Dance of Deception: Chapter 22

I wake with a choked cry withering in my throat, my pulse punching at my veins.

Fuck.

It’s the same dream I’ve been having almost nightly for the last few weeks. No, not dream.

Nightmare.

It always starts the same. I’m back in that sub-basement, in the shadows of horror, my bare feet sticky with blood, my ears ringing with the sound of screams.

Chains rattle in the distance. A girl’s voice sobs and pleads.

And he looms in front of me.

Arkadi.

His hands are covered in blood, and his eyes flicker in the dim light; hungry and cold.

“You’re a monster,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, barely audible over the screams.

Arkadi tilts his head, his eyes narrowing with amusement. ‘But you’re my daughter,’ His voice is soft, almost pitying. ‘You’ll always be of my blood.’

My body locks up, nausea curling in my gut. I take a step back. He takes one forward.

“You’re a monster,” I repeat, louder, the words feeling like broken glass on my tongue.

Arkadi grins, flashing his teeth like a wolf. ‘So what does that make you?’

The blood at my feet grows deeper, creeping up my legs like it’s going to drown me.

Then—the dream shifts.

The room is the same, but Arkadi is gone.

And standing in front of me is Vera.

Her lipstick is smudged, her eyes sharp and cold. There’s blood all over her hands.

She exhales smoke, flicking her cigarette into the knee-deep blood on the flood. ‘You put your own father away.’

My pulse roars in my ears.

She tilts her head, studying me. ‘How do you live with yourself?’

Back in my bed, I ball my fists up and rub my eyes, trying to eradicate the lingering tremors and shudders of that nightmare.

I exhale slowly, trying to breathe it out and away from me as I let consciousness drag me into the day.

It’s been two days since the wedding.

Since Carmine chased me through the house like a wild beast pursuing prey.

Since I lost my virginity in a way that should have broken me, but instead left something tangled and burning deep inside my chest.

My things from my apartment arrived yesterday, neatly packed and then unpacked by unseen hands. My life has been folded into this house. His house. It doesn’t feel like mine.

I haven’t hung up most of my clothes. The closet in the guest room I’ve claimed is half-empty, suitcases still ranged along the wall like I’m waiting…hoping…for someone to tell me I can leave.

Carmine himself has been a ghost.

I barely see or hear him. He’s here in the house, I know that. But it’s like he’s deliberately avoiding me; like his absence is so complete that it feels planned. From so hot it burned me to ice cold. From one thousand miles an hour with a jet engine strapped to my back to a complete, dead stop. It’s strange.

And the worst part is, it bothers me.

I should be relieved. I should be grateful for the space, for the break from his suffocating presence, the way he gets under my skin and past my defenses.

For some respite from his consuming, toxic, predatory grasp.

I’m not.

I can’t shake the feeling that the withdrawal is too precise, too calculated—like he’s watching from the shadows, waiting. Testing me.

I tell myself not to care. That it doesn’t matter.

But the more I tell myself that, the more it feels like a lie.

“So does that mean you’re not a virgin anymore?”

I freeze, my face heating.

For the million-and-first time, I find myself supremely regretting the night I got way too drunk and let it slip—to Vaughn, of all fucking people—that I was still a virgin at twenty-one.

Until two nights ago…

Instantly, Naomi, Milena, and Brooklyn, who were stretching next to Vaughn on stage, cluster around.

“What are you talking about?” I mumble, unzipping my coat.

“Just the massive fucking bite mark—or whatever the fuck part of his anatomy did that to your anatomy—on your neck.” Vaughn grins salaciously, jabbing a finger at the side of my throat.

“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath. “I hate you.”

Vaughn—absolute menace that he is—grins, exposing the sin on my skin. “Come on. Answer the question, Mrs. Mafia Bride.”

“The answer is mind your own damn business,” I snap. “And don’t call me that.”

Vaughn lifts a single brow. “Yeah—I truly cannot believe we’ve hit a point in our lives where I’m saying this, but my business isn’t nearly as exciting as yours. I hope we can all appreciate the gravity of this moment.”

He successfully yanks my jacket all the way off and tosses it aside. Instantly, their mouths all drop open.

