Craving Dahlia

Dahlia

“How was the trip to D.C.?” Genevieve takes a sip of her drink, tucking one leg under her.

I wrinkle my nose. “The usual. Actually—not the usual. Not entirely.”

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow. “Spill. I need some gossip after the day I’ve had.”

I let out a slow breath. I got back into town this morning, and I still don’t know how to come to terms with what my father threw at me when I went ‘home’ this past weekend. “He wants me to get married,” I blurt out, and Genevieve’s eyebrows rise even higher.

“In like…the way all parents want their kids to settle down and get married, so they can have grandbabies, or…”

“Or,” I confirm. “He has someone in mind. The son of some other politician with really good connections and lots of money. He’s looking at it like an old-world alliance. The kids get married, the families join forces, his political career gets a fresh boost. He sees absolutely no flaw in that plan.”

“And I take it you see a lot of flaws.”

I nod. “There’s a lot of people coming in and out of D.C. from other places, but I actually grew up with this guy. We went to the same private school. He went to Georgetown for college like he was supposed to, and I ran off to Columbia. My dad is trying to pitch it to me as some kind of childhood romance comes to life. Like I should be starry-eyed and falling all over myself at the idea of coming back home and marrying this guy.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Genevieve asks curiously. “I mean—other than the part where you’re obviously not in love with him, and this is some kind of weird cousin to an arranged marriage.”

I shrug. “He’s boring. Attractive enough, I guess, but in that very clean-cut, stock photo kind of way. He looks like a carbon copy of every other guy in D.C.. There’s nothing unique or interesting about him, and I can’t help but tune out as soon as he starts talking. But his family is the model of what my dad wants everyone else to view our family as—that real Norman Rockwell, all-American thing. He thinks that it’ll be good for our ‘public image’.”

“You said he has money.” Genevieve considers for a moment. “But so do you. And I assume you’d have to move back there. My feelings about that aside—because of course I don’t want you to move away—you’d have to give up your job at the Met. I mean, I’m sure you could get a job at the Smithsonian, but you shouldn’t have to switch jobs over a man. I don’t think you want to move back to D.C., do you?”

I shake my head emphatically. “I don’t. And even with the strings my dad could pull, getting a museum job, especially as a curator, isn’t easy. I’m not guaranteed one. And I can very easily see him and Jude—the guy he wants me to marry—telling me to just be patient, wait for a position to open up, and all the while they’ll be angling for me to get pregnant, stay home, and play housewife.” 

Genevieve wrinkles her nose. “So tell him no.”

“I wanted to,” I admit, picking at a cuticle as I look down. “But the thing is…my dad not-so-subtly hinted that if I don’t do this, he’s going to cut me off. The money he sends me every month to help supplement my salary—that’s going to dry up if I don’t agree.” I give Genevieve a wry smile, taking a sip of my drink. “A curator’s salary in NYC definitely isn’t what I’m used to. I mean, I could manage, but it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.”

I’m aware that makes me sound slightly spoiled. But I know Genevieve won’t judge me—after all, she’s dating a man purely for the zeroes in his bank account and his luxury Amex card. And while I know I’d be fine if I had to scale down, I like the little bit of luxury that extra money affords me. I know my father has it in spades to spare, and I don’t feel like I should have to marry this guy to keep it.

As far as I’m concerned, this is just me getting my inheritance while I’m young enough to enjoy it. I’d rather that than suddenly getting a few million when I’m fifty. 

“You could move in with me, if you wanted,” Genevieve says with a smile. “I wouldn’t mind a roommate. But I know you love your apartment. And I don’t think it’s right that your father is trying to strong-arm you into this.”

