His Beautiful Ballerina

Chapter One
Ana

“You have practice again? Sofia, it’s Friday night. For fuck’s sake, live a little.”

I know she’s not going to listen to me. Sofia Ferretti is my best friend in the world—and my roommate—which is a combination that’s very hard to come by. Believe me, by this point, as we’re nearing our college graduation, I know. But when it comes to having fun—she can be a little hard to convince.

I glance over to see her gathering her hair up into a ponytail with one hand, digging around in a small pink basket on top of her dresser with the other as she looks for a hair tie. From the determined look on her face, I don’t think I’m going to be able to convince her to budge. Which is a shame.

“Just go out on your own,” Sofia says, glancing over at me as she secures her hair up high on her head. “You’re more likely to pick up a guy that way, anyway. And I know that’s what you really want to do. Just don’t be too loud when you come home, okay? I have—”

“Please don’t tell me you have practice again in the morning,” I groan. “Juilliard has one of the most demanding ballet programs in the country, and you don’t see me up at eight a.m. on a Saturday morning to go to practice!”

“That’s because you skip whenever you’re too hungover to go,” Sofia says reprovingly. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’re at the top of your class. And the end-of-semester showcase is coming up soon, too. You should be practicing.”

What she doesn’t say is what we both know, but Sofia is too good of a friend to rub it in. Part of the reason that I’m capable of holding my own even with my—shall we say, lackadaisical attitude towards attendance—is that the teachers feel sorry for me. They know I’m talented—and they also know I’m on two scholarships, merit and need-based, and that I’m an orphan. 

It’s not the saddest story I’ve ever heard. There are plenty of people who have sadder ones. But it’s tugged at the heartstrings of my instructors, and they tend to turn a blind eye when I show up late or miss practice. 

If my performance suffered, I’m sure they wouldn’t be as forgiving. But it never has. So I haven’t seen any reason to change what I’m doing. I just wish Sofia would take a page out of my book. She’s every bit as talented—and her father is a powerful man on top of it. No one would kick the daughter of Giovanni Ferretti, the consigliere to the most powerful mafia boss in New York, out of her program. Hell, her father’s boss, Vitto Rossi, probably pays for most of the school’s funding. I hear he likes to do things like that—contribute to things like the arts, museums, all of that, to make him seem like he’s just a man, and not a tyrant who rules with an iron fist.

Not that I know all that much about that life. Just rumors that Sofia tells me, things she’s heard around the dinner table when she visits home. I find it fascinating—and she wants as little to do with it as possible. 

“You need to get picked up by a guy more than I do,” I tease her. “I’m not the one who’s approaching her twenty-first birthday and still hasn’t gotten laid. You know your father isn’t going to sell you off to some mafia guy, so what are you waiting for? Please don’t say true love, or I might puke.”

Sofia rolls her eyes. “No, I’m waiting to have enough time to find someone who will actually make it good for me. Forgive me if I don’t want to lose my virginity to some frat boy who needs directions on where to put it in.”

“Do you know where to put it in?”

Sofia glares at me from across the room. I’m on her bed, casually propped up against the pillows as I swipe crimson nail polish over my nails, carefully making sure I don’t mess up the edges. “I own a dildo,” she says haughtily. “And a vibrator. Which is all the more reason that I’m willing to wait to find someone who knows how to use it, when I finally decide to encounter a real dick.”

“You make it sound like a deadly predator.” I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s just sex, Sofia. It’s going to suck the first time, no matter what.”

“You know you’re going to have to take that off before class on Monday,” Sofia says, changing the subject as she nods at my nail polish. “Your teachers are going to have a fit, otherwise.”

I roll my eyes at her, exasperated. Sofia is, in every way, wonderful. She’s sweet, genuine, a fantastic friend, and more than generous. I know her father pays for the pre-war building that we rent an apartment in. She never asks me for rent, just asks for me to chip in for things around the house—cleaning supplies, any shared groceries, things like that. It enables me to save far more of my scholarship money than I would ever have been able to otherwise, and I’ve often told her how appreciative I am of it. It means I don’t have to work part-time teaching classes, the way some other students do, or wait tables or bartending.

