Page 69 of Dance of Ruin

The very man I was just thinking about steps out of Urban Grind, coffee in hand.

Perfect.

I shout his name, but the traffic between us is too loud this time of day for him to hear me. I wave my arms, but he’s not looking in my direction. I groan, then yank out my phone and text him “oat milk latte pleeeeeeaassse!” with about ten heart emojis afterward. But after I hit send I watch him, and he doesn’t make a move to reach for his phone.

Dammit.

Then I stop, my brow furrowing as I look at him again.

Something seems…offwith him. He’s standing half-shadowed by the café awning, sipping his coffee. But instead of the leather jacket which is basically his all-season look, he’s wearing a gray windbreaker with the hood pulled up.

He looks…well,off.

Brooding, sure. But there’s also a tension in the way he holds himself. A stiffness in his posture, like a spring coiled too tight.

For a second, I’m confused: it looks like he’s staring right at me, but there’s no hint of recognition. I wave my arms again, wondering if he’s just being extra weird today. Then I realize he’s actually staringpastme, down the length of the alley behind the Mercury.

I almost call out to him again, but there’s something in his demeanor that stops me. In all the years I’ve known Vaughn, I’ve never once seen him look like this. It’s like he’s not seeing anything at all.

Like he’sgone somewhere else.

I shake it off and duck into the alleyway, my footsteps echoing on the brick as I make my way toward the back entrance.

Whatever that was, it’s his own thing, not mine to interrupt.

And seriously, who the hell amIright now to be giving people shit for being lost in thought?

The wind dies down as I step off the main street and head into the alley. Lyra’s perched on an old crate by the back door to the theater, sipping what’s probably her second espresso of the morning, legs crossed in ripped leggings, headphones looped around her neck. Milena stands beside her, eying Lyra’s coffee longingly.

Milena always makes me grin. I mean, the girl comes fromseriouswealth and power. Her father, Marko, is the head of the Kalishnik Bratva, one of the families that sits on the Bratva High Council alongside the likes of Reznikov-Tsarenko, Kashenko, Volkov, and Javanovic.

But the girlreallytries to cover that up. Not out any sense of embarrassment, more that I think she just wants to “fit in” a little more.

The key word there, of course, is “tries”. Most of the time, her efforts are to various degrees of success. Like today, for example: she’s wearing ripped jeans and an oversized men’s white dress shirt knotted at the midsection, with a tank top underneath.

But the “I just grabbed this from wherever” shirt is Armani, those shoes with the red soles are flipping Louboutins, and I’d bet my last dollar that the giant glittery rock on her necklace is anactualdiamond.

Evelina bounces on her toes in front of them, too full of energy to stay still. Her twin long blond braids whip behind her as she turns to me.

“Naomi!” she grins widely.

Evelina is also a Bratva princess. Unlike Milena, though, she leans right the hell into it.

She can be described in one word. Onecolor: pink. Specifically, Barbie pink.

That isnotto say that she’s a ditz. She’s just fully embraced that she’s a princess, and that she’ll most likely have to marry a mafia prince not that far down the road. And given both those realities, it’s like she’s made a conscious choice to approach life with an infectious, bubbly spirit and the energy level of a Jack Russel puppy. She’s also one of the sweetest, most genuine girls I’ve ever met, and it’simpossiblenot to like her.

She practically skips toward me, grabbing my arm with both hands before leaning in dramatically, like she’s about to spill some great secret. “We’re talking about Bianca,” she stage whispers.

This is another reason I love her. She’ll have this dramatic buildup where you think she’s going to tell you this Earth-shattering news, and it ends up being “I could use a coffee”.

I make a face as I join the group. “I went to visit her this morning,” I say softly.

“Oh, good,” Lyra says, standing. “I mean to go earlier, but I…we…” Her face turns crimson before she coughs and glances away. “Something caught me.”

For a second, I catch a glimpse of a dark bruise on her neck, near her collarbone.

…Or is it abite?

---