Page 62 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

CHAPTER 28

Vasily

“Are you planning on getting off of the couch any time soon, son?” my mother asks as she gathers her giant handbag and heads for the door.

She works as a personal shopper in Manhattan, and she’s headed to work. My father leaves much earlier each day, as he works on Wall Street. I, however, have spent five months basically feeling sorry for myself on their couch. Well, not the entire time. I do still work out, always at the ready for someone to come to finish the job Sasha Gusev’s men started in Brazil.

I thought I could play spy or whatever. I thought I could stay a step ahead of Gigi’s father, but it turns out he was right behind us out of St. Bart’s. He knew just where we were going. And he knew his daughter well enough to know that she would try to defy my planning, that she would try to negotiate for herself.

Gigi. Brave, rebellious Gigi, who only wanted to be able to make her own choices and live her own life. She paid with her life for those desires.

It has been six months since I was shot and left for dead in the forests of Brazil. I knew it was possible, even likely, so I sent pings to my contacts until the moment I was tied up. From there,my phone stayed in my pocket, open to a line in the U.S., which was recording the whole scene.

Attempted murder. Kidnapping. Just two of the charges that got Sasha Gusev locked up. Those thoughts gave me some level of satisfaction as I convalesced in a hospital in Brazil, where federal agents asked me repeatedly about why Gigi and I were on the run, how I got her free of Baranov, and where all of my wealth came from. They provided me with a long list of crimes for which I would be charged, unless I would be willing to testify against the Baranov and Gusev operations.

Only an idiot would pass up that deal. If I ever want to rebuild my professional career, I certainly cannot do it from behind bars.

My mother reminds me of her presence, her question, with an annoyed clearing of her throat.

“Son?”

I sigh. “I just don’t know what to do with myself,” I say honestly. “I cannot just go and beg Katharine for my job back, not after all of this.”

“Well, you are too young and too intelligent to give up on yourself,” she says. “You cannot just sit here collecting dust.”

“I promise, I won’t,” I say. “I just need…time. I need to figure things out.”

She stares at me with some mix of parental disappointment and sadness before walking out the door. She is angry at me. For falling in love. For running off and trying to be a hero. For getting myself involved in a family of crime. For forgetting my goals.

I understand it. I do, and I am mad at myself, too. I failed Gigi. I thought I could use my wealth and my connections to keep us safe, and I failed. The woman I love is gone.

I did extensive searching after returning to the States. I could not find any information on her. Not an obituary. Not anaccident report. Nothing in the papers about a body being found. It was as if she disappeared, and I suppose that is what Sasha wanted. He wanted that final level of control, to wipe her from memory. A prima ballerina, and just…nothing. Her bio is now gone from the Washington Ballet site. It is gone from every site. Gigi Sokolov, Galina Gusev, both erased.

It hurts to think of her, to think of the cage she lived in all of her life. She was so innocent, and she simply wanted to live freely and on her own terms. She had an earnest desire to work things out with her father, always hopeful he would eventually let her go.

I need to take a walk, to clear my head, so I shower and pull on the layers of clothing needed for a winter in New York City. I wander aimlessly, until my fingers hurt from the cold, and then step inside a coffee shop, shivering as I wait to order a hot coffee.

While I am waiting for my order, I look around the shop and see a woman who looks vaguely familiar. That happens a lot in the city, I have found, so I don’t make much of it at first. But as I get my coffee and pass her again, it hits me. She must have the same feeling, because our eyes meet, and the name is out of my mouth before I can think twice.

“Elena?”

She cringes and looks around. “No, sorry,” she says. “I think you have the wrong person.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You just…looked familiar.”

I walk outside, back into the cold, sipping my coffee as I think about where I might walk next. When the woman appears in front of me, I know for sure I was not wrong.

She walks away slowly but looks over her shoulder in silent invitation. I walk behind her, then beside her, and she finally says, “It’s Jennifer now.”

I nod, unsure what to say.

We walk in silence for several blocks, our breath crystallizing in the air as we breathe.

“Are you doing okay?” I finally ask.

“I am better,” she says. “A lot of therapy to thank for that. Elena is my dead name – a name tied to the trauma of my past. At least, that is what my therapist says.”

“The trauma… in Pennsylvania.”

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