Chapter 3: Corrupted Heart: Chapter 3

Tragically, no murderous psychos stop me between my apartment and practice.

The fact that I begin that thought with “tragically” is probably grounds for immediately checking myself into a psychiatric ward.

But I can’t help it. Mostly because as terrified as I was last night when I looked up into that bleak neon mask of malice, it was a different kind of fear. True fear is awful. I’ve felt that before. It’s what I felt when those two men slammed me to the ground with every indication that they were going to hurt me. It was a numb, eviscerating fear that felt like being stabbed.

But the “fear” I felt looking up into that neon mask was more like terror mixed with…excitement. It was the sort of anticipatory fear you get right before the rollercoaster gives in to gravity and gets yanked down that first drop. The fear that you get watching a great horror movie, waiting for the jump-scare.

That’s the sort of fear my masked defender injected into my veins last night. Terror, yes. But a thrilling, exciting, electrifying sort of terror. A…can I say it…good kind of terror?

“Quick quick, Bianca!”

I jolt out of my thoughts when I hear the cold, staccato sharpness of the Russian-accented voice.

My creepy masked stranger might be a thrilling sort of fear. But the wrath of Madame Kuzmina when you’re this close to being late for class or rehearsal is the true definition of scary.

“Izvini, Madame,” I blurt.

Her mouth turns up just a hint at the corners. I’ve also known her long enough to spot the amusement in her eyes.

“Using one of the, what, five words you know in Russian will not make you any less late to being in position at that barre in three minutes, Miss Sartorre.”

I flash a weak smile.

“But nice effort,” she smirks. “Now get moving. Alicia was an hour early today.”

I ignore the obvious barb. Madame Kuzmina is old-school Russian, and she’s definitely not above pitting us dancers against each other in the name of “inspiring greatness”.

“I’ll be right there,” I blurt with a smile.

I grab my stuff out of my locker, stripping down and pull on my tights and leotard in record time. I’m sitting on the dressing room bench putting on my ballet shoes when the door bursts open. I startle, ripping my gaze up just in time to see a terrified-looking Alicia come barreling inside.

“Oh my God, Bianca!” she gushes, her voice laden with surprisingly genuine concern. “I am so fucking sorry⁠—”

“For leaving me?” I snap, bristling a little.

Alicia winces. She might be a bit of a bitch sometimes. But she’s not a psychopath.

“Bianca, I’m seriously so fucking sorry. We both thought you were right behind us! And we were so scared when we got into the car, we didn’t even notice you weren’t in the back seat for like two blocks!”

I flinch as Alicia suddenly hugs me tightly. Okay, her tact could use some work. I’m not sure “we didn’t realize we’d fucked you over because we didn’t even know you weren’t there” is much of an apology. But it’s clear she feels terrible about it.

“It’s okay. I got away,” I mumble, a shiver ripping its way up my spine. “There was a police siren in the distance, and when the two of them bolted, I ran the other way.”

She pulls back, her hands on my shoulders and a stricken look on her face. “I seriously can’t say sorry enough times. I feel fucking awful!”

I incline my head as nonchalantly as I can. “Well, it’s over. And I’m not dead.”

She flashes another weak smile. “Thank God.”

I nod, looking away as heated flashbacks of my vicious and X-rated dreams from last night tease through my thoughts.

Huge hands. Massive, broad shoulders. Blackness like the mouth of Hell calling to me from behind the leering neon.

“We should get out there.”

I pull away from Alicia and turn to head out.

“Bianca…”

Midway through pinning my hair up into a bun, I turn. My brow furrows at the whiteness of her face and the sheer panic in her eyes.

“The duffle bag…”

I swallow, my bottom lip retreating between my teeth. I shake my head.

“I—I’m sorry, Alicia. They got it.”

Her face turns ashen and green around the edges, as if she’s going to throw up.

“Y-you don’t have it?” she croaks in a squeaky, terrified tone.

I shake my head again.

“Fuck me,” she blurts, turning as her throat bobs. “Oh fuck…”

“TIME!”

