Page 9 of Dancing With Delusion

Nik appears in the doorway. “You ready, Boss?”

I head out and go for that much needed shower, noting how he doesn’t grab me for the kiss he always demands before he leaves me.

When I get back downstairs, Marshall is in the kitchen. “Good morning,” I say warily. He doesn’t look as pleased to see me. “Sorry, okay,” I offer. “I was pissed off.”

“You have got to stop acting on impulse,” he hisses, keeping his voice low so no one can hear. “Last night was a complete shitshow. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking how I’m tired of men bossing me around,” I tell him. “You didn’t even hear what that dickhead said to me.”

“And I don’t care,” he snaps. “My job is to keep you safe, but what the hell do I do if the Pakhan decides to put a bullet in your head? I can’t take him out, Tori. He’s bigger than us all.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re so dramatic, Marshall. He basically said I wasn’t good enough for his son.”

He laughs, but it’s cold and empty. “Well, you sure showed him,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I didn’t see Vivian behaving like a deranged psychopath.”

I narrow my eyes. “I resent that. And she’s too stiff to smile let alone throw a shitfit. You all know what I’m like. Maybe you should’ve tried harder to keep the big bad boss away from me. I want to go and see Phoebe today.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s my friend, and quite frankly, I’m sick of this testosterone-filled house.”

Marshall takes me to Phoebe’s flat, telling me to call when I’m done and he’ll collect me. I called thinking she’d be at work so we could meet for lunch, but it turns out she’s sick, which is unusual. She’s never sick.

She opens the door, and I frown at the sight of her. She’s in her pyjamas with her hair tied in a messy bun that looks at least a week old. “You okay?” I ask.

She opens wider for me to go inside. “Did you speak with the police?”

“No. Jesus, Phoebs, you’re not in this state over Marcus, are you?”

“Why hasn’t he been in contact? Did you speak to your parents?”

I nod. “They said he’s fine,” I lie. I never thought beyond our last meeting, and I never asked Dmitry if he’d discovered anything about the note. I inwardly scold myself for being too wrapped up in him to remember my possible prison sentence.

“Oh my god, they’ve seen him?” she asks, looking suddenly hopeful.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Erm, maybe. Or they could’ve just had a call with him,” I say, shrugging.

“Didn’t you ask?”

I slip out of my jacket. “Why would I?” I snap. “I told you, he’s dumped you, Phoebe. Don’t make it weird by doing this whole break-up bullshit.” She looks hurt, and I wince. “Sorry, I just mean he’s not worth it.”

“But the note?—”

“Is a pile of crap. Look, I haven’t come to talk about my shithead of a brother. Have you been in this flat all week?” I push open a window to let some fresh air inside. “Did you go to work at all?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been too worried.”

“Shower,” I order, shoving her in the direction of the bathroom. Phoebe’s spent years looking after me, now it’s my turn.

Dmitry

Nik lingers over at the bar, but his occasional glance in my direction gives me the impression he’s working up the courage to tell me something. I slam my laptop closed and check my watch. It’s six p.m. and the staff will be arriving soon to open the club.

“Spit it out,” I tell Nik, and he jumps at the sound of my voice. “You’ve been deliberating over there for the last hour, and you’re annoying me.”

He comes closer. “You’re not going to like it.”

“If it’s anything to do with my father, forget it. I can’t deal with him right now.”

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