Page 40 of Dance of Deception

The shorter one yanks the envelope out of my hand, flips through the bills.

His face darkens.

“You’re short,” he growls.

My pulse kicks into overdrive.

“I—I know, but it hasn’t been a full week yet,” I plead, my voice wavering.

He grunts. The taller one watches me closely, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“You know,” he murmurs, “there areotherways to pay off a debt.”

Disgust seeps through me, like sour milk.

“Pretty little thing like you?” He grins lecherously. “You know how to work a cock, baby?”

My face pales as I draw back from him.

He chuckles. “Trust me, if suckingmy dickgot you off the hook with Mr. Popov, I’d have had you on your knees two minutes ago.”

Fuck you.

“Maybe you should be out there using what God gave you to make that money, hmm?”

I shake my head violently, and the man shrugs.

“Just a suggestion. Believe me, turning tricks iswaybetter than what will happen if you miss a payment to Mr. Popov.”

He suddenly frowns as his gaze drops to my collarbone. In a panic, my hand flies to the necklace, gripping it like a lifeline.

This belonged to Aunt Alison, whom I never knew and never met. But I had an old photo when I was younger of my father’s sister wearing this necklace with the little ballet slipper pendant, sitting in a rocking chair by a window, holding me as a baby.

There arezeropictures of Arkadi or Vera holding me like that or looking at me like people are supposed to look at babies they’re related to. So that one of Aunt Alison holding me, my little handreaching for the pendant necklace that she ended up leaving me, was always incredibly precious to me.

The taller man slaps my hand away, and his fingers snatch the chain, breaking it as he yanks it roughly from my neck.

No.

I cry out, lurching forward and desperately trying to retrieve it. “Please!” I gasp. “Don’t?—”

“It’s collateral, since you’re short,” he chuckles smugly, pocketing the necklace.

“Relax, you’ll get it back,” the other one sneers. “When you pay us what you owe.”

Then, just as fast as they grabbed me, they’re gone.

I'm left there shaking, raw, breathless. And for the first time since this all started, I feel something like hopelessness creeping in.

I need more money.

And I need itnow.

I stop at the corner,pressing my fingers against my temples, forcing my breath to slow.

I can still feel Popov’s men—grabbing me, their fingers digging into my arms, ripping my necklace away like it was nothing.

Shaking, I tug my phone out of my pocket and scroll to Brooklyn's contact. The last time I called this number, nothaving any idea what I was getting into, a man with an even, smooth tone interviewed me briefly, then told me where to meet to be picked up for the job. I was, strangely, less nervous then.

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