“Girl,” Brooklyn chokes out, her eyebrows practically on the ceiling. I cringe under their stares, painfully aware of the bruises all over my arms, cleavage, and neck.

That’s just the ones they can see.

The ones on my inner thighs, my breasts, my ass? Those throb even deeper and are already an even angrier shade of purple and black.

Because I married a wild animal, apparently.

A feral hound…

Milena intervenes before Vaughn can say anything else. “Shut the fuck up, Vaughn,” she sighs, shoving him back and turning to me. Her face grows serious. “Are you okay? Those bruises are serious.”

Vaughn snorts. “Yeah, because someone got seriously fuuucked on her wedding night.”

Naomi, bless her, huffs and crosses her arms. “Don’t be a perv, Vaughn. She obviously bumped into something.” She turns to me, determined. “Right?”

Oh boy.

Vaughn roars with laughter. Milena can barely hide the grin on her lips. And Brooklyn giggles as she turns to our eternally innocent friend. “Oh, you sweet, sweet summer child.”

Naomi frowns. “What?”

Milena smirks. “Well, Naomi, sometimes two consenting adults have the urge to get a little rough in the bedroom⁠—”

Naomi gasps, her face turning a shade of red I didn’t even know existed. “Oh my God,” she squeaks.

Milena turns back to arch a brow at me. “Soooo… Married life is going well, I see.”

I groan again. “I hate you all.”

“No, you love us,” Brooklyn corrects. “But seriously. How’s it feel, being a Barone?”

I roll my eyes. “Can we please talk about literally anything else? What about you guys? Anything new?”

Milena flashes me a look. “In the last forty-eight hours? Nope.”

Brooklyn taps her chin, pretending to think. “Hmm…let’s see… No, I didn’t marry a mafia don lately, so I think that’s still the most interesting thing in the room.”

I groan. “You’re impossible.”

Milena laughs and loops an arm around my shoulders. “Okay, enough. We’re glad you’re here, even if you are Mrs. Mafia now.”

Brooklyn pouts dramatically. “Still waiting for my tall, dark and dangerous.”

Vaughn shrugs. “Just say the word, baby girl. I’ll put together a foolproof dating strategy for you.”

Brooklyn makes a face. “Hard pass. I’ve seen the skanks and fuckbois you bring home.”

“Well, somebody’s gotta keep the city’s emotionally unavailable bartenders and aspiring actresses with daddy issues entertained.”

Laughter echoes around the vast space, and for the first time in days, I feel lighter.

The side door to the theater swings open, and Evelina strides in, her bright pink…because of course it is…duffel bag slung over her shoulder. Behind her, looming in the doorway, are two tall, built, figures—her brother, Roman, and Bane Antonov.

Roman’s dark hair is slightly tousled as his gray eyes sweep over the room like he’s assessing a battlefield. He’s all muscle, tattoos inked down his forearms, with a presence so intense it feels like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

Beside him, Bane is a brooding, silent cloud of darkness—so consuming it’s almost unsettling. Dark brown hair falls slightly over his forehead, his brown eyes indecipherable and his broad frame radiating a dark, pulsing energy. He exudes power—deeper than the obvious kind—that makes it feel dangerous just to look at him.

Brooklyn lets out a slow breath. “Damn”

Vaughn nods, inked arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes locked on Roman. “Fuckin’ dibs.”

Brooklyn smirks. “Roman?”

Vaughn gestures lazily between Evelina’s brother and Bane. “I mean, either. But Roman?” he groans. “He looks like he fucks and fights like a god. That’s a winning combo for me.”

Milena rolls her eyes. “Do you need a cold shower?”

“Depends. Will he be there, too?”

Naomi’s eyes land on Bane before she shivers violently. “Okay, Evie’s brother is hot, but his friend is terrifying.”

Vaughn shrugs. “Big ‘bury a body in the woods and never speak of it again’ energy.” He strokes his jaw as he grins darkly. “I mean, I’m…into it.”

Evelina says goodbye to her brother and then walks over to us, dropping her bag on the floor and frowning. “What’s up?”

Brooklyn grins. “We were just talking about how fuckable your brother is.”

Evelina makes a horrified face. “Gross.”