The barked word from Comrade Kuzmina outside the dressing room makes us both jump.

“I—I’m really sorry, Alicia,” I mumble again. “Look, I’m sure if you talked to Grisha⁠—”

“I am so fucked,” she mutters coldly, brushing past me and yanking the door open. She pauses, twisting to catch my frightened eyes with her downright terrified ones. “And so are you.”

For a professional dancer, classes and rehearsals take up your whole day. After morning class, the company today breaks into four subgroups, each working on a different piece for our upcoming performance in a few months. After lunch, I join Milena, Naomi, and Miguel, a super-talented new-to-the-company male dancer from Barcelona for an hour of strength and stretch, then it’s right back into rehearsing the various pieces until all I know is the count of a metronome, the bark of Madame Kuzmina’s voice, and the thud of my pulse as my muscles carry me through the steps.

Yes, it’s grueling, and there’s never a morning that you wake up and something isn’t hurting, whether it’s an old injury that you tweaked yesterday or something freshly wrenched.

But I fucking love this. Always have. And it takes so much concentration and focus that it even manages to take my mind off everything I’ve seen and every fear I’ve felt over the last twenty-four hours.

“Hungry?” Milena towels off her long blonde hair next to me, completely unfazed by her post-shower nudity. I mean, I wouldn’t be either, if I looked like her. We all have to be in insane shape to be dancing at this level. But my Russian friend was also blessed with runway model legs, and what little body fat she has is in all the right places.

“Naomi and I were talking about going for a bite at that new dumpling place she was talking about.”

My stomach gurgles enthusiastically. I’m actually starving.

“I mean, after you shower and change at home.”

My two friends are part of the very small group who knows why I don’t shower at the theater itself at the end of the day.

I’m torn. I do want to go out with them. But instantly, I start replaying the parts of last night I’ve forced out of my head. Not the exciting thrilling parts involving the masked giant who smelled like clean spice, whose big hand brushed my stomach through my hoodie and who dragged a thick finger up my sternum before his hand wrapped sensually around my throat.

No, what flickers into the forefront of my head is all the other parts of last night. The naked terror of those two men throwing me to the ground. Of them pinning me there and reaching for their belts…

I remember Dante’s warning from earlier about not going out at night. It’d be nice to say I’m being ridiculous. But last night did happen.

“I can’t,” I sigh, lying to my friend. “I’ve got a family thing.”

She shrugs. “No prob. I get it.”

“Next time, for sure.”

Next time, when the memories of last night aren’t fresh scars on my psyche…

I change into leggings and a hoodie, hoist my enormous bag over my shoulder, and step out of the back of the theater to go find a taxi.

But the second the stage door shuts behind me, I’m gasping in cold fear as a brutal hand wraps around my wrist and yanks me into the darkness. The breath is slammed out of my body as I’m shoved hard into a brick wall.

“Where the fuck is my money, bitch?!”

The scream dies in my throat as my gaze drags up into the snarling face of Grisha Lenkov.

Alicia’s boyfriend and Irina’s cousin is a perpetually scowling, built guy with blond hair and a sharp jaw. He’d almost be pretty in a weirdly masculine way if it wasn’t for the pure malice always smoldering in his eyes, not to mention the general creepy vibe that emanates from him.

And tonight, it’s a lot more than just creepy. Right now, his face is a mask of livid rage.

“Grisha—” I choke out.

I don’t respect Grisha Lenkov. But I do fear him, despite my family being who they are. Grisha’s a lieutenant with the Chernoff Bratva, known for their particularly brutal tactics and involvement in vile activities that most other criminal empires in this city won’t touch.

I gasp as he grabs a handful of my hoodie in his fist and leers down into my face with a snarl. “My money, shlyukha,” he spits, with all the arrogance of a man who doesn’t even care that he’s just called Vito Barone’s daughter a whore to her face. “Where the fuck is it?”

I whimper, shaking my head. “I—I don’t have any money!”

“Then where the fuck is the coke?!” he snarls coldly.

I wither under his glare.

