Page 7 of Vicious Impulses (The Capo and Ballerina)
Only those who can afford to spend know about the dinners and special events. They’re certainly not cheap. The caliber of women are considered… worth it.
Night begins to fade by the time Ignazio emerges from the rear exit of the dark, vacant theater. He believes he’s alone as he strolls across the promenade, fiddling with his phone. His busy fingers tap away and he stares at the screen, too distracted to realize a man is closing in.
It’s not until I’m within arm’s reach that he finally senses my presence and looks over his shoulder. Eyes going wide, his phone flies out of his hand and he leaps away in a fluid maneuver befitting the ballet.
“Take whatever you want. Just… spare me.” He quakes like a fucking coward, not even bothering to put on a tough act.
I stalk closer ’til I’m forcing him another few steps back. “You’re the man I’ve been looking for.”
“If this is about a debt—”
“This is about a girl,” I interrupt, reaching out a hand. He flinches out of instinct despite the fact that I’m only fucking with him. My large, tattooed hand tugs on the lapel of his blazer jacket as if fixing its crookedness. It’s amusing how cowardly some men are in the face of a bigger, stronger man.
“A girl,” he gusts out. “What girl? I have plenty of girls.”
My lip curls. “This isn’t just any girl. This one is more special than all the others. If you have her, then it seems we have much to talk about.”
* * *
My ballerina stands frozen in place, blinking up at me in the flesh. My presence seems to unnerve her. We are a few feet apart, and yet I can see—feel—the quake of her body.
She’s just as I imagined. Just as I dreamed.
For a lengthy moment, I’m almost as thrown by her as she is by me. To think, I almost made good on Pa’s request to attend the Vorone meeting tonight. If I hadn’t listened to my instinct, the pained, twitchy heart that beats inside my chest, I would’ve missed her.
Possibly for good.
Up close, her beauty is otherworldly. Face softer and rounder than even I dreamed. Lips full and begging to be kissed with passion. Dark hair that flows past her shoulders, and deep brown skin that can only be described as the most exquisite shade of mahogany. How can someone so beautiful exist in a world so hideous?
She’s petite… in the way that all ballerinas are. But hidden underneath the dress she wears is the unmistakable hint of feminine curves. An ache starts up inside me, my long fingers twitching, as I’m tempted to rip away the fabric and find out firsthand.
Soon. Very soon.
“You have the wrong girl,” she murmurs finally, gathering nerve. She steps left. “Please. I don’t want any trouble.”
I step right. She goes right. I go left.
We play this game, do this dance, several times before she quits altogether. Taking a step back, she peers up at me with brown eyes the color of cinnamon and lashes that flutter so gently.
So polite. So classically trained.
“I said please,” she repeats in a low voice. “I just want to go.”
Her voice—I’ve never heard her speak.
This, more than anything, is a marker that she’s real. That she exists, for she’s never spoken to me in my dreams.
She’s afraid. Of me but also of the violence that just unfolded before her. The man I’ve viciously beaten and left bloodied at our feet on the floor. She’s not used to such carnage. Such brutality.
“I don’t have the wrong girl,” I answer. “You are the one.”
“Please… just… I want to go!”
She scurries around me so quickly, it’s impressive. I could reach out and snatch her if I wanted. If I really cared to, I’d swipe my arm and scoop her right up off her feet.
But I let her go. She escapes me this time. What will be theonlytime.
I shove my hands in my pockets and watch my ballerina flee across the vacant marble atrium. What she doesn’t realize now but will soon come to find out is, there’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.