Vaughn grins, entirely unrepentant. “What? He looks like he’s used to being in control, and I’d love to see how fast I could mess that up.”

Evelina groans, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head, like she’s trying to physically loosen that mental image. “Dude, my brother. Also, he’s straight.”

Vaughn winks. “Luckily, ‘but I’m straight’ is my favorite kind of foreplay.”

Before Evelina can respond, the sound of heels clicking against the floor announces Madame Kuzmina’s arrival.

And she’s not alone.

Beside her walks a girl I don’t recognize. She’s pretty in a very non-showy way, tall and lean, with dyed silvery-pink hair. A series of delicate black tattoos line her forearms, peeking from beneath the sleeves of her warm-up sweater. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches everything with a cool, perceptive gaze.

A hush settles over the room as Madame Kuzmina stops in the center, sweeping her gaze across the company before gesturing toward the girl.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Dove Marchetti. She’s our newest Second Soloist.”

My brow furrows. Usually new dancers, even prospective soloists, have to do a series of auditions, not just walk in and be announced.

“Holy shit,” Milena murmurs quietly, leaning into the rest of us.

Evelina whistles under her breath. “I didn’t even know she was back.”

I frown. “Hi, yes, hello. Not a subscriber to mafia world gossip weekly?”

“Yeah, who is that?” Naomi whispers.

“Don Marchetti’s other daughter,” Milena says quietly. “But rumor has it, her dad had her sent away for the last few years.”

Naomi blinks. “Sent away where?”

Milena lowers her voice even more. “Depends on which version of the story you believe. The polite one is that she was ‘overseas’,” she air-quotes with her fingers. “But the spicier one?” She pauses, clearing her throat, “A ‘mental wellness’ center.”

I raise a brow. “Why does that sound like code for something?”

Milena’s lips quirk. “Because it is. Word is, she had a ton of issues with drugs and mental health. So her dad shipped her off and swept her under the rug while Ciara went and played the doting mafia princess role.”

All of us turn, brows arching as Kuzmina clears her throat sharply, silencing the smatterings of whispers and hushed conversations.

“Dove will be understudying Naomi in Swan Lake.”

Woah.

I turn to see the panicked uncertainty on Naomi’s face. She blinks rapidly, looking like she just got sucker punched. I reach over and take her hand in mine, squeezing it and flashing her a comforting smile.

“Understudy,” I whisper. “Don’t let it throw you.”

Madame doesn’t give anyone time to process the bombshell, just turns sharply and motions for everyone to follow. “Come. We will run the act two pas des deux.”

Naomi and I exchange a look as everyone gets to their feet. Then Kuzmina turns to Naomi. “I’d like Dove to do this run-through, Naomi. Just to see where we are. She’s actually performed the role before. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

She turns to Dove, who subtly nods her head as she pulls her pinkish-silver hair back into a tight bun and rolls her neck.

‘Begin,” Kuzmina says, her tone making it clear there will be no further discussion. I watch as she leaves the stage and melts through the darkness of the auditorium to her usual place, four rows back.

Dove simply steps into position with Miguel, one of the company’s male dancers who’ll be playing our Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake, her expression focused.

The music starts.

She starts to move.

And holy shit.

Her movements are unreal.

Dove’s technique is flawless, graceful in a way that makes your jaw drop. Every movement is elegant and controlled, every expression perfectly matched to the character.

Between Brooklyn and me, Naomi groans. “Fuck,” she whispers. “She’s incredible.”

Brooklyn smiles comfortingly, wrapping an arm around Naomi’s shoulders.

On my other side, Milena leans in close, her voice quiet enough that only I can hear.

“You need to be smart about this.”

I glance at her, frowning. “About what?”

She doesn’t look at me: her gaze is still locked on Dove. “About this marriage. Like, you don’t have to be a pawn.”

A cold prickle ripples down my spine. “I’m not a pawn.”

She tilts her head slightly, considering. “Good. Don’t let yourself become one.”

I press my lips together. “He doesn’t—” I stop myself. Doesn’t what? See me as a piece to be moved? Expect me to obey? I don’t even know if I believe that myself.