“I—Grisha…”

“You’ve got three seconds to make me happy, Bianca,” he mutters. “Or else you can make me happy with your fucking mouth, on your knees.”

I swallow back the bile that rises in my throat.

“Th-the guys…”

“Sp-sp-spit it out!” he snaps.

“They took it!” I lie. “Grisha, the men who met us tried to attack us⁠—”

“And I should give a fuck why?”

I stare at him. “Alicia was there too, you know. They could have hurt⁠—”

“All I’m hearing is a bunch of bullshit, when all I want to know is where the actual fuck my four hundred grand in coke went.”

My heart drops through the floor.

What. The. Fuck.

Grisha immediately latches onto the horrified look on my face. His lips curl into a sneer as he slams me back against the brick wall.

“You heard me, cunt,” he hisses. “Where the fuck is it?!”

“They took it!” I blurt. “They chased me away and took⁠—”

“Bullshit.”

“Grisha, I swear to God⁠—”

My words falter. My whole body seizes up as Grisha suddenly grabs me between the legs. His hand cups my sex roughly through my leggings, almost making me vomit as my whole being curls in on itself in shame and terror.

“Grisha, please…”

“Oh, you’ll say fucking please, bitch,” he hisses darkly. “Because here’s how this is going to go down. You either get me back that cocaine, or the money it’s worth, fast, or I’ll take it out of your ass with my dick.”

Sick rises from my stomach as his hand rubs between my thighs, making me want to shatter into glass shards.

Suddenly, digging deep, I find the strength to fight him off. I grit my teeth, grabbing his wrist and shoving his hand away. In one motion, I manage to slip out from between him and the wall, quickly backing away from him.

“You will never fucking touch me like that again,” I spit venomously. “When my father⁠—”

“What? Hears what a little whore you are? Hears about you going on drug deals? What then, Bianca?”

I swallow. “When he hears about you putting your hands on me. He’ll⁠—”

“He won’t do shit,” Grisha snarls. “Meanwhile, my boss?” He grins. “Mr. Chernoff threw a motherfucker out of a thirty-story window last week just for beating him at poker. And your wop father knows it. He won’t do shit to Chernoff, or me.” His lips curl dangerously. “But I bet he’ll do something when he hears about his little princess muling four hundred thousand in coke.”

I stiffen as Grisha flips open a switchblade. His teeth flash maliciously in the darkness.

“Get me that fucking money, Bianca. I mean it.”

“Hey!”

Tempest looks up at me in surprise from the kitchen island. She immediately closes the laptop in front of her and slips off her stool to walk over to me.

I make a face. “I should have called first. Sorry.”

My sister-in-law grins as she hugs me and then shakes her head. “Dude, never. Our house is your house.”

It’s happened much less frequently since she and my brother got together. But I do on occasion spend the night here at their place after a long day of rehearsals instead of slogging all the way back to mine. It’s a lot closer to the Mercury Opera House, and there’s a spare guest room with its own bathroom here, too.

But I’m not stopping by tonight because I’m too worn out to schlep all the way uptown.

I’m stopping by because I’m scared.

I hate admitting it, but Grisha’s just spooked the living shit out of me with his threats. Not to mention the nauseating way he just put his hands on me. I feel myself shudder again, trying to force away the memory of his hand rubbing me.

The worst part is, he’s right. What am I going to do? Tell Vito?

Hi Dad, this guy was a disgusting creep to me after I went on a drug deal for him and lost four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine.

Yeah, no.

I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about any of this. But I do know it’s not going to involve telling Vito Barone.

Tempest shrugs. “Are you hungry? I was about to make dinner.”

“Really?”

She smirks. “By ‘make’ I mean order dinner from someone who can cook way better than I can. You know how low that bar is.”

I grin as my stomach rumbles again. “That sounds great, actually. Mind if I rinse off first?”

“Go ahead! Does sushi work? I’ll put in the order.”

“Perfect.”

