Page 9 of The Last Dance

Especially when he was scared.

I thought about that man’s hand on his wrist. I had not seen it, but Yuri’s report was enough. That detail had settled in my head and refused to leave. I wanted to cut the hand off, just for the insult. Not the threat—the threat was minimal, an inconvenience. The insult was what mattered.

Possessiveness was not new to me. I had built an empire on it. What was new was the target. I let that idea settle, the way you settle a glass on a table and watch to see if it wobbles.

The light in the boy’s apartment stayed on for twenty-six minutes. I watched the window, watched for shadows, for movement. When the light went off, I gave it another minute. Just to be sure.

“Home,” I said to Yuri.

He started the engine, and we merged into the traffic. The city rolled by, empty and full at the same time.

I thought about the word mine. It did not arrive as a feeling. It arrived as a fact. The way a bullet arrives, fast and unambiguous. I had wanted things before. I had taken them. This felt different. More dangerous. More important.

I filed it away for later.

Some things deserved patience.

Some things deserved the world.

Chapter Three

~ Iren ~

Tuesday again, which meant the main stage and the amber-violet split that made everything look a little more expensive and a little less real. The club’s lights cycled with intent—never random, always programmed, even when they tried to fake a sense of chaos.

I hit my mark, which was a literal tape X tonight because one of the managers wanted more “precision” from us, and if you wanted to keep the good shifts, you did not step off the X.

The music was mid-tempo pop with all the bones sanded out, so I just let my body do the thing. I could always tell when I was actually in it versus when I was only pretending.

Tonight it was more the latter, but I faked it well enough that nobody in the crowd cared. Tips hit the stage in steady ones and fives, except for one guy who liked to flick coins at my ankles, which should have been grounds for removal, but was apparently now just a Tuesday tradition.

At the far end of the floor, on the raised owner’s platform, sat Vadim Miroslav. If you didn’t know him by reputation—which I did—you’d have known him by posture.

He wore his suit like it was made of chain mail and he was just waiting for someone to try their luck. Both hands were flat on the tufted burgundy table, elbows wide, not a drink in sight. Some men made a show of relaxing, but Vadim didn’t.

He was the show.

I clocked him during the third rotation and felt the ripple up my back even before my brain had finished the ID. By the fourth, I’d already looked again.

I told myself it was a safety check—scan for problem customers, rule one—but it was a lie. I could feel his attention as clearly as stage light.

He didn’t smile, not once, but there was a micro-tilt of the head when I caught him watching, and I felt the heat rise in my face and then hated myself for it.

My left hand’s nail polish was chipped—last week’s color, which was closer to the burgundy of the club curtain than the new shade I’d been meaning to reapply.

I only noticed because I looked at my own hand, then at the curtain, then at the man whose existence made both seem incidental. I filed the glance as “bad idea,” along with every other glance in that direction.

The set ended and I could finally stop pretending not to care. I made my bows, scooped up the money, and retreated to the hallway behind the stage, where the air was less breathable, but nobody looked at you unless they were about to insult your shoes.

Backstage, Carmine was scrolling his phone, still in full makeup, towel draped over one shoulder. “You looked tense up there,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I was going for ‘emotional withholding,’ but maybe I overcorrected.”

Carmine snorted, then leaned in to pluck a sequin off my cheekbone. “You got a watcher. Owner’s in the booth.”

“I noticed,” I said.

“He’s a freak,” Carmine said, a little too loud. “But, you know, not in a fun way. More like a ‘disassembles toasters to see how they work’ kind of way.”