Page 31 of Dark Embers

“This will not end well for you, Sabrina,” he warns, low and dangerous.

“Or maybe it won’t end well for you.”

My phone buzzes. Right on time.

I hold up a hand to silence Oleksi, loving the way his nostrils flare with irritation.Good. Let him simmer.

I swipe to answer, my voice smooth. “Ciao, Marco.”

“Rina, mia piccola ballerina,” he says, warmth and mischief rolling off his tongue. “È fatto. Dovresti avere quello che hai chiesto, adesso.”

“Grazie, Marco,” I murmur. “E sai cosa fare... se ne avrò bisogno?”

There’s a pause, then his voice drops to that dark promise I remember all too well.

“One word from you,” he says in English, slow and deliberate, “and it’s done.”

I smile as I end the call and slide my phone back into my purse. When I lift my eyes to Oleksi, he’s already watching me with suspicion burning behind those stormy blues.

Perfect.Something dark and satisfying tugs at me—vindication peppered with a dash of spite and a whole lot of triumph. Which I know I’m going to regret later as I’m none of these things but it seems last night it wasn’t just my dark desire Oleksi freed—it was my darker ego.

“You’ve joined the mob?” Oleksi sneers. “You know they’re more afraid of me than I am of them. I doubt they’d start a war with my family over our little spat.”

“Not everyone who speaks Italian is in the mob,” I reply coldly. “That’s just stereotyping.”

I ignore how easily he’s belittled what he’s done to me by calling it a little spat. I’m already far too angry to test the limits of my temper any further—and for the first time in my life, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned actually makes sense to me. And this prick is about to have my fury unleashed on him.

I step closer, rolling up my sleeves. “Besides, I don’t need the mob to help me with this. I don’t need the help of anygangster.”

I show him my wrists—faint, blooming bruises wrapping around them like his mark.

“You see,” I say, “the law protects me too.”

His brows knit. I continue without giving him time to comment.

“You restrained me. I have bruising consistent with bondage. That, combined with what you did today, could be argued as coercive retaliation—especially with the imbalance of power between us. You're a Bratva prince with empire-level reach. I’m a dancer with a kid.”

His mouth opens, but I cut him off.

“If I take this to a prosecutor and spin the narrative the right way? It becomes assault. Possibly false imprisonment. And let’s not forget defamation—intentional infliction of emotional distress. Sabotaging my employment using planted evidence?” I give him a slow, sweet smile. “That’s defamation per se, Oleksi. You don’t even need a conviction for that to destroy your reputation. Accusing someone falsely of a crime—especially theft—is actionable by law.”

His smirk falters.

“What proof do you have?”

“Glad you asked.”

I pull out my phone, tap the screen, and hold it up. The video plays.

Oleksi’s face drains of color.

It’s Ivan—clear as day—on surveillance footage, slipping into my dressing room with a bag. Moments later, he moves my costume rack and tucks something behind the clothes.

“That doesn’t prove it was me,” he mutters.

I swipe again. New footage.

Ivan stands outside the Golden Stage hallway. Oleksi steps into frame, all six-foot-something of arrogant mobster king. The audio crackles, but it’s clean.

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