“I don’t, either,” I admit. “But it’s not just the money. Yeah, being cut off would really suck. Hell, if he’s mad enough, he might cut me out of the will too, although I don’t really think he’d go that far. But—” I bite my lower lip. “My family isn’t the warmest bunch. They’re stiff, and overly formal, and I’m glad I don’t live right there next to them. But I do care about them. My mom always tried to give me a good childhood growing up, and my father does love me, even if he’s not great at showing it. He wouldn’t take care of me financially if he didn’t. I don’t want to disappoint him.” I take another sip of my drink. “I just wish that he wasn’t asking me to marry someone I barely know any longer and don’t really care about in order to not disappoint him.”’

Genevieve makes a small humming sound under her breath. “That’s a hard spot to be in,” she agrees. “I’m sure he’s not going to be easily talked out of it, if he’s trying this hard to get you to say yes.”

“He’s trying very hard. When I wasn’t very open to the idea, he hinted that if I wanted to continue to be a part of the family, I would do this. I don’t want to be cut off from my family entirely, even less than I want to lose the money.” I lean back, feeling heat prick at the corners of my eyes. Just the thought of not being able to go home at all makes me want to cry. “Honestly, it hurts that he would put me in this position. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“It’s really shitty.” Genevieve looks at me sympathetically. “I don’t know if I have any advice. In your position, I might just go along with it. But I don’t know. If I had to give up ballet, or go to a different corps because of the marriage? I would probably fight it. Your job is here. Your life, your friends—it’s not reasonable for him to ask you to give it all up, for his aspirations.”

“That’s not how he sees it.”

Genevieve plucks my empty glass out of my hand. “I’ll go get us another round,” she says decisively. “I’ll be right back.”

She stands up in one smooth, elegant motion that gives away her long years as a dancer to anyone watching—and a quick sweep of the room as she walks away tells me that just about everyone else up here is watching. Genevieve inevitably draws eyes wherever she goes. 

Except for one man. I notice him precisely because he isn’t looking at her. He’s sitting far back in the room, in a large leather armchair, in a corner shadowed by the firelight. There’s a glass in his hand, cut crystal filled with an inch of amber liquid, and he swirls it aimlessly, his gaze drifting off into the room without really looking at anything.

I notice him because of how detached he is, but I keep staring at him because of how unbelievably gorgeous he is. There’s plenty of attractive people here, but he stands out, in part because he seems to not quite fit in.

There’s a more rugged air to him than any other man here has. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, and he’s wearing dark jeans—I honestly don’t know how he got in here wearing them. They look nice, but there’s a dress code, and jeans aren’t on it. He has on a soft-looking black sweater under a leather jacket, and his hands are covered in tattoos, all the way up his fingers. I think I can see them on his neck, too, although I can’t be sure in the low light.

I can’t see his eye color, either, although his hair seems to be a sandy blond, made darker by that same lighting. And he looks fit. I can only imagine what his body must look like under those clothes.

I can’t help but imagine it. A rush of heat goes through me as I study him, my thighs subconsciously squeezing together. He’s inordinately handsome, but there’s something more to it, too. There’s an air about him, something that makes me shiver, tingles of desire running across my skin just from looking at him. Like I can feel the sparks, even from the other side of the room.

I’d been on the verge of telling Genevieve that maybe I should just agree to marry Jude. It’s not like my own dating life has been going all that well. I had one serious relationship in college that lasted eight months, before I got bored and decided that the guy I lost my virginity to wasn’t the one I wanted to be with forever. I wanted to get out there and try new things, and I did.

My taste in men is partially to blame. I like artists, musicians, men with an edge. The types of men that typically don’t settle down all that easily. My dating life ever since that first relationship has been a long string of one-night-stands and flings, peppered with a few men that stuck around for a couple months at a time. 

I don’t think this guy would be any different. But with my father’s demands that I marry the J. Crew catalog cutout waiting for me back home, I can’t help but find the possibility of what could happen if I went and talked to him even more tempting. A last hurrah, maybe, before I give in to what my family wants. Men have been disappointing in terms of romance for as long as I’ve been dating, and a small part of my mind has been whispering since my father proposed the idea that maybe marrying Jude is the best option. That maybe holding out for some passionate, fairy-tale romance is foolish when I could have the stability of a good name, money, and my family’s support behind me.

