Page 16 of Bad Little Bride

I jerk, my eyes snapping toward the door.

Grandma stands there, brow raised as she looks to the disarray of the room, then my sweat-soaked top on the floor. “Out.”

“No.”

Her eyes widen, only to narrow a moment later. “Out…or he will come in to collect you.”

I tense, reaching up and touching the space between my shoulder blades subconsciously.

Satisfaction blooms along the woman’s face, as if she knows what she couldn’t possibly, and she spins on her heel.

“I can buy you twenty minutes, tops.”

Rolling my eyes, I cringe as I lift from the bath that was nowhere near enough time. “Sure thing, Grandma.”

She freezes. “Make that ten.”

Fuck my life.

Chapter

Five

Boston

I wasthe only soloist in the summer showcase at Lincoln Center in New York last year.

It was a prestigious event, and the last I was allowed to perform in. Only for the richest of the rich and those from elite families. Like Enzo, my father is nothing but a businessman to the outside world. Where Enzo is known and respected as the owner of the top security organizationin the world,my father is a real estate guru and entrepreneur extraordinaire. Of course, that’s only to those who don’t look a little deeper.

Anyone aware of the darker ways of operating a business, or a dark lifestyle in general, knows the name Rayo Revenaw. He is a man feared, and with good reason. When he found out I was offered the solo, he refused to allow me to go, assuming it was a ploy of an enemy looking for a way to get to him. It was Rocklin who convinced him to make the exception, and Father always listens to my twin’s reasoning more than mine.

New York was outside his territory, the underground world there ran by another family altogether, but no one wantedto cross Rayo. He was the key to crossing borders, having strategically purchased properties all across the nation under his real estate front in precise, and well-planned, locations—no one moved without his permission—so against his better judgment, he allowed it.

The behind-the-curtain experience was exquisite, and that was saying something coming from a girl who learned from legends. My father literally found a way to secure me the top ballet masters and artistic directors. Whoever climbed to the top spots as the years went on somehow found their way to our door. Likely via blackmail, but who knows. Money talks as much as knowledge does.

The event held rows and rows of costumes, and walls of pointe shoes, custom down to the centimeter and every shade of silk, though the one I wore was a one-of-a-kind piece, stretched with the rarest of diamonds in the world. Lights and crew scattered the place, makeup artists with every palette in existence, and a spread of fruits and nuts imported from their countries of origin.

It was exclusive and divine, even if, in the end, I did find out the only reason I was invited was because they knew my sister would be in attendance.

Regardless, the showcase overall was an experience like no other.

I don’t know what I’m staring at out on Enzo’s courtyard, but it’s ten times what the summer showcase had to offer backstage.

It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen…even if I have no idea what it is.

The giant patio is littered with staff, carts and carts of gowns line the left, while shelving and shoes take up the right. There’s a flower arch at the foot of the steps, pink and white roses, and another farther into the grass, that one woven with ivy and baby’s breath. A checkered blanket stretches across the farcorner of the yard, fruits and two pairs of shoes tossed leisurely beside it, as if they were carelessly kicked off, though no one sits on top.

There are tripods and giant lights all over, pointed in every direction and being fussed with by two to three people each—people who are fumbling and tense, likely due to the two-bandana wearing armed guards positioned at every person’s back. Literally, every single person has themselves a gangster-sized shadow.

There are a few directors’ chairs and giant trucks spread open wide, the contents facing the opposite direction in which I stand, so I can’t say what’s inside.

It’s almost like a movie set, small scenes set up all across the yard.

The most shocking, though, is what sits dead center of the brick patio. Giant glass cases sit side by side, stretching out at least thirty feet, deep blue velvet lining the insides, diamonds glittering under the afternoon sun. But it’s not the diamonds that have me swallowing. It’s the engraving on the side of the table.

Ann-Marie’s Ice.

“She will make your ring.”

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