6. Vasiliy
It happens so quickly.
One second, I’m talking to Ivan and sipping something bubbly and disgusting.
In the next, my vision is filled by a tiny woman, her long, wine-red hair swinging from a high ponytail with every step as she stares me down with the most unusual green eyes I’ve ever seen.
And they look furious.
People usually know better than to approach me, let alone storm up with such an accusatory gleam.
I’m so stunned, I don’t even step out of the way before a nail is jammed into the center of my sternum.
It’s like the odd little creature has managed to switch off years of my combat training with that vicious glare.
Now that she’s close, I recognize her. She was one of the ballerinas—the one in the very back who turned half a second faster than the others.
I’ve never cared for dancing, and watching it always bored me even more.
It’s like sitting down to watch a marathon in a quiet, dark room for three hours straight.
That aside, there was something about her dancing that wouldn’t let me look away.
I had always thought ballerinas were soft, delicate creatures, but when this girl moved on stage, all I felt pouring off of her was pure rage.
It was captivating, to say the least.
And now here she is, standing in front of me and jamming her finger into my chest, challenging me like I don’t have a good foot and a couple of hundred pounds on her. My brows rise as I wait to hear whatever she has to say.
“It takes a spineless man with a limp dick to call victims whores.”
Ivan audibly chokes on his drink beside me. My head tilts.
“Excuse me?” I ask, utterly bewildered by the woman’s words.
“I suppose it’s funny to watch women be forced to withstand the sexual advances of these old fucks just to keep their jobs?”
She’s got a mouth on her, too, it seems.
My lips twitch into a smile, and I’m anxious to see the response it has on the woman looking up at me.
She doesn’t disappoint. The tendons in her neck bulge beneath the vibrant flush of her cheeks.
For a brief second, I wonder if she’s going to try to throw a headshot at my sly grin in the middle of the banquet hall.
“And I suppose no one taught you not to eavesdrop on conversations that are none of your business?” It might be the most I’ve bothered to say in a while, English, Russian, or otherwise.
That’s when my mind catches up to the second part of her statement.
Hypocrite I may be, I can’t help but ask, “Who touched you, little ballerina?”
In my next scan, the surroundings look different. I’m not looking for exits or threats this time. All I see are power-hungry men, conspiring and scheming with a drink in one hand and a dancer in the other. It was the same in Russia. The universal language of wealthy frauds.
The woman chuckles, but the cold sound holds no humor. Her tall heel takes a step back. My foot follows.
“All the same,” she mutters, shaking her head.
“Hm?”
“Men,” she whispers. Another step slides back. “You really are all the same.” Pure rage burns through her moss-green eyes.
There’s something thrilling about facing the heart of a flame. Something that jolts my senses from the dull state they’ve gotten so used to. Everything about her is vibrant. The blazing hair, those flaring green eyes, even the curses that spew from her painted lips.
“Assholes,” she mutters under her breath before turning on her heel and cutting a path straight through the room and out the door.
“Friendly tip,” Ivan says from my side. “In America, we try not to insult the woman we’re interested in.”
I barely hear his snide comment, craning my neck to mark her path.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, already moving through the room in the direction the dancer disappeared without even understanding why.
The crowd parts around my hurried path, champagne splashing across the marble floor as people lunge to get out of my way.
I’ve already stepped one foot outside of the banquet hall when my attention is pulled to a forgotten stack of pamphlets on a nearby table.
Sure enough, a professional headshot of a red-haired woman stares back on the folded page.
“Tonight, the principal role will be fulfilled by Octavia Clarke. Ms. Clarke (age twenty-one) joined the Manhattan Ballet Company Board each click of the tall heel lands harder than the left.
“Octavia,” I call out as soon as I close the distance. She’s not expecting me to know her name, so maybe it’ll give her pause.
Success. She freezes for a brief moment in the middle of the street.
“Fuck off,” she shouts, refusing to look back my way. Then she throws up her middle finger in an entirely American gesture before storming to the other side of the street.
An angry cab driver blares his horn as I cut across the walkway, holding up my hand to stop traffic. Jesus. I definitely have a death wish tonight.
When I look forward once more, I’m pleased to see she has finally stopped and turned my way, hands digging into her hips.
“I’m not interested,” she deadpans, lifting her head to meet my eyes.
I can’t help but chuckle. I don’t think I’ve ever been spoken to this poorly in my entire life, not even by my own enemies. “I’m not selling anything.”
“Then why are you following me?”
This time, my gaze roves down her form with a much more thorough inspection.
She stormed out so fast that she neglected to bring a coat, leaving her standing beneath the cool wind in nothing but that tight black dress.
She’s so small, I’m convinced the next gust of air will send her tumbling back onto the sidewalk behind her.
“Maybe I’ve reconsidered my moral high ground.” My lips pull into a teasing smirk. “How much does a night with a background dancer go for these days?”
“More than you could ever afford,” she hisses, narrowing her eyes. Her irises flick down to my palms. Interesting.