Tempest opens her phone and starts placing the delivery order. Meanwhile, I head to their guest room, close the door, and walk into the bathroom. I strip down as the tub fills with bubbles and hot water, then lower my aching body into it. I scrub myself quickly, flinching as I wash my face with a cloth. When I scrub between my legs, I grit my teeth, forcing away the memory of Grisha feeling me up.

After that, I step out and do my usual routine: towel folded under my knees as I kneel next to the tub, the water running as I brace myself and lean forward. I wet my hair, then sit upright again as I shampoo. Then it’s back to leaning over to rinse. I repeat the whole thing for the conditioner before turning the water off and wrapping a towel around my hair before I stand up.

Someday, I’ll be able to submerge my head in water again without having a total meltdown. But that day is not today.

I dress in the pajamas that I keep at their place, then head out to join Tempest for sushi and trashy reality TV. Dante’s working late at Venom tonight, so after she hugs me goodnight and disappears into their room, I camp out in the living room for a while, thoroughly creeping myself out reading about Rachel Dawson getting hacked to pieces in her own bed.

Because I’m a freak like that.

Eventually, though, my eyes start to tire. I put my tablet down and sink back into the couch. My eyes drift closed, and I start to replay it all again.

Last night, and him.

The massive wall of a man, dripping with power, pulsing with darkness and danger.

The pressure of his strong hand around my throat

The touch of his finger as it dragged up my sternum.

The scent of him.

His size.

And the glow of that creepy mask leering down into my soul.

Goddammit.

The longer I replay it all and think of him, the more turned on I start to get. Black visions and brutal fantasies fill my head. Fantasies I know I shouldn’t have leave electrifying throbs sizzling through my core.

The desire to run, and to be chased. The need to be caught and pinned down against my will. To be taken, roughly.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Bianca? What sort of messed-up girl wants that? You need fucking help. You’re broken.

Words from years ago feel like fresh slaps as they echo in my head, reminding me that what I desire—what I crave sometimes—doesn’t “fit” with the world I live in.

That those thoughts don’t belong in my head.

Shaking my head, I yawn as the fatigue of the day settles through my limbs.

I should sleep.

In the kitchen, I grab a glass of water to bring with me to bed. Slowly, my gaze wanders and then lands on the laptop sitting on the far end of the kitchen island.

Not Tempest’s.

Dante’s.

I’m hovering over it before I know what I’m doing. I lift it open, my pulse thudding as my eyes drop to the keyboard.

This is wrong, but I start typing anyway.

“Venom” doesn’t work to unlock it. Neither does “Club Venom”, “kink”, “Kink” with a capital K, or either of our parent’s names. I wince when I try “Claudia”, Dante’s and my older sister who died when she was a teenager.

Nope.

Then, it hits me like the most obvious neon sign in the world.

“Tempest”.

Yep, that does it.

Top-notch security, bro.

Breaking into Dante’s laptop is a horrible idea. It’s not just morally wrong in terms of breaking his trust, either. Instantly, I realize I have free access to the members list and member profiles for all of Venom, which could earn some major ransom money in the hands of the wrong people.

But I’m not here to blackmail people or ruin any reputations.

I’m here because a man in a mask last night poured gasoline on the little wicked fire inside of me. Now, it’s a raging inferno.

…And Dante’s computer has the only water that will douse it.

Obviously, I’ve thought about acting out my fantasies before. I know now that it would have to be anonymously, or at the very least with a stranger I’ll never see again.

People you know can’t be trusted with something like this, as ironic as that sounds from a safety perspective. I made the mistake of finally blurting out my dark fantasies to Tim when we were dating.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Bianca? What sort of messed-up girl wants that?

You’re broken.

That was the beginning of the end of Tim and me. And then…well, what was truly the end. After that, I realized you really can’t tell some things to just anyone.

Club Venom would obviously be more than ideal for assuaging my curiosity. But there’s the small problem that my brother runs the place, not to mention its security and an iron-clad vetting process.

You can’t fake your way into Venom—trust me, I’ve tried. Yes, you wear masks. But the wristband each guest wears—the one signifying their kink and whether they’re a sub or a Dom—is linked directly to that member. They can even be scanned by security to ID someone. And his entire security team obviously knows who I am.