Who knows. Maybe Jude would agree to live part of the year in New York, when Congress is out of session or whatever. Or maybe we could be one of those couples who live separately. I very much doubt he’s any more enthralled with the idea of marrying me than I am him. 

The click of Genevieve’s heels jolts me out of staring, and my cheeks heat as I realize that at any moment, the man could have looked over and caught me. But he didn’t—too lost in his own thoughts, I suppose. Whatever it is that has him brooding in the dark corner, over a glass of what looks like whiskey. 

Genevieve clocks me staring immediately, though, and twists around as she hands me my glass, following the direction of my gaze. She whistles under her breath as she sees the man, sinking back down onto the couch next to me.

“Merde. Look at him.” She swears lightly under her breath in French, and it makes me giggle, because Genevieve almost never speaks French. Her accent is light, but it thickens just a bit, and I press my fingers to my lips to hide my laugh.

“Right? He’s gorgeous.” There’s a hint of wistfulness to my voice as I look over at him again, and Genevieve grins.

“Go talk to him.”

“What? I shouldn’t.” I bite my lip, looking again. He’s still staring off into the distance, periodically swirling that whiskey around his glass. “Should I?”

“I think you should,” Genevieve says decisively. “Especially if you’re considering going along with this marriage that your father is trying to set up for you for even a second. Who knows how many flings with gorgeous men that you find sitting in corners are left in your life?” She shrugs dramatically. “You could be run over by a taxi when we leave. This is New York, after all. They never look where they’re going. Even if you don’t get married, you shouldn’t pass up a chance to sleep with him.”

“You think he’d be interested?” I bite my lip again. I’m not unaware of my own attractiveness, but this man feels out of my league. The kind of gorgeous that belongs to movie stars and male models. 

Genevieve scoffs. “Please. Of course he would be. Look at you.” She waves a hand in my general direction. “Go talk to him.”

I still hesitate. “This is supposed to be our night out together. I can’t ditch you for a man…”

“I’d ditch you for him,” Genevieve assures me. “Go,” she adds, gently pushing at my shoulder. “If he doesn’t bite, I’ll be right here waiting. But for your sake, I hope he does.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively at me, and I suck in a breath, grasping my drink in one hand as I slowly stand up.

I can feel eyes on me as I walk to the other side of the room, my red-bottom stilettos putting a sway in my step whether I mean for there to be one or not. But the man I’m focused on doesn’t seem to notice my approach at all, not until I stop nearly in front of him.

“Is this seat taken?” I ask, nodding to a low, flat leather chair just to the side of where he’s sitting. And then, finally, he turns his gaze towards me, blinking as if he’s been pulled back from a long distance.

“No,” he says, after a beat passes. “No, it isn’t.”

“Mind if I join you?” I give him a slight smile, the habit of flirtation kicking in. I’ve done this plenty of times, the fact that this man is the most stunning example of masculinity I’ve ever come across shouldn’t change my confidence in my ability to flirt.

Although what does shake it, just a little, is the look on his face. His expression is almost blank—it’s not even disinterest. It’s as if he was off in another world, and he hasn’t entirely come back to this one. 

“Go ahead.” He lifts his glass to his lips, but his eyes linger on me as I sink down into the chair, the smooth leather brushing against my thighs just below the edge of my skirt. 

“What are you drinking?” It seems like an innocuous enough question, but he pauses again, blinking.

“Scotch,” he says finally. “Lagavulin. Twenty-five years.”

His voice is rough, with the rasp of a Russian accent. It startles me a little—I’m not sure why, exactly, it just isn’t what I expected. But when I glance down at his hands, I recognize one of the tattoos on the back. It’s the same tattoo that I’ve seen on Dimitri’s hand—my friend Evelyn’s husband. A Bratva tattoo.