Milena doesn’t push, but she doesn’t let me off the hook either. “You’re married to a man who makes the world bend to his will. That’s not going to change just because you wear his ring.” She watches me, waiting. “Don’t bend. Not for him. Not for anyone.”

Something in my chest tightens.

Milena glances back to the stage. “The mafia world will eat you alive if you let it. The only way to survive is to know when to play along and when to push back.” She exhales slowly. “Trust me. You know this world, but…and I say this with love…it’s different when you were born into it like I was. You don’t strike me as the type who likes being told what to do, is all.”

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. “No.”

“Good.” She nods. “Make sure he knows that.”

I don’t respond. I don’t know how to. Because the truth is, I don’t know if I have the ability to push back at all.

We both return to watching Dove absolutely killing it on stage. And suddenly…

I feel watched.

It’s a slow, creeping sensation, crawling up the back of my neck. I scoot on my butt a little further stage left, my fingers tightening around my ankles as I sit on the floor, my eyes scanning the theater.

The house is dim beyond the stage lights, shadows stretching into the corners and swallowing up the velvet-draped walls. I glance at my friends, but they’re focused on Dove, watching wide-eyed, whispering about her flawless technique. None of them seems to notice anything out of place.

But I know someone’s watching me.

My pulse races. Slowly, carefully, I let my gaze drift upward, past the empty orchestra pit, past the velvet chairs, and up to the private boxes.

At first, there’s nothing. Just darkness. Then, in the corner of my vision, movement. A presence.

There.

Box Five.

For a single, heart-stopping moment, I see him. A figure in the shadows. Tall. Still. Watching.

Masked.

And instantly my heart lurches into my throat when I find myself staring into the dark, black, emotionless eyes of The Hound.

My pulse skips.

Then he’s gone.

I blink rapidly, my stomach twisting. The box is definitely empty now.

But I know—know—he was there.

A shiver rolls down my spine. He left no trace, no lingering sound, no confirmation of his presence. But I can feel it. Feel him, like always.

A sick realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

My father watched from the shadows, too.

I can still remember the way he fixed on people before they realized he was there—lingering in doorways, blending into the background, making himself invisible until it was too late. His gaze was always sharp, assessing, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It’s horrifying to think back on it now, but before I knew what he was, my father used to turn it into a game. He’d be somewhere with me—park, playground, the mall—and I’d find him pausing and just…looking at someone. Studying them, his body perfectly still.

Sometimes I’d ask him what he was doing, and he’d tell me we were playing a game.

“Don’t let them see you, Lyra,” he’d murmur, bending to point someone out to me. “Follow their eyes. See where they’re going to look before they even realize they’re going to look there themselves.”

“Why are we playing this game?”

“Because when you watch someone you get to know them better than they know themselves, Lyra.”

Carmine watches, too.

He doesn’t lurk hidden. But he watches, and when Carmine watches, it’s with purpose. Like he’s claiming something, branding it for his gaze alone.

And I allow it.

God help me, I want him to.

My hands clench into fists around my shins. Am I seeking out a man like my father?

The venomous, toxic thought burns like acid in my throat, nauseating me. There’s no denying the commonality: the darkness. The power. The way they both exist just beyond the edges of light, out of reach.

But Carmine’s darkness is different—isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, forcing myself to sort through the tangled mess of thoughts clawing through my mind.

My father watched to control. To manipulate. To hurt.

Carmine watches because he desires.

Is that better? Worse?

Or exactly the same?

A terrifying thought presses against the back of my skull, its weight suffocating.

It isn’t just that I’m drawn to Carmine’s darkness.

It’s that I want it.

He sees a part of me I’ve spent years pretending wasn’t there—raw and hungry, answering his.

Was it always there, hidden behind the walls I built in the hopes they would keep me safe? Or is he the one pulling it out of me?

The worst part…

I don’t know if I want him to stop.

The pas de deux finishes, and everyone starts to clap. But all I see is darkness beyond the lights. All I feel is the weight of unseen eyes.

Carmine’s presence lingers like smoke, curling into the crevices of my mind, impossible to ignore.

Maybe he was never actually here at all.

But deep down, I know he was.

And he’ll always be watching.