Page 81 of Dance with Death

Luca returns rather abruptly and Kostya turns on his heel, vanishing down the hallway before I can thank him.

Once again I’m grateful for Luca’s blind obedience as I send him back inside the kitchen to fill one of the plastic bags with ice. I take that time to stuff the phone deep inside my jeans pocket, thankful the bottom of my shirt flares out loosely, just enough to hide the bulge until I can secure it safely beneath my mattress in my box at the Vittoris.

Luca and I return to our masters with the ice requested and my heart twitters with a flurry of excitement. There’s something to look forward to, though it may be short lived. The phone battery will lose its charge at some point. But sometime soon, when I need him the most, I’ll be able to reach out and contact Ezra.

Perhaps all is not lost.

Not yet.

Chapter 20

Ezra

Seeing Anya—only tobe taken from her again—was almost as hard as not seeing her at all. Her rosy scent is starting to fade from the pink evening gown I sleep beside in her room at Mikhailov Manor. Each night it fades a little more, only sinking me further into fear.

Fear of forgetting her scent, her smile, the electric crackle of her touch.

Fear of losing her entirely.

It’s only been a week since I saw her last at the Leblancs’ and every minute that passes without a plan to save her makes me more fearful. Saving her and doing it soon is all I can think about now. My mind has spun its way through thousands of escape plans—a thousand possibilities and all of them are shitty. I know the odds are stacked against us—the probability of me actually finding a way to save her is next to nothing—but it won’t stop me from trying.

I run my brain through a new train of thought while I sit on her armchair by the window and flip through the box of pictures of her sister Lidia. I’ve started keeping my pictures of Emma here as a reminder that any escape plan comes with high stakes for all of us.

Anya had received and placed the last picture of Lidia in the box the week before Nikolai sold her to Vigo. Looking at it now, I can see how they have the same smile. It’s bright and true and has the sort of quality that makes you feel like you’re special if you get to see it. On the back, as with all the pictures, are two numbers.

Eighteen.

Thirty.

Lidia’s eighteen years old now. She looks happy in this picture, bright and cheerful. She looks more like her big sister now than she did in her younger pictures. Though it hurts my heart to see these—to look at Anya’s sister, to see Emma, and know they’re being stalked just for a weekly photo—it humbles my more outrageous ideas for escape. These pictures remind me that I can’t just improvise, I can’t be reckless, I can’t fuck this up.

The picture I hold is the last one of Lidia. Nikolai hasn’t brought anymore of her since Anya was sold months ago, though I continue to get new pictures of Emma.

Is Anya getting pictures of Lidia from Vigo?

Is Lidia alive?

Have they stopped watching her?

Maybe she’s safe.

Of course, she’s not safe…none of us are safe.

When the door to my room—Anya’s room—bursts open wide without warning, I merely glance up from the picture in my hand. Though I was certain I’d see Nikolai standing there, I tilt my head in curiosity to see Kostya instead. Nikolai rather enjoys being unexpected company, so I’m surprised it’s not him standing at my door. He’s been gone a lot lately, though. He left again on business travel only a day or so after we returned from the quarterly meeting in Louisiana. Here we are, a week later, and I have yet to see him make an appearance.

Kostya steps inside without invitation and shuts the door behind him. My heart starts thumping against my ribcage, though I can’t really place the feeling. I’m not exactly fearful of Kostya, not in the way I am for Nikolai and his unpredictable rage. But I am uncomfortable with him since I don’t really have him figured out, which makes me nervous.

Kostya hurries across the room toward me and I sit up straighter, confused by what he’s doing. But then he stops right in front of me. We pause in a weird kind of stillness as he looks down at me and I look up at him. A look of uncertainty flickers across his face, as if he’s not sure why he came in here in the first place, or perhaps he’s second guessing himself.

I don’t ask the question, I just wait.

After a moment, a decisive expression wipes away his uncertainty and he reaches into his jacket pocket. In one motion, I set the box of pictures down on the ottoman in front of me and stand, curling my fists, ready to fight if he’s come here to kill me or—

Why would Kostya kill me?

Why wouldn’t he?

He holds out his hand in front of me and I freeze.

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