Does he work for Dimitri? I’ve never seen him anywhere around the Yashkov mansion, or near Dimitri or Evelyn—although I definitely don’t know everyone who works for Dimitri. But I feel like that’s not a question I should ask. In fact, I’m fairly sure that I should pretend not to notice the tattoo at all. I don’t think the tattoos are specific to one particular family, but if this man is going to be a one-night-stand, it’s for the best that I just ignore the significance of it, I think.

And if I ever run into him again, we’ll just pretend we don’t know each other. I can’t pretend that I haven’t been a little envious of Evelyn, getting to have a Russian gangster in her bed every night. I don’t think I’d want it every night, but once or twice…

I did flirt quite a bit with her bodyguard, Gus, but he seemed fairly immune to my charms.

“What are you drinking?” He nods at my glass, and I’m jolted out of my thoughts, wondering if I’ve been sitting here in silence too long. If he noticed me staring at his tattoo. 

“Apple toddy.” I give him a wry smile. “It was on the themed drink list.”

“Ah, yes. This place does like their kitsch.” He looks around, and I stifle a laugh.

“This is an expensive place to call it kitsch.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I’m not sure the very large man at the door or the woman whose face doesn’t move would appreciate hearing you use that word to describe it.”

He shrugs, as if being in this sort of club is old news to him. As if he’s just as unimpressed as the hostess was. “Still, it leans hard into the theme, net? Old-world luxury. Taking us back in time.” He gestures around the room with his glass, his lips pressed together in a line that makes me wonder if he disapproves of it for some reason. He looks as if he might disapprove of quite a lot.

But the thought of hearing him say something in that accent to me as he strips my clothes off sends a rush of electricity down my spine, and my thighs inadvertently press together again. I swallow hard, lifting my drink to my lips again to mask it.

“Do you come here often?” I manage, mentally kicking myself as the world’s worst pick-up line comes out of my mouth. This man has completely undone my usual charisma. I’m good at this, normally—I’ve been backstage with the lead singers of bands and guys here for Fashion Week before. I’ve always been confident in my ability to walk into a party and take my pick of the available men.

But this man has me tied up in knots, and all I can think is that I wouldn’t mind him tying me up in reality, too.

His gaze shifts fully towards me, and for a minute I can feel heat creeping up my neck, wondering if he’s going to laugh at me, if he’s going to get up and leave. I wouldn’t blame him. But instead, he just looks at me, his hazel eyes meeting mine.

“No,” he says simply.

I know, because I’ve seen them, heard them. My father was one of those terrifying things.

If I can conquer that, I can conquer anything.

 I can feel my softly curled dark hair brushing against my shoulders, swinging back and forth, the scrape of the cheap lace of my lingerie against my skin. I let the music wash over me, calling back the old immersion techniques of my days in ballet.

Hear. Touch. Smell. Feel. Become.

I focus on the sound of the music, the slick surface of the pole beneath my hands, the feel of the cool metal against my body and the hard surface of the stage, and desperately try not to smell my surroundings. I’ve become mostly numb to the miasma of alcohol, sweat, perfume, and cologne that fills the room, but it’s still unpleasant.

I become something else. Someone else, someone I’ve never been.

I give myself over to the alter ego I’ve created, to Athena, and I dance.

The music fills me, twisting my body, spreading me open, turning me into a thing of lust and desire, created only to please the men surrounding the stage waving bills at me. I forget who I was, who I am, and focus on this.

The thing that might save me, if only because no one who knew me before would ever dream that I would be here, doing this.

That I would have fallen so far.

I spin down the pole, landing in a split on the stage. The crowd shouts approvingly as I push my ass up in the air, legs still spread as I bounce on the hard surface, my back arched deeply as I slide upwards, sinuous and graceful, onto my hands and knees. I grab the pole, throwing one leg out as I spin to my feet, and just as I rise up again, I see him.

