Page 3 of Dance of Defiance
Vaughn hasn’t raised his voice. But there’s a flinty, dark power in it that sends it booming through the cavernous hall. The gaslight flickers, as if just the raw surge of his voice has shifted the very air.
Part of me wants to roll my eyes at the theatrics: the Gilded Age forest estate, the low, flickering light, the featureless masks of the guards…even using an overblown title like “the Marquis”, for fuck's sake.
But I don’t; roll my eyes, that is. First, it would be the height of hypocrisy to begrudge Vaughn his masks and theatrics, givenmy ownfondness for using both in a certain secret society that I belong to.
Secondly, my attention is suddenly pulled from Vaughn to a similar, yet more familiar face. My throat works and my brow furrows as I watch Val slip noiselessly into the banquet hall through a side door, nodding once to the two guards glancing his way before immediately pulling his shiny black mask over his face.
The fuck is he doing here?
I mean, his brother is the head of the Obsidian Syndicate and the host of tonight’s…whatever-the-fuck this is. But Val isn’t involved in his brother’s underworld dealings, as far as I’m aware.
He’s no mobster. He’s a professional ballet dancer, like Evelina. A famously wild partier who, according to my sister, is as known for his sexual conquests—of both men and women—as he is for his talents as a dancer. Possibly more.
He rides motorcycles, smokes, dresses like a 70’s punk icon in black leather jackets, ripped jeans and rock t-shirts, wears his hair longish and shaggy, and basically thumbs his nose at any and all authority.
The times we’ve crossed paths, usually via my sister, he’s mostly annoyed thefuckout of me.
Mostly.
The black spark flickers inside me. But I refuse to let my sickness take hold. Not now. Not ever.Definitelynot while I’m trying to get what I came for tonight.
I retreat around the back of the pillar and slip the flask out to take another sip of control.
“Please join me in welcoming our esteemed guest and my good friend, Signor Cosimo Sangrini.”
I glance back around the side of the pillar as muted applause welcomes a man to the stage that truly needs no introduction. Not to this crowd.
Cosimo Sangrini is thethirtieth—I'm not kidding—Sangrini to helm his family’s underworld banking empire, one that stretches all the way back to the fuckingCrusades, when the Sangrini family bankrolled the Knights Templar in their conquests.
Today, the Sangrini family is one of those hidden powers I was talking about: one you see and whose influence you feel daily, you just have no idea that you do. And in the world in whichmyfamily operates, cozying up to Cosimo is like an actor becoming besties with Steven fucking Spielberg, or a cardinal getting tight with the Pope.
The problem—and the reason I’m here tonight—is that the Nikitin Bratva obviously isn't the only underworld empire to understand that.
Case in point, tonight’s banquet involving the who’s-who of the criminal underbelly, hosted by Vaughn at his evil Bond villain mountain retreat.
Cosimo Sangrini is in his late thirties. Like Vaughn, he’s a good-looking, well-dressed man whobreathesraw power. His blackhair is slicked back and his flinty, steel-colored eyes scan the room as a slight smile—more a smirk—touches his too-perfect lips. He dips his chin graciously to the crowd and then gives Vaughn another calculating smile.
My ring clicks away, snapping pic after pic of the two of them shaking hands up there on the dais.
I smile grimly.
I know what this evening is about. I know why Vaughn’s rolled out the red carpet for his "esteemed guest". But that’s a discussion I’ll have with my fatherafterI show him these images.
I glance down at the crowd as I make my way through the shadows of the mezzanine, looking for a better vantage point from which to shoot and to see if I can pick up anything with the hidden microphone that's also concealed in my ring. Finally, I slide into a shadowy alcove looking right down onto the dais from the side.
There's a slight scuff of footsteps that gives the guy's presence away a millisecond before he grabs me. But it’s not enough time for me to react before the fucker wraps a strong arm around my neck, spins me around, and shoves me into a dark hall that splits off from the mezzanine.
I grit my teeth and ram an elbow back, catching him in the ribs. A triumphant grin spreads over my face when I hear the satisfying “ughngh” of pain. But it fades when he suddenly grabs both my wrists and yanks them behind my back.
I choke out a breathless grunt as he pins me,hard, forcing my arms back at an odd angle that keeps my cheek flat to the stone wall of the dark hallway.
Whoever the guy is, he’s fuckingstrong.
I go to shove away again, throwing my elbows back and trying to stomp on his foot. But he’s too fucking fast, and suddenly, the world lurches sideways as my legs are knocked clean out from under me.
Shit.
In half a second, the motherfucker’s rolled me over his shoulder like a goddamn wrestler, then slammed me to the ground on my back. I try to scramble to my feet, but his entire weight immediately comes down on my sternum as he plants himself on my lower chest, his muscled thighs either side of my torso. I take a vain swing at him before he grabs my wrists and shoves my hands back, pinning them above my head to the polished stone floor.
