Page 118 of Dance of Deception

Milena doesn’t push, but she doesn’t let me off the hook either. “You’re married to a man who makes the world bend to his will. That’s not going to change just because you wear his ring.” She watches me, waiting. “Don’tbend. Not for him. Not for anyone.”

Something in my chest tightens.

Milena glances back to the stage. “The mafia world will eat you alive if you let it. The only way to survive is to know when to play along and when to push back.” She exhales slowly. “Trust me. You know this world, but…and I say this with love…it’s different when you were born into it like I was. You don’t strike me as the type who likes being told what to do, is all.”

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “No.”

“Good.” She nods. “Make sureheknows that.”

I don’t respond. I don’t know how to. Because the truth is, I don’t know if I have the ability to push back at all.

We both return to watching Dove absolutelykilling iton stage. And suddenly…

I feel watched.

It’s a slow, creeping sensation, crawling up the back of my neck. I scoot on my butt a little further stage left, my fingers tightening around my ankles as I sit on the floor, my eyes scanning the theater.

The house is dim beyond the stage lights, shadows stretching into the corners and swallowing up the velvet-draped walls. I glance at my friends, but they’re focused on Dove, watching wide-eyed, whispering about her flawless technique. None of them seems to notice anything out of place.

But Iknowsomeone’s watching me.

My pulse races. Slowly, carefully, I let my gaze drift upward, past the empty orchestra pit, past the velvet chairs, and up to the private boxes.

At first, there’s nothing. Just darkness. Then, in the corner of my vision, movement. A presence.

There.

Box Five.

For a single, heart-stopping moment, I see him. A figure in the shadows. Tall. Still. Watching.

Masked.

And instantly my heart lurches into my throat when I find myself staring into the dark, black, emotionless eyes of The Hound.

My pulse skips.

Then he’s gone.

I blink rapidly, my stomach twisting. The box is definitely empty now.

But I know—know—he was there.

A shiver rolls down my spine. He left no trace, no lingering sound, no confirmation of his presence. But I can feel it. Feelhim, like always.

A sick realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

My father watched from the shadows, too.

I can still remember the way he fixed on people before they realized he was there—lingering in doorways, blending into the background, making himself invisible until it was too late. His gaze was always sharp, assessing, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It’s horrifying to think back on it now, but before I knew what he was, my father used to turn it into a game. He’d be somewhere with me—park, playground, the mall—and I’d find him pausing and just…lookingat someone. Studying them, his body perfectly still.

Sometimes I’d ask him what he was doing, and he’d tell me we were playing a game.

“Don’t let them see you, Lyra,” he’d murmur, bending to point someone out to me. “Follow their eyes. See where they’re going to look before they even realize they’re going to look there themselves.”

“Why are we playing this game?”

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