A man in the very front row, directly in front of me. I freeze for a split second, startled.

He’s handsome. Gorgeously, inordinately so. 

So few men who come here are. They’re portly, unkempt, balding, unhygienic, or some combination of all of those, more often than not. But this man is none of those things.

He doesn’t look like the kind of man who would leave a letter like that under someone’s door.

But then again, he doesn’t look like he belongs here, either. He looks too clean, too polished, too expensive. Like the kind of man whose credit card doesn’t have a limit. The kind of man who drinks better liquor than even the best served at this place. 

The kind of man who would never set foot in a club like this without a reason.

Sandy blond hair falls into a sharp, chiseled masculine face, the faintest of stubble on his strong jaw. He’s wearing a black shirt open at the chest with the sleeves rolled up, showing muscled forearms covered in tattoos–including one of an eagle at his wrist. 

His eyes are ice blue–and they’re fixed on me with an intensity that none of the other customers here can claim. It sends another of those cold shivers down my spine, because the way he’s looking at me is more than attraction, more than lust, more than desire.

He’s looking at me as if he knows me.

As if he’s here for me, specifically.

Chapter Two

Mikhail

Years ago, Moscow felt like home.

No longer.

I glance at the cracked clock on my side table as I run my hand through my hair, looking in the mirror. The bar I’m going to isn’t the dingiest of places, so I don’t want to look like a slob, but I also don’t want to stand out too much. Once upon a time, the stark white-blond of my hair would have made me stand out anywhere, but I’ve long since given up the color it used to be. At least, since I’ve been in Moscow to hide instead of the reason I used to come here–to work for one of the most powerful Russian pakhans to ever lead a Bratva.

The Ussuri, the Bear.

Once my boss, now my enemy. My own personal Baba Yaga, the boogeyman that I’ve run from for a year now, trying to find the key to returning to his good graces.

To the life I used to live. 

I reach for my wallet, opening it to check that my cards and cash are still there. As I open the slim pocket, I see the edge of the picture I carry there, and I hesitate.

You could do with a reminder.

Slowly, I tug the picture out from its hiding place, unfolding the deeply creased edges. I open it up, holding it to the weak light, and feel my heart twist inside my chest.

The woman in it is young, beautiful, with a laughing smile and shining blue eyes, sitting cross-legged in the grass with her long platinum blonde hair thrown over one shoulder in a thick braid. In her lap is a child of three or four, with that same white-blonde hair, laughing blue eyes and a gap-toothed smile. She’s pointing at the camera, urging the child to look.

Just holding the picture in my hand, I can hear the laughter, feel the joy emanating from it. It’s a joy I haven’t felt in a long time, a sound I’ve nearly forgotten. I can feel the cracks of my heart start to bleed all over again as I look down at the woman and child, my other hand clenching into a fist at my side.

Viktor Andreyev isn’t the only reason you’re here. You’re here for your revenge, too. You’re here to make sure their blood doesn’t cry out for vengeance for all the rest of your days.

You’re here to make his family suffer the way yours has.

The clock ticks, reminding me that I have somewhere I need to be. Carefully, I refold the picture, sliding it back into my wallet.

Tonight, if I’m lucky, will yield another clue.

It’s raining out when I leave the apartment, so I hail a cab. I slide into the warm, musty space, trying not to breathe too deeply as I give the driver directions to the bar, leaning back against the seat as he pulls into traffic. If not for the contact I’m meeting tonight, I might not have gone out at all, but the prospect of a stiff drink sounds better and better the closer we get to my destination. 

Another man in my position might have hesitated to go out often at all, but it’s long been my belief that the best place to hide is in plain sight. As far as Viktor Andreyev knows, I’m likely dead, but nonetheless, I doubt he’d look for me here first. Moscow is the site of a hundred jobs I’d done for him, two hundred–more, even. We’d traveled here together, drank together, picked out women to fuck together–and then taken them back to our rooms separately. We’d killed together. For more years than I like to count, I’d been his trusted brigadier, his hand of violence.