Even if I somehow got around all that, I’d never be able to actually relax enough to explore my fantasy. I’d be too freaked out that I’d be recognized.

But that conversation this morning in Vito’s kitchen has the gears whirling in my head.

The club itself is out. But not necessarily its new website portal.

Swallowing and intermittently glancing over my shoulder, I navigate through Dante’s private files until I find the dashboard for Club Venom’s new “off-site” connection portal, which links like-minded individuals who crave a specific sort of play that at times needs more space—and more realism—than Club Venom can offer.

Primal kink, specifically.

I’m not sure how I feel about the term “rape kink”, even though that’s basically what it is. The desire to be chased and caught. To be roughly manhandled, and “forced” into things. “Consensual non-consent” is the more polite way of putting it.

Things that Bianca Sartorre, good-girl ballet dancer and mafia princess, shouldn’t even know about, let alone want” is yet another way of phrasing it.

But here we are.

My nerves jangling, I find the admin dashboard and navigate to the members list. Guilt and the realization that I’d be mortified if someone else was doing this and I was on the list suddenly grips me. I quickly resize the window so that I can’t see the “names” column of the member list to make myself feel a little better. Then I scroll to the bottom where there’s a button labeled “add/import new member.”

Heat blooms in my core. My pulse throbs heavily in my veins as I click the button. I’m taken to another screen and instantly my adrenaline jumps.

There are fields to input basic data: name, contact number, email, that sort of thing. Very quickly, my eyes land on the last question at the bottom of the form:

“Individual is existing Club Venom member”. Next to it, there’s just a simple yes or no toggle.

This is a terrible idea. You shouldn’t be doing this.

I do it anyway.

Name: Rachel Dawson.

What? The book about her murder is riveting.

Using my phone, I download a burner phone app and use that to get a new number to put in the phone field. I create a new email account, also via my phone, and use that for the next required field.

Then, my finger drags the cursor to the yes/no toggle, and my breath holds.

“Individual is existing Club Venom member: yes.”

Before I lose my nerve, I quickly scroll to the bottom of the page and click the submit button. Part of me suddenly panics, wondering what comes next. Do I have to provide a membership number? Does Dante manually review the list for his new primal kink portal? What happens if he recognizes the name is bullshit? What the fuck was I thinking, using the name of a murdered girl who he knows I’ve been reading about to⁠—

My phone dings. Jolting, I glance down.

Oh shit.

It’s an email in my new fake account from Club Venom. Shaking, I tap on it, opening the email as my pulse quickens. An all-black page greets me, with just four words in gold that both terrify and electrify me:

Welcome to the chase.

Beneath it, there’s a link to the online login page. Still shaking, I navigate there and fill out the required fields for creating a password and selecting a username.

What the fuck is wrong with you, Bianca? You’re broken.

Hmm.

I start to type in “BrokenDancer” as a username, but that hits too close to home. I backspace and go with “BrokenBee” instead.

Then I click submit.

I half expect an explosion to go off. Or an alarm, alerting Dante to my intrusion. But all I get is the quiet ding of another new email.

Thank you for submitting your information, Ms. Dawson. You may use the portal to add in any specific preferences for a potential partner. Or you can choose to be surprised.

I want the surprise. Selecting attributes feels like it takes away from the thrill of a stranger doing…well, what I want them to do.

You will be able to chat with any prospective partners via the portal chat function. We highly encourage members to communicate exclusively through the portal. Exchanging numbers or moving to other chat platforms potentially takes away from the anonymity that we encourage at Club Venom. Please always remember to go over hard and soft limits, desires, and other particulars with your partner before meeting.

We will connect you with a suitable partner as soon as possible.

Heat pools between my thighs.

I’m really doing this. This is really happening.

I exit from the portal dashboard on Dante’s computer and make sure to cover any other evidence of my crimes. I slowly close the cover, then bolt to the guest room, brush my teeth, and slip under the covers.

The chase is on.