Page 31 of Dance of Madness

Val grabs my hand, lifting me effortlessly to my feet.

“Oh, by the way.” Brooklyn turns to me. “You wanna go out on Friday?”

“Like,outout?”

She grins. “I was thinking Doomsday?”

Goddammit.

Part of me wants to say I can't make it, but only out of sheer petulance. I mean, she busted me about staring at Nero’s photo. But Doomsday, a wild club that’s known for drawing both great DJs andlotsof mafia-types—mainly because it’s partly owned by Laz Kislev—is fun asfuck.

My dance friends and I only started going a few months ago, after we got dragged there during Lyra’s impromptu bachelorette party. But now it’s become a favorite for a fun night out.

“You have my attention,” I say with dramatically arched brows.

“Do I have it like Nero’s Insta page had it?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Brooklyn dissolves into giggles as Madame Kuzmina barks at us to get to work.

7

MILENA

Doomsday always smellslike danger and sex, with sweetness underneath. Maybe it’s the combination of expensive perfume and champagne, or the scent of money and youth.

…Okay, I’m waxingwaytoo poetic about a freaking nightclub.

We slip past the velvet rope with barely a glance from the bouncer outside. I’d love to say it’s because we’re all so cool, and regulars here by now. But it’s more that one of the last times we came, Laz happened to be here too with Bane, Mikhail, and a few other Bratva types, and he casually introduced us to the manager and the head of security, saying we were “permanently on the list.”

I’m not complaining. Doomsday gets a little wild at times, but it isseriouslyfun.

Another of the bouncers inside nods at us, gesturing for us to follow him to one of the big booths in the VIP area overlooking the dance floor.

Tonight, “us” is me, Brooklyn, Evie and Lyra—which is shocking, because ever since she married Carmine, she barely leaves theenormous Barone mansion on 5thAvenue aside from coming to rehearsals. Also with us tonight is Val, of course, along with Miguel and Jackson from the company, and a super-weird couple—I think their names are Kyle and Kylie?—that Val introduced us to about ten minutes ago outside. I’m starting to think they mightbothbe his dates for the evening.

Never change, Val. Never change.

A waitress brings over our drinks, along with a bottle of champagne that is apparently “on the house”. After that, we’re off to the races.

The beat of the bass vibrates through the floor and up my spine as we sip bubbly and scream at each other over the music.

“Whoarethose two?” Brooklyn yells in my ear, nodding past me to where Val is flashing his most charming—it reallyischarming—grin at Kyle and Kylie, or whatever their names are.

Val really is like a brother to me. To all of us at the Zakharova. But any girl—or guy—in the company who claims to have never once found him attractive is a fucking liar.

The man isbuiltfrom lean muscle, charm, sexual energy and swirling tattoos. It’s the same kind of vibe that Prince and Freddie Mercury had, which is why his social calendar is perpetually filled.

“Kyle?” I frown. “I think? And she’s Ky-lie?”

Brooklyn makes a face.

“I think they’re his date.”

She frowns. “Which one?”

“Yes.”

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