Page 135 of Dirty Damage

And since Oleg still doesn’t come back after one lap of the yacht, I help myself to another glass.

And another.

Maybe one more after that, too.

By midnight, the swanky boat christening party has morphed into something darker. Something hungrier. I pass a bartop dusted with cocaine and come to stand at the edge of the makeshift dance floor under a canopy of stars, watching bodies writhe to the pulsing beat.

There’s a feverish sheen in everyone’s eyes, but the champagne bubbling through my veins makes it hard to care.

“Ciao, bella.”

An unfamiliar man in a sharp Italian suit is giving me a predatory smile. I didn’t see him approach, but he’s standing close enough that all I can smell is his overpowering cologne.

Next to him is a woman with hair dark as an oil slick flowing down her back. Her midnight blue dress pops against her olive skin.

I give an awkward little wave, immediately hating myself for losing my mysterious allure so quickly. “Hi.”

“It would be criminal for beauty such as yourself not to dance,” he purrs in a heavy accent. “This is what you want, no?”

“T-to dance?” I stutter like an idiot. “Um, sure, I love dancing. But my fiancé is busy, so?—”

“Do you always wait for permission to enjoy yourself?” the woman cuts in. Her accent is softer, but her attitude sharper.

“No, of course not.”

“Then dance with us.” She holds out a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Francesca. This is Antonio.”

I look between them. “You want me to dance. With… both of you?”

Francesca’s dark eyes slide down my body like a caress. “You looked lonely. We couldn’t bear it.”

Back at home, I’d refuse. I’d thank them for the offer and make my excuses, slipping away. Hiding.

But I’m in another country—practically another world—and just drunk enough to think this might be an adventure.

Besides, it’s just a dance.

No harm, no foul.

My face is warm as I take Francesca’s hand. “Okay. Why not?”

She pulls me against her, the sequins of her dress pricking my skin like tiny warning signs. Under the strobing lights, she looks like one of those music box ballerinas come to life: beautiful, perfect, and somehow slightly sinister.

“Relax,chérie.” Her breath fans my neck. “You’re young and beautiful. There is so much to celebrate.”

She spins me and I laugh despite myself. The champagne hits at just the right moment, making the colors brighter, the music deeper, the night more electric.

And it’s not just the alcohol. I’m inSardinia.

On ayacht.

Living a life I never thought possible.

I let my body move to the beat, and Francesca claps in delight. “Brava!The girl can dance,” she says in approval, her gaze lingering in places it shouldn’t.

I’ve always loved dancing. I just haven’t had much reason to lately, with the weight of survival pressing down on my shoulders and all.

But tonight feels different.

---