Page 2 of Dance of Defiance
Personally, I’m not sure words like “camp” or “hall” really suit a place that’s one hundred and twothousandfucking square feet. But whatever. I’m not here to assess the real estate.
The fact that I’m hereat all, thought, is maybe a…questionable decision.
Okay, it’sdefinitelya questionable decision. Actually, no—let's just go ahead and upgrade “questionable” to “fucking terrible”. Pretty much any one of my father’s men would have gladly taken this mission tonight and would have been more than capable of doing it. Plus, iftheygot caught infiltrating the place, they could easily deny any ties to the Nikitin Bratva.
If Pavel Nikitin’s only son gets caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar? That’s another story.
Well. The easy solution to that potentially nuclear issue isdon't get caught.
Up ahead, at the end of the darkened corridor, low lights gleam from the main hall. I pause, disappearing into the shadows and tugging the flask out of my pocket once more to wet my throat.
Bonus, the vodka on my breath is at least somewhat neutralizing the cigarette stench of my mask. I exhale slowly after I swallow, rolling my shoulders as the comforting, familiar heat pools in my stomach.
Absolute control. Sheer will. Power in strength.
Again, almost any of my father’s men could have done this tonight. But a strong Bratva leader doesn’t issue decrees andorders from a cushioned throne. He gets his hands dirty. He does the heavy lifting.
Thatis why I decided it was me myself that was going to do this tonight.
Bullshit. You’re overcompensating for your sickness. For the corruption in your blood. For the thing you need to cut out of yourself…
My jaw tightens and I swallow heavily.
Shut the fuck up.
I yank the flask out of my pocket again and take another deep drink. This is what keeps me sane.
Or at least, keeps me from drowning in the darkness.
The end of the hallway opens out onto a grand mezzanine that rims the second-floor perimeter of the three-story main banquet hall of the sprawling estate. Huge chandeliers hang from the glass, vaulted ceiling above, with flickering gaslight sending a warm glow over the main hall and the guests seated below, as if this was the main dining hall at Hogwarts.
But, you know, villains and loaded guns, instead of brooms and owls.
Keeping my shoulders back, I slowly make my way around the mezzanine until I find a quiet corner with a nice marble pillar to slink behind. I adjust the ring on my finger as I rest my hand on the marble railing, angling my knuckles in the direction of the crowd below. I thumb the underside of the metal band, triggering the tiny digital camera built into the carved bull’s head set into the silver.
Fuck, this James Bond shit always gets my pulse thudding and my muscles tightening. A rush of adrenaline courses through my veins as the hum of the vodka tingles at the edges of my perception, keeping me in that sweet spot where I operate so well.
“Look alive, gentlemen.” The voice crackling in my stolen earpiece pulls my attention. “The Marquis and Signor Sangrini are entering the main hall via the front left door momentarily.”
My pulse jumps despite the alcohol, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I sink a little deeper into the shadows behind the marble pillar. Bravado, alcohol, and sheer arrogance have gotten me this far, pretty much without issue, but I’m suddenlyviciouslyaware how bad it would be if I were to be found out.
I swallow, looking down at the exquisitely set banquet tables with elegantly dressed guests from all manner of sordid underworld circles: various American Mafia, Bratva, the Italian Camorra, one or two Chinese Triads, the Columbian Cartel, even some Yakuza clans out of Japan.
There are representatives from families even older and more powerful than all those, too: criminal empires so vast, wealthy, powerful, and deeply entrenched that you see them and their political influence every day but don’t even realize it.
Because when a meeting between the leader of the Obsidian Syndicate and the head of the oldest, most powerful underworld banking institution on the planet goes down?
Everyoneputs on their Sunday best and comes out to pay their respects.
The assembled guests stop their various conversations, stand from their seats, and fall silent when the tall, broad-shoulderedman in black materializes from the shadows and steps into the flickering light. I angle my ring toward him as he walks across the slightly raised dais at the head of the grand banquet hall which holds the table of honor, then comes to a stop in front of his captive audience.
Thiswould be “the Marquis”, otherwise known as Vaughn Bancroft.
We’ve never met face to face. In a weird way, though, it almost feels like we have. My sister, Evie, dances professionally in the Zakharova Ballet with Vaughn’s younger brother, Val. And while the two men aren't twins, they’re close in age, and the resemblance between them is freakishly uncanny sometimes.
Same eyes. Same sharp, chiseled features and facial structure that give them a look that blends aristocrat and ruffian. Vaughn even has similar tattoos in similar places as his brother, like the faint but ornate ink you can see peeking out the top of his collar. The similarities stop there, though: Vaughn's forearms are bare, while his younger brother’s tattoos continue down his arms and over the backs of his hands, like mine.
“Welcome, all.”
