5. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Nikolai
H er voice floats through the halls of the theatre, slipping between the marble columns and snaring me in its sweet embrace. Silence falls over the droves of people in the audience, their eyes fixating on centre stage. On her.
I settle into my private box to catch the end of the opera. The box hovers to the left of the stage, engulfed by the shadows consuming the audience. Sometimes I consider getting closer to her, buying a ticket next to the stage. I let my daydreams tease reality, but they’re forbidden. Even the mere fantasy could topple an empire… but everything begins with an idea.
I lean forward, keeping my face in the shadow, inches from the beam of light descending onto the stage.
She hits her cue perfectly, gliding back onto the stage and taking every drop of the audience’s attention. Before I saw her I didn’t believe in sirens, now I can’t be so sure. An involuntary sharp intake of breath hits my chest like a war hammer colliding with a sheet of glass. Her voice takes me away. Away from the memories, from the gunshots and the screams, away from the room I've returned to every night in my dreams. Her voice finds me, lifts me, pulls something from me I thought was long destroyed.
And so, here I am, at every performance of Eugene Onegin , watching her play Tatyana . Watching her steal every show. Watching her break a hundred hearts a night. Watching the way she returns to the stage to thank the audience and reveal a smile so convincing you’d think she performs it in the mirror every single morning.
The audience comes and goes, at most someone might return a handful of times. Not me. I watch every single performance. So, I catch the subtle changes in that smile as the crowd gives her their standing ovation. I see the falters. I see something deeper underneath her perfectly practised facade.
She hits the final note and drops us into a collective silence. The audience holds on for a tense moment and then erupts into cascading applause. Isabella De Rossi flashes her practised smile. She smooths down her dark, curly hair, tied close to her head, as she does every night. The other performers join her to bow and absorb the love from the audience.
She blows a kiss to a private box across the way from mine, this one bathed in a bright spotlight. In a spotless, crisp white suit, her father, Don Leonardo De Rossi, plays the doting father when the eyes of the crowd land on him. My gaze lingers, waiting for the scowl to return to his face as it does every night without fail.
If he ever sees me here, I know what he’d do. The Bratva aren’t technically at war with the Cosa Nostra, but technicalities are such flimsy defences. He’d cover his mouth with his hand, lean into his bodyguard and whisper what he wanted the last words I’d ever hear to be. The story would be that I stumbled into the canal, drunk, on my way home. “Russians and their vodka.” I can see his sickly sweet smirk now. Or perhaps I’d simply disappear.
Isabella De Rossi glances up, snatching me out of my thoughts and freezing me to my seat. Her piercing blue eyes slice through the shadows and lock onto me. She can’t possibly see me, not in the shadows. It’s impossible, yet I feel a jolt of electricity. Her eyes linger over me, long enough for others to join her and glance up towards me. All she can see is a figure in the dark, leaning forward. Watching.
I don’t wait for another moment, getting out of my box and into the hallway before any more eyes can settle on me. If I’m recognised, I won’t be the only one who pays the price.
I walk as fast as I can, without picking up into a run.
“Fuck, that was close. She almost saw my face.”
I can sense it. Does she know about me? Maybe she asked after the man who always occupies box three? Maybe her father or her brother caught wind and suspected foul play? I shake my head, my teeth grinding through the stress bubbling under my skin.
How the fuck do I explain this to Aleksander?
“Wait!”
I freeze in my tracks, the last echo of my footsteps bouncing back to the voice that just called to me. The voice I came to every performance to hear.
Silence prickles through the air, tugging at my nerve. I could turn, I could let her see me. Then maybe all those twisted day dreams might finally bleed into reality.
“Who are you?” Her voice trembles, intrigue and fear swirling together like smoke trailing embers. “You come to every performance, right? I checked with the box office… Can you turn around so I can see your face?”
“I’m nobody.” I scowl.
Another pause. I can feel her eyes burning into my back. The intrigue in her energy disappears, devoured by fear.
“You’re Russian?”
My accent isn’t heavy, but it’s there. I hear her take a step back.
“Why are you here?” A sharp tone takes over her voice, the voice of a mafia princess who never hears the word ‘no’.
“To watch the show.” I drawl, scanning for every possible exit.
“Bullshit.” She sucks in a long breath. “All I have to do is scream and my father’s men will come running. They won’t care what your story is, they’ll kill you just for your accent.”
She taps her foot impatiently, as if her words are enough to force me into revealing the truth.
“I’ll do it.” She snaps.
A deep chuckle escapes my lips.
“What the fuck is your problem?” She marches forward.
“Not another step, princess. Unless you want daddy to find out about your little secret.”
The footsteps pause.
That’s right, I know the truth. You’re not as careful as you think.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She lies.
“The Blue Moon.”
I want to turn more than anything, to get a glimpse of the real her. Barely anybody in her life knows about The Blue Moon, but I do. I found her there, and I saw a part of her she hides away from her family. Every part of my being wants to look her in the eyes.
“Forget you saw me. Forget this ever happened.”
Without another word, I slip away, back into the shadows.
If they caught me, I could have started a war. Yet, I know, deep in my soul, this won’t be the last time I play with fire.