She should have a boyfriend. She should have guys lining up. Sofia is beautiful, though she’s always claiming she’s too short, too unexciting, too curvy. She compares herself to me—tall, willowy, blonde—but I’d kill to have her figure, her silky dark hair, her olive skin. She’s stunning, and I wish she saw herself the way I see her. 

Going out on a Friday night would be a good first step in that direction.

“I’ll take it off before class,” I tell her, a little exasperatedly. “But I’m not going out with bare nails, or worse, painted some frumpy pale pink.” I swipe the last bit of polish over my pinky nail, recap it, and then set it aside as I wave my hand in the air to dry it. 

“Come on, Sofia.” There’s a note of genuine pleading in my voice–I really want her to come with me. “We never go out. And it’s my birthday month.”

Sofia rolls her eyes, although not entirely unkindly. “You don’t get a whole month, Ana. No one does.” She walks across the room to where her violin is resting on its stand, picking it up gingerly and setting it in its case, laying the bow carefully next to it. “I’ll go out with you for your birthday, though. I promise.”

I sigh, frustrated, and pout at her, though I don’t have any confidence that it will work. I’ve already gotten ready for tonight, and my makeup is all done—a thin cat eye and red lipstick the same color as my nails. “I’d rather you go out with me tonight,” I tell her pleadingly. “Come on. You can borrow something out of my closet.”

“Nothing in your closet would fit me.” Sofia looks at my ballerina-thin figure pointedly. “There’s not a chance, and you know it.”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes at her. “You’re still thin,” I tell her. “Just because you have boobs doesn’t mean you can’t fit into anything I have. There’s one dress that I always wear a pushup bra to fill out—”

“Ana, no.” Sofia’s voice is firmer now, and I know I’m not going to win this argument. “I promised my group—”

Her phone goes off, chirping on the nightstand, and Sofia grabs for it before I can catch even a glimpse of the message preview. She reads it, and in the instant before she smooths her expression, I can see the hint of disappointment on her face.

It makes me feel bad, a little. Both because I know I shouldn’t push her to go out if she really doesn’t want to, and because I wish she did want to. It would be fun to help her get ready, go out on the town together, and let loose. I want to see what Sofia is like when she does just that.

“They canceled, didn’t they?” I look at her triumphantly, seizing the moment before she can pretend otherwise. “Now you have to go with me.”

I can see her trying to calculate a way out of it in her head. I can almost hear what she’s thinking. We’ve joked about it a hundred times—that Sofia was looking for a quiet, studious roommate who didn’t party, didn’t have boys over, and didn’t disturb her—which was the furthest thing from me that she could have possibly found.

I’ve always been extroverted, someone who loves to meet people, party, drink, dance. I’ve seen how unhappy and short life can be through my mother, and I don’t want that same fate. I don’t want to let a single second of any of it pass me by, if I can help it. And Sofia must have loved something about that energy because we became fast friends. 

I wave at her, trying to jolt her out of whatever calculations she’s trying to make. “Earth to Sofia. Come on, I know they canceled. Are you really just going to stay in tonight instead of going out with me and seeing the most eligible bachelors that Manhattan has to offer?”

Sofia glances at me, still clearly lost in thought. “I’m not interested in dating,” she tells me flatly. “You know that.”

“Well, you can be my wingwoman. Drinks are on me.” I jump off of the bed, linking my arm through hers. “Or we can just get roaring drunk together, stumble home, and watch dumb movies until we pass out. Honestly, either sounds good—but I still think you should try to get laid.”

I can feel her hesitating, reconsidering. “Okay,” she finally relents, and I can feel my own face light up as I clap my hands excitedly, thrilled that, against all odds, I actually got her to give in to my idea.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for ages,” I tell her eagerly as I pull her out of her room and towards mine. “We’ll dig through my closet, and I’ll find that dress for you. I’ll help you with your hair and makeup. It’ll be a blast. I know so many fun places to go—”

I know exactly the dress I want to put her in—a bustier style Gucci dress with lacing up the sides that shows peeks of bare skin through it and ample cleavage. Sofia will look incredible in it, even if I know she’ll be hesitant. 

