a mysterious grin on her face. “You hear things, you know?”
“Yeah, well, speaking of not saying a word…”
She shakes her head. “Oh, I figured when I didn’t hear you telling anyone at work that you wanted to keep it quiet.” She slowly nods. “I won’t mention it to anyone, don’t worry.”
“Thanks.”
She sucks her teeth, running her fingers through her hair. “It’s very hard to get in, as you know. But…” She frowns. “It’s about…more than just how you dance.”
My face scrunches up. “Oh, I know.”
It’s why in my brief moment of clarity the other night, when I realized someone was driving me somewhere, saying they were going to get me help, I blurted out something dumb like “no police.”
It was not because I’ve got a mountain of unpaid parking tickets and I sleep in the back of Pearl. It’s the same reason I’ve never gone to the authorities about any of the vile, monstrous shit that James or Lou have done.
Because Dove’s right: the Ballet Imperiya Korona does not just care about how well you can dance. They’re looking for class. For pedigree .
…Needless to say, domestic abuse charges, or the police looking into you getting mugged outside the strip club where you work, don’t do much for your image.
Dove smiles at me. “Forget about that whole pedigree crap. Fuck it. You are very fucking talented, Brooklyn. I mean Ballet Imperiya Korona talented. Enough that they won’t care about who your family is or isn’t, or how much money you come from, or any of that elitist bullshit.”
I feel my face heating as I stammer a thank you. But then I deflate a little. “They also look for existing connections to the company, though,” I exhale slowly. “I’m out of luck there.”
Dove frowns, giving me a surprised and confused look. “What? No, you’re not.”
I just stare at her.
Dove’s brows knit. “Brooklyn, do you not know ?”
“Know…what?”
She shakes her head. “Kir is friends with Ivan Yelchin. The AD.”
Dove insists on having one of her father’s men drive me home.
“Hey, it’s one less goon prowling around here making sure I don’t break out,” she’d joked dryly.
But instead of having him drop me off near Pearl, I ask him to let me out back at the Mercury Theater, where I left my bag, not to mention my share of the leftover sandwiches.
I’m tugging it all out of my locker in the darkened changing room when my phone lights up with a text.
Maya Garza
Fuck, dude, I got slammed with some stuff earlier and totally forgot to text you before.
Maya Garza
Some guy was looking for you at my apt today.
I frown at the screen.
Me
Someone from Diego’s office?
Maya Garza
No. He was weird.
Maya Garza
Fucking smoke show tho lol
Me
laughing emoji
Marya Garza
No, girl, like fine as FUCK. 10/10 would bang in public and let impregnate me
Me
lol
Me
Did he say who he was? Or leave a business card?
Maya Garza
Nope. Said he’d come back later but I got weird vibes and told him you’d be gone then, too, lol
I grin. That’s my Maya.
Maya Garza
Sorry, not trying to freak you out. He probably WAS with your lawyer. I just thought I’d let you know.
I thank her again, then shake my head as I heft my dance bag crammed full of leftovers onto my shoulder and finally leave for the day.
I step out the back door to the theater, and instantly jump a step back when I see him standing there, leaning against the Aston Martin.
Kir cocks his head, his eyes running over me in a way that elicits that slithering heat in my core again.
“Let’s go for a drive, Ms. Ellis.”