“You are beautiful,” he murmurs, gazing down at me with his dark eyes.
I gulp. “A beautiful dancer, you said.”
“Just beautiful.”
My body is alive in ways it never has been before. My breath hitches when he leans in closer.
“I’ll be seeing you, Sofiya.” He lets his eyes linger on me a moment longer—a full, long beat where I think I might pass out—before he steps away. Then he turns away without a backward glance.
I slump against the wall, feeling like I just ran a marathon.
Only after I’m getting dressed for my next dance do I realize I never got his name.
After the show is over, I change into my normal clothes—black leggings and a sweater (I like to be comfy after dancing a long show)—then leave the performing arts center with my sisters.
But we don’t make it very far out the back door before Boris intercepts us.
“What a lovely show,” he says, approaching us and making us step back. “Your father always talked about what lovely dancers you are, and now, I finally got to see it with my own eyes.”
“What do you want?” Vik asks in an annoyed tone. She’s always cranky after a show. Well, she’s always cranky period.
“I wanted to talk to Sofiya alone.”
“Why?” Vik’s voice drops even lower. “What would you have to talk about with my sister? Alone?”
“That’s for her and me to discuss.”
I place my hand on Vik’s arm. “It’s ok. I’ll talk to him. I’ll meet you and Mila at the car.”
Vik doesn’t ask me if I’m sure. She knows I’m too polite to say no to things. “Be careful.” She turns to Boris. “And you be careful.” Vik storms away with Mila at her heels, leaving Boris and me alone.
“What did you want to talk about? Something to do with my father?” God, I hope it has to do with my father because why else would Boris want to talk to me?
He clears his throat. “As you know, your father wanted me to make a good marriage match for you and your sisters. So, I’m here to tell you: you and me. We’re getting married.”
Chapter
Two
SOFIYA
It takes me a moment to process what Boris just said to me.
“I’m sorry. What?” I ask.
He shifts on his feet, his eyes darting back and forth. He reminds me more of a lizard than a man, and the thought makes me want to smile. “I’ve decided we will get married. Your older sister was horribly rude to me. I don’t want a wife like that. But you”—he reaches his hand out and skims his fingers down my face— “are just perfect.”
Without meaning to, I jerk back from his hand. His slightly warm expression turns cold. “How am I perfect? Why would you want to marry me?”
“Because I have to secure you and your sisters with good husbands. And who better of a husband than me?”
I try not to laugh. Does Boris really think he’s a catch? But I temper my amusement down. There’s a darkness in Boris’s eyes that disturbs me. He doesn’t seem like the man who takes too kindly to people laughing at him.
“Do I have time to think about your proposal?” There’s no way I’m marrying Boris. There can’t be. My father protected me from such things.
But my father is dead now, and there’s no one to protect me any longer.
Boris slowly shakes his head, a confused smile on his face. “Sofiya, I don’t think you understand. This isn’t me asking for your hand in marriage. This is me telling you we’ll be married.”
I sway on my feet. My heart begins to pound against my ribcage. I can’t breathe again. Air doesn’t even make sense right now.
“I don’t even get a say?” I whisper. My eyes flick to my sisters in the car waiting for me. I can’t even see them. Just our driver, John, in the front seat. I’m alone. I’ve never been more alone.
“Why would you get a say? You’re a woman.”
Boris’s words sum it all up. I am a woman, and I have no control over my life. Maybe if I didn’t belong to the Bratva, then I could live a normal life. Choose who I want to go on dates with. Choose what I want to do with my life. Ballet was always my father’s dream—never mine.
But I do belong to the Bratva. Its hold on me is tightening, squeezing so hard I think I might crack in half.
If Boris wants me, then Boris will have me.
I think I’m going to vomit.
Actually, I do. It comes up before I can stop it. Some of the bile lands on Boris’s shoes. He grunts and steps back, looking at me with disgust.
“You will never do that again, understood? This is fine Italian leather.”