Most people don’t know to watch for the hands.
Her skin practically vibrates beneath her next shiver, causing me to shrug off the stuffy overcoat Ivan forced onto me for the event. I extend the jacket in silence, unwilling to name the gesture.
“You’re not going to get anything from me.”
I laugh at the conviction in her tone. “But I’ve gotten so much already.”
When she makes no move to accept my offer, I sigh. “It’s only a jacket, ballerina. You really don’t want to take something for yourself?”
The challenge gets her. Maybe she craves the fight too. With narrowed eyes, she tugs the heavy fabric from my grip and wraps it around her upper body like a cape.
“Now, back to my offer,” I drawl, discreetly shifting my weapon harness further back.
Without my coat to conceal it, the butt of my gun juts out behind my hip, and I’d prefer not to scare her off all over again.
Or maybe I do want another chase. Adrenaline sings through me as if I’ve run through some sort of finish line.
“Perhaps a private dance, of sorts. You are a professional, after all.”
“I couldn’t be further from your tax bracket.” Her words are dry and cold. The hairs on the back of my neck stand in excitement. “Who told you my name?”
I lift the playbill I snagged from the theater. Her eyes follow the motion like a trained sniper.
“I’m Vasiliy.”
“Russian?”
I grin, tilting my head forward. “Do you like Russians?”
“Not particularly, seeing as one has smacked me with her cane all day, and another just chased me across the street like a stalker.”
I raise my brows at the audacity. For some reason, that first statement piques my curiosity even further. “I’d be more than happy to take out the old crone with the cane, if you’d like. Lucky for you, my morality is questionable at best.”
“So I’ve heard.” She takes a step forward in an obvious effort to appear menacing, but her head barely grazes my collarbone, even with the assistance of her heels. “I don’t do private dances or pompous assholes. I’m busy. Now leave me alone.”
Then she turns on her heel and continues her hobbled limp down the street, my own jacket now wrapped around her bare shoulders.
I stare at the woman with a dumb smile creeping up my lips. Did she just preemptively reject me?
And steal my coat?
I might not be the most stable guy, but I don’t think anyone has outright rejected me before. I’ve learned to be charming when I want to be. What can I say? I have good genes and excellent aim. I’m a catch in any country.
Nonetheless, those heels start clicking down the pavement, and I’m hyperaware of the way each step pulls us further apart.
The sight of my large black coat walking away makes my skin feel all jumpy and tight.
I don’t want to return to my empty apartment, I realize with panicked certainty.
I want to keep standing on the street and fighting with this peculiar ballerina.
My steps race forward like the decision has pushed a lever in my mind.
“Wait—”
She turns again at my voiced plea, eyes pinched like she knows I didn’t think past that one pathetic word. It doesn’t matter. I’ll think of something to say. I just want a few more minutes before returning to my miserable life. Before the numb sets back in.
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I make a crucial mistake.
I tune out my surroundings.
I don’t take note of the shadow that falls over me, or Octavia’s widening eyes, which flick to my right shoulder in warning just a second too late.
The strike comes fast.
Pain explodes in the side of my skull as something slams into me from behind. My vision flickers and my ears ring, warping Octavia’s cry of alarm.
I fight through the throb and find my balance, slipping into a familiar fighting stance. However, when I reach for my weapon, I find my holster empty.
Fuck.
I turn to my attacker, slamming my fist into the soft flesh of his throat. The unfamiliar man hits the pavement hard, gasping for air.
I don’t get to celebrate the win, however, because a large van screeches up to the curb beside us and the doors fly open.
“Boss wants both of them. Move!” someone cries out as more men pour from the open vehicle.
“Get behind me,” I hiss to Octavia, who clambers to follow my command just as the attackers approach.
I thrust my boot against a knee, bringing one guy down while I land another jab. Somehow, more come at me, and it takes a moment to realize another van of men has pulled up right behind the first to provide backup.
My head pounds. Blood trails down my temple.
This is a planned attack.
“Vasiliy,” Octavia calls out as my hand wraps around another throat.
I turn immediately.
And my blood runs cold.
My gaze narrows in on a silver barrel denting Octavia’s flushed cheek. She doesn’t look irritated anymore. She looks terrified. Her bright green eyes are wild and wide, pleading with me as though I’m her only way out of this. It’s that expression that causes my moronic hesitation.
“She has nothing to do with this.” Dread pours through my lungs like a leaky roof in a storm. I raise my bloody fists in surrender. “Take me instead. I will tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Get down on the ground!”
My knees meet the cold pavement.
If it were just me, I’d fight them off without an issue. A well-placed kick to the guy’s knees beside me. His gun would fall loose from that amateur grip of his, right into my waiting hand. I’d empty the magazine, and not a single bullet would go to waste. It’d be a bloodbath worthy of my night.
But none of that happens. Instead, all I can do is stare at the ballerina’s wide gaze and wonder why I can’t afford to take that chance.
Pressure smacks into me.
And everything goes blank.