“Boris isn’t going to be a problem,” Vik says. “A man like that is nothing compared to a woman like me.”

“He wants to marry you, though, and he’s a man and the next possible ruler of the Bratva. If he wants to marry you, I don’t think you’re going to have a choice.”

“Then I’ll kill him. Father got his hands bloody. Why can’t I?”

“Because you’re a woman,” I remind her. “A woman in a man’s world.”

She scowls. “Don’t remind me. Now, I’m tired. We have our show tomorrow. We need to be ready for it. I don’t want you two slowing me down.”

That’s right—our ballet show. We’re the famous three ballet sisters. We’ve sold out a lot of performances. With our father’s connections, he made sure we became well-known in the ballet world.

I don’t want to go to our show tomorrow. I just want to stay in bed forever, but I know Vik will drag me out if I don’t go (and I mean that literally), so I nod. “I know my steps. Don’t worry. Come on, Mila. Let’s go to bed.”

After leaving Vik, we walk to Mila’s bedroom door, where she stops on the threshold. “I don’t think I can be alone tonight. Let me stay with you?”

“Of course.” But it’s not because I’m being a good older sister. It’s because I don’t want to be alone either.

The three of us stand behind the curtain, listening to the orchestra tune their instruments and the soft chatter of people in the audience. It’s our show tonight. There are other dancers who will perform pieces later on, but we’re the stars. We start the show, and we end it.

We’re in our ballet costumes—large tutus and ballet shoes. Our hair is tucked back. Our makeup is minimal but striking. Honestly, we kind of look like we’re in a cult with our similar looks and blonde hair. The thought makes me smile.

“Don’t smile,” Vik says. “It’ll give you crow’s feet.”

I frown.

“Don’t do that either. You’ll get wrinkles in your forehead.”

I sigh. “So, how am I supposed to look, Vik?”

“Like you can’t be fazed by anything.”

Her words send a jolt through me. I’m still thinking them over when the curtains rise and we begin our dance.

Vik, Mila, and I know how to move seamlessly together. We jump and plie and arabesque and pirouette. The crowd oohs and aahs at our graceful moves.

The dance we’re performing is one of sisterhood gone wrong. Vik plays a character who falls in love with a man, and my character gets jealous, so I try to kill her. Mila’s character tries to stop it but ends up getting killed instead. Vik and I mourn our sister, and then the show ends.

It’s dramatic. Our dance teacher, Celine, choreographed it. She said she was inspired by us to create it. I tried not to read too much into that.

When we get to the end of dance, and I’m leaning over Mila’s dead body, I glance up, and what I see makes me catch my breath. That man again—the one I saw at the funeral. He’s in the front row and still staring at me intently.

I quickly look away and finish the dance.

Once it’s over, the three of us bow and head off stage.

“That was great,” Charlotte, another of the ballet dancers, says. She’s in a group with three other women, all just as beautiful as she is. “Vik, you really nailed your allegro. That jump was beautiful.”

Vik’s expression doesn’t change. She’s not one to buckle under flattery. “Thank you, Charlotte. You could really learn something from me. I’ve noticed your jumps getting sloppy lately.”

Charlotte keeps her smile, but her eyes tighten. “Well, I’ll take that under consideration.” She turns to me. “Sofiya, wonderful acting as always. Are you as fake as your sister is?”

I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. “Did I do something to you, Charlotte?”

“No. I just think your sister is a bitch, and you’re a bitch by association. Not Mila, of course.” She smiles warmly at Mila, who bows her head with a blush. Mila loves compliments, but she’s too nice to brag about that.

“If anyone is a bitch here,” Vik says, “that’s you, Charlotte. Leave us alone.” She pushes me forward as we leave Charlotte and her group behind.

“Hey,” I object. “Careful.” We walk around the side of the backstage to the hallway. No one else is there. It’s almost eerie. Everyone else is backstage, getting ready to go on.

“I hate her,” Vik seethes, ripping off her hair barrettes.

“No need to hurt your hair in the process.”

“I’m going to change.” Vik walks away, heading to her dressing room. That’s probably a reason Charlotte hates us. We each have our own dressing rooms while the other women have to share. Another perk of being our father’s daughters.

The knowledge that our father and mother weren’t here to see our show hits me in the stomach. I stumble back against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

“Are you ok?” Mila asks.

I don’t want to burden Mila with my feelings because I know she’s struggling with her own. “I’m fine. Why don’t you change? We have another dance coming up.”

“Ok,” she says in a small voice before hurrying away. I wish Mila would comfort me because Vik sure won’t. But I have to comfort Mila because Vik definitely won’t, so that means I have no one to comfort me.

“Hello,” a deep male voice says, making me jump and turn around.

It’s the man again. It’s just him and me in the hallway. Alone. That thought is not lost on me for some reason.

I can’t speak. My tongue won’t move. My vocal cords won’t work.

“You’re a beautiful dancer,” he says, gazing at me with those intense dark eyes. I shiver, very aware of my body in a way I have never before. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

I can't.

“It’s usually customary to say ‘Thank you’ after someone compliments you, but I won’t hold it against you. I know I can be an intimidating presence.” It’s only then I notice he has a slight accent. Russian. I would know that accent anywhere.

The Russians in New York, like my family, are really Russian American. None of us have Russian accents. Only New York ones.

But this man has a faint Russian accent as if he’s spent time in both Russia and other places in the world. This fact makes me uneasy. He’s not only older but more cultured. I feel like a little girl next to him, and for some reason, I hate that.

He tilts his head, gazing at me. “You’re looking at me like I’m going to bite you. But rest assured, Sofiya, I don’t bite. Hard.”

His words make me jump. How does he know my name? If he knew my father, then he probably heard of my sisters and me. He was at the funeral, after all.

But then it dawns on me what else he said. Something tells me he’s trying to make me uneasy, but I’m not sure why.

Slowly, he walks closer to me. I don’t think I can breathe. I don’t think I can do anything.