His left hand, while Levin Volkov stood on the right.

I have no idea who his left is now. I don’t have the same contacts I used to, nor can I trust the same people. But I don’t fear Viktor Andreyev finding me in a Moscow bar.

Especially not this one.

I know the man I’m meant to meet by description. I see him as soon as I walk in and shake off the rain, sitting at a table far back, lit only by one dim lamp attached to the wall. Without hesitation, I stride through the crowd, walking towards him with purpose. He catches sight of me halfway, and I see his eyes widen slightly with fear, as if he didn’t entirely expect me to show up.

Fool.

I pause at the bar, mostly because I want a drink before I go any further, and somewhat to throw him off. I enjoy the look of confusion that flits across his face as he watches me, as I order a vodka, neat, from the bartender.

“Make it two, actually,” I tell the wiry-looking man, who shrugs and grabs a second glass. I enjoy keeping others on their toes, and I can guarantee that my contact isn’t expecting me to buy him a drink.

His main concern is likely whether or not he’ll end the night with my knife in his throat.

I haven’t entirely discounted the possibility.

“T-thank you,” the man stammers when I sit down, pushing one of the glasses of vodka towards him.

“Consider it an incentive to loosen your lips, beyond the payment I’ve promised you.” I lean closer, pitching my voice low. “What do you have for me? You said it was good, Yuri, don’t disappoint me.”

The man smiles, a toothy, half-rotten smile that makes me want to flinch back, but I don’t. “It’s about Konstantin Obelensky,” he says, the gleam in his eyes clearly saying he’s proud of himself. “Good stuff, da?”

A flush of cold rage washes through me as I sit back, stiff and angry. “Fuck your information,” I snarl, my voice still low. “What can you tell me that I don’t already know? Konstantin Obelensky is dead.”

There’s a number of rumors swirling around the city about how exactly that came to pass. One of them is that he’d had his bastard daughter–another rumor that no one is exactly sure of the truth about–locked up in his compound, before a rescue squad came in guns blazing and killed Obelensky. There’s other rumors, including ones that involve poison, mutiny, his legitimate daughter poisoning him, that same daughter shooting him, and a particularly disgusting one involving an affair with that daughter, which climaxes–no pun intended–with her stabbing him in the throat mid-coitus.

My suspicion is that none of them are true. One thing remains the same, however, throughout all the stories. His daughter, the legitimate one, played some part in it. 

Beyond the rumors, one thing is true beyond a shadow of a doubt–Obelensky is dead. 

And I’m fucking furious about it.

I’d wanted to be the one to kill him. Now, without that to lean on, I’ve been at a loss as to how to move forward–what to do next in my quest for revenge and redemption rolled into one.

Yuri had been meant to help me. Instead he’s given me nothing of value.

I consider the option of my knife in his throat, and the option of throwing the vodka I’d purchased him in his face, and weigh them as Yuri looks at me dumbly.

“This is good information,” he insists. “Listen.”

“I don’t want to hear about Obelensky,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “I know all I need to know about him. I asked you for new information.”

“This is,” Yuri insists, reaching into his pocket. “Look.”

He unfolds a photo, pushing it across the table towards me. It’s a poor copy of one, actually, but in color, so I can see more details of what’s in front of me. 

What’s in front of me, however, makes no fucking sense.

It’s a picture of a woman–a stunningly gorgeous one–in silver lingerie with her back against a stripper pole in the middle of a stage, her hands stretched above her head to grasp it. Her dark hair is wild around her face, her eyes wide as if with stunned pleasure, her back arched deeply, her lips parted. She’s a statue of lust, a work of lewd art cast in poorly taken photographic form, and the moment I see her I feel a deep bolt of arousal that I haven’t felt in some time.

