3. elena
elena
The Mandarin Oriental’s ballroom had been transformed into a glittering monument to charitable self-congratulation, all crystal chandeliers and carefully arranged floral centerpieces that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
I stood near the bar, nursing a glass of champagne I had no intention of finishing, and tried to calculate how long I needed to stay before leaving would be professionally acceptable.
An hour? Two? Victor was holding court near the silent auction tables, his silver hair and aristocratic bearing attracting a cluster of admirers like iron filings to a magnet.
He’d already made the rounds to ensure all his dancers were present and appropriately charming, his pale eyes lingering on me long enough to communicate that my performance tonight, the social one, not the artistic one, would be noticed and judged.
The gala was a joint fundraiser for youth sports and arts programs, which meant the room was an uneasy mixture of Boston’s athletic and cultural elite.
I recognized several Boston Admiral players clustered near the windows, their size and casual confidence marking them as clearly as team jerseys.
Professional athletes always carried themselves differently than dancers, where we were trained toward elongation and the illusion of weightlessness, they cultivated mass and the reality of physical dominance.
The contrast was striking, almost anthropological.
“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
The voice came from my left, low and textured with amusement. I turned to find a woman in her sixties, elegant in navy silk, her grey hair cut in a sharp bob that framed intelligent eyes. She smiled at my startled expression.
“That obvious?” I asked.
“Only to someone who feels the same way. Margaret Chen. I’m on the board for the youth arts initiative, which means I spend most of these events wondering why we can’t just write checks and skip the pageantry.
” She extended her hand, her grip firm and warm.
“You’re Elena Voss. I saw you dance Odette last season. You were extraordinary.”
“Thank you.” The compliment settled over me like a familiar coat, comfortable and slightly constraining. “I’m surprised you remember. That was almost a year ago.”
“Some performances stay with you. The way you embodied both fragility and strength, that’s rare.
Most dancers choose one or the other.” Margaret’s gaze was direct, assessing without being intrusive.
“Are you enjoying the evening, or should I rescue you with boring conversation about grant applications?”
I laughed, surprised by the genuine sound of it. “Honestly? The grant applications sound fascinating right now.”
“Liar, but I appreciate the effort.” Margaret glanced around the ballroom, her expression wry. “These events are necessary evils. The programs we fund genuinely change lives, but the process of extracting money from wealthy people requires a certain amount of theater. Speaking of which..”
She nodded toward the entrance, where a small commotion had drawn the attention of several nearby guests.
Two men had just arrived, both tall and broad-shouldered in the way of professional athletes, but my attention fixed immediately on the one in front.
He moved through the crowd with unconscious authority, his dark suit tailored to accommodate an athlete’s build, his black hair slightly too long to be conventionally professional.
Even from across the room, I could sense the intensity radiating from him, the way people instinctively created space as he passed.
“Dominic Russo,” Margaret said, following my gaze. “Center for the Admirals. Brilliant player, terrible attitude. His agent probably had to threaten him to get him here tonight.”
I watched as Dominic; the name somehow fitting him, all hard consonant and Italian vowels; scanned the ballroom with barely concealed impatience.
His companion, an Asian man with an easier smile and more relaxed posture, said something that made Dominic’s mouth quirk in reluctant amusement.
The expression transformed his face from merely handsome to something more dangerous, a glimpse of charm beneath the intensity.
“He doesn’t look like he wants to be here,” I observed.
“He doesn’t. Dominic Russo wants to be on the ice or in the gym or anywhere that doesn’t require small talk and a tie.
” Margaret’s tone was fond despite her words.
“His friend Josh Chen is the one who drags him to these things. Josh understands that professional athletes have obligations beyond their sport. Dominic understands only hockey.”
As though sensing our attention, Dominic’s gaze swept across the room and locked onto mine.
The contact was electric, a physical jolt that made my breath catch.
His eyes were dark- brown or maybe hazel, impossible to tell from this distance - and utterly focused.
For three seconds that stretched into something longer, we stared at each other across the crowded ballroom, and I felt the same vertiginous sensation I experienced during a perfect fouetté, the world spinning while I remained fixed at its center.
Then Josh said something and Dominic looked away, the connection severing as abruptly as it had formed.
“Well,” Margaret said, her voice rich with amusement. “That was interesting.”
“What was?” I tried for casual and missed by several miles.
“Nothing at all, dear. Nothing at all.” She patted my arm with the satisfied air of someone who had just witnessed something entertaining. “I should go charm some donors. Try to enjoy yourself, Elena. You’re allowed to have fun occasionally.”
She drifted away into the crowd, leaving me alone with my champagne and the unsettling awareness that Dominic Russo was somewhere in this ballroom, and some irrational part of me was tracking his location like a compass finding north.
I forced myself to focus on the silent auction tables, examining the various items up for bid with feigned interest. A weekend at a Cape Cod resort.
Signed memorabilia from various Boston sports teams. A private ballet lesson with Victor Petrov, which would be someone’s expensive nightmare.
I was studying a photograph of a yacht available for charter when I felt him approach, that same electric awareness prickling across my skin.
“You’re not actually interested in deep-sea fishing.”
His voice was deeper in person, textured with the rough edges of a Boston accent he hadn’t entirely shed.
I turned to find Dominic Russo standing closer than social convention typically allowed, his height forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
They were hazel, I could see now, green or gold or brown depending on the light, currently fixed on me with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable.
Should have been.
“How do you know?” I asked, pleased that my voice remained steady. “Maybe I’m an avid angler.”
“You’re a ballet dancer. You spend your time in studios, not on boats.
” His gaze traveled over me, assessing without being crude, taking in the black dress I’d chosen for its elegant simplicity, the way I stood with my weight balanced evenly on both feet, the unconscious turnout of my legs.
“Elena Voss. I looked you up after I saw you across the room.”
“That’s slightly creepy.”
“Probably.” He didn’t sound particularly concerned. “I’m Dominic Russo.”
“I know. Margaret Chen told me.”
“What else did Margaret tell you?” His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “That I’m difficult? That I hate these events? That I’d rather be literally anywhere else?”
“All of the above.” I took a sip of champagne, using the moment to study him more carefully.
Up close, he was almost overwhelming; not just his size, though he had to be six-two or six-three, but the sheer force of his presence.
He occupied space the way dancers did, with complete awareness of his body and its capabilities, though where dancers cultivated grace, Dominic radiated controlled power.
“She also said you only understand hockey.”
“Margaret’s not wrong.” He shifted slightly closer, and I caught the scent of expensive cologne layered over something cleaner, soap or shampoo. “Though I’m trying to expand my cultural horizons. Hence the stalking of beautiful ballet dancers at charity events.”
“Is that what this is? Stalking?”
The word came out sharper than I’d intended, Marcus’s surveillance suddenly vivid in my mind. Dominic’s expression shifted, the playfulness evaporating into something more serious.
“Poor word choice,” he said. “I meant I saw you across the room and wanted to meet you. That’s not stalking. That’s just interest.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A significant one.” His gaze held mine, and I saw intelligence there beneath the intensity, an awareness that we were having two conversations simultaneously. “Interest can be declined. Interest respects boundaries. Interest doesn’t assume anything beyond the moment.”
I relaxed slightly, surprised by his perceptiveness. “Okay. Then yes, this is interest, and I’m not declining.”
“Good.” The almost-smile returned. “Want to get out of here?”
“We just met.”
“I know. That’s why I’m suggesting we go somewhere we can actually talk, instead of standing in this ballroom pretending to care about silent auctions.” He nodded toward the terrace doors. “There’s a balcony. Fresh air. Significantly fewer people performing charitable virtue.”