When she comes out of the bathroom, I can already see the argument forming on her face. “If there’s a stiff wind outside, you’re going to be able to see my nipples. And you can see so much skin—” Sofia smooths her hands down the strips of lacing on either side, shifting as she looks down at how short the skirt is. “I really don’t know about this, Ana. Maybe I should just wear jeans or something. It’s so tight, and you can see my underwear lines.”

“So, wear a thong.” I look at her as if the answer is obvious—because it is. 

“I don’t own a thong,” Sofia says plaintively, and I believe her. In fact, I believe every pair of panties she owns is probably full-coverage. Which is a shame, because she has a fantastic ass, and someone should appreciate it.

“Don’t tell me I can borrow one of yours,” she warns, just as I open my mouth. “That’s going too far.”

“So go without,” I say automatically, shrugging, and Sofia turns the same shade of red as my fingernails.

“What? I can’t do that!”

“Sure you can.” I grin at her, going to my closet to fish out heels for us both. I bend over to pick them up, knowing I’m flashing her, but wanting to prove a point. The Hermes dress I’m wearing is just as tight, way too much so for me to wear anything other than a thong—or nothing. It’s the same cherry red as my lips and nails, and I’m itching to go out and enjoy the night.

I hand Sofia a pair of black Louboutin pumps, slipping on a pair of silver sandals for myself, and I see her eyes widen.

“I’m going to break my neck in these,” she says faintly, and I laugh, shaking my head.

“It’s really not that hard to get used to. And every girl should get to wear Louboutins at least once. I know you’re not going to buy them for yourself.”

Sofia lets out a sigh, and takes the shoes. She knows I’m right. For all that her father is filthy rich and spares no expense for his only and favorite daughter, she’s the most frugal person I know. I’ve known broke college students who were more wasteful with money than she is—I’ve even been one of them from time to time. She wears nice enough clothes, but they’re nothing like what a girl with her family and money would normally wear.

I usher her into the bathroom, and Sofia stands gingerly in front of the sink. “If any guy was half as good at talking me out of my panties as you just were,” she says, a hint of nervousness under the edge of her teasing tone, “I wouldn’t be a virgin anymore.”

“Well, I guess we need to find you some better candidates. But you definitely can’t wear those panties with them, either.” 

Frankly, in my opinion, the black cotton briefs she’d slipped off from underneath her dress needed to be burned.

Sofia looks anxiously at the products spread across my bathroom counter, and I wave a curling iron at her. “Relax,” I tell her firmly. “We’re not going to do anything crazy. Just a little makeover. A teensy one.”

By the time I’m done, I can tell Sofia is impressed. Her thick dark hair is curled and bouncy, and I gave her the same cat eye and red lips that I’m sporting for the night, just a little more. Sofia has huge eyes, like an Italian Barbie doll, and I wanted to show them off. 

“You look gorgeous,” I tell her firmly, turning her to face the mirror so she can see exactly what I’ve done. “You’re going to be the envy of every woman in New York.”

“I’m pretty sure those women have panties on,” Sofia says dryly, but I can tell she’s happy. I even convinced her to let me put faux eyelashes on her, which I’m pretty sure should qualify me for some lifetime achievement award.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” I tell her with a grin, checking my phone to see if our Uber has arrived as I toss items into my clutch. I hand Sofia one, too, giving her the tube of lipstick I’d used, and I see Sofia glance inside worriedly.

“What about an ID–”

“You’ll be fine,” I tell her confidently. “I know where to go that no one will check. We look like we belong there, so they won’t second-guess us. I’m sure of it.”

I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her close. “This is going to be the best night we’ve ever had together,” I tell her firmly. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

I can feel Sofia’s nerves as we walk down to meet the Uber, but I don’t understand it. I don’t know what could possibly be so stressful about a night like this—drinks, dancing, going out in a city full of excitement and adventure.

What’s the worst that could happen?