My cock twitches in my jeans, hardening instantly at the sight of the dark-haired woman. I do my best to ignore it, although it’s difficult. I haven’t been with a woman in a while, too caught up in my search for information and my reticence to bring anyone back to my apartment–hardly the kind of place I’ve been accustomed to bringing dates in the past–and the perfect figure of the woman in front of me arouses every slumbering primal instinct I have all at once.

In fact, I can’t recall having been this turned on by anyone. Certainly not a grainy photo.

“Who the fuck is this?” I ask irritably. “I ask for information, and you bring me an ad for an escort?”

“A stripper, at a club in another part of town,” Yuri corrects me blandly. “And she’s Obelensky’s daughter.”

He lets that last bit of info land on the table like a mic drop, reaching for his vodka with the barest hint of a victorious smile. “I told you it was good information.”

I stare at him as if he’s lost his mind, which he absolutely fucking has. “That’s not fucking Konstantin Obelensky’s daughter,” I tell him flatly, laughing. “You’re out of your goddamned mind. Natalia Obelensky disappeared right after the break-in at Obelensky’s compound. Besides, that woman isn’t her.”

“It is,” Yuri insists. “I wouldn’t have brought it to you otherwise. Knowing your…temper.”

I shove the photo back towards him, grimacing irritably. “This isn’t her. Natalia Obelensky was a blonde, and notoriously vain. And even if she did decide to dye her hair and masquerade as someone else, she’d never set foot in a place like that.”

Yuri frowns. “Take a closer look,” he insists, pushing the picture back towards me. “Look. It’s her. My information is good, I’m sure of it.”

I lean forward, peering closer at it in the dim light, trying to keep an open mind. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter, but I try to see what someone else might have seen, if there could be a grain of truth. 

Natalia Obelensky is–or was–the only legitimate heiress to a massive Bratva fortune, the daughter of a vicious and powerful man, a woman who lived her life surrounded by luxury. A prima ballerina with multiple accolades, classically trained, beautiful and accomplished and desired.

The idea that she would so much as set foot in a club like the one I see in the picture at all is insane, let alone that she might dance at one.

But as I look closer, I can see a hint of possibility. Very slender, small-breasted, not your typical exotic dancer. Lithe, muscled legs, though that could be from the pole. Classic features, except for the dark hair. 

What stands out to me the most, though, is her bearing. I’ve been to many a strip club, from seedy to the most expensive and luxurious, the kind where only a thousand men hold exclusive memberships for themselves and a guest. In all that time, all those clubs, all those dancers, I’ve never seen a stripper with the kind of bearing this woman has. 

She looks like a goddess, a statue, poised and perfectly posed, her entire body holding the most graceful of movements in the instant the photo was taken. She looks like nothing I’ve ever seen.

She looks like a ballerina.

In that moment, a hint of doubt enters my mind.

I need to find out for myself.

I glance up at Yuri, narrowing my eyes. “Where was this taken?”

He grins, holding his glass of vodka towards me in a mock toast. “See! Yuri’s information is good, da?”

I grit my teeth. “The name of the club?”

“The Cat’s Meow. Kind of a shithole, to be honest. I was surprised a girl like that would work there. But then again, that makes sense, right? No one would expect to find her there.”

I don’t want to let Yuri know that I’d had similar thoughts. No sense in letting his ego get too big. “I’ll look into it.” 

I push his envelope of cash discreetly across the table, sweeping the photo off of it. Yuri pulls a distressed face as he watches me fold it up.

“Aww, no,” he complains, even as he reaches for the money. “I was going to take that with me.”

“I don’t want to know what you’d planned to do with it.” I tuck the photo away, and as I do, I think of another folded photo, another woman with lighter hair and a sweeter smile.

You’d better hope I don’t believe you’re Natalia Obelensky, whoever you are.

Because when I get my hands on her, Natalia Obelensky is fucking dead.