Dirty Desires: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

Cameras flashed around us.

“Okay.” The photographer lowered his camera and nodded. “We’re done. You did an amazing job, Ava.” He gestured to all of the ballerinas behind me. “You all did an amazing job.”

The magazine’s journalist from earlier stepped forward.

“Ava, I’m so sorry.” Worry creased Mrs. Anderson’s face. “I actually have a few more questions that just came up.”

“O-kay.” I’d noticed her on the phone the majority of the shoot. Most of the time she nodded and scribbled into her notebook.

The other dancers cleared the studio. Exhausted, I sat on the floor and untied my pointe shoes. I worked to get my breathing under control. I’d worn my practice shoes which were wrecked, but they’d been my lucky ones and the damage wouldn’t show in the photos.

I just had to wear the shoes today. We’d been through so much, dealt with the trash from others, stressed and labored for hours daily to show everyone what we were made of. In some way, I felt this photo shoot was the shoe’s day—their moment to shine.

And these were your last day too.

Undoing the ribbons around my ankle, I released my feet from the torture, peeled the shoes off as well as the toe pads. It wasn’t my sexiest moment. The reporter got down on the ground with me, watching me as I winced. Bunions had already formed on my toes.

“It’ll only be a few minutes,” Mrs. Anderson said. “I know you’re tired.”

“I’m happy to be here too, but yes I’m going to pass out in a very hot bath after this.”

“In preparation for your performance this evening?”

“Yes.”

She asked the same question she did at the beginning of the interview. “Have you been named the prima ballerina of the company yet?”

“I have not, and don’t know what direction the company will be taking.”

“I was told that you were really close to the past prima ballerina, Olesya.”

“Yes. I was.” I’d been surprised that the journalist had not asked about Olesya earlier.

I stretched my legs. Blisters had also formed on my big and second toes. The callouses would be hard by the morning.

“It is interesting that you now have the role under her mysterious murder.”

I looked up from my feet. “Well, I was her understudy.”

She flipped the page. “Olesya was killed in Prague. I’m told that this is the homeland of your boyfriend Mikhail—”

“Uh. . .” I straightened my back. “Mikhail and I have only just begun dating. He’s not my boyfriend.”

“When did you begin dating him?”

I blinked. “That’s a private conversation and not a part of the interview.”

Mrs. Anderson’s smile from earlier left. “Do you have any idea what may have happened to Olesya?”

My nerves rattled. “No, I don’t.”

“This company has a big reputation for intense competition both on and off stage, especially among ballerinas.”

“I’m aware of that, but I’ve only been a part of friendly competition.”

“Six years ago principal dancer Pavel Dmittrichenko attacked the company’s artistic director with acid. He had to get more than twenty surgeries—”

“None of that has anything to do with me. I didn’t even know about it.”

“Your new boyfriend Mikhail also has a sizeable amount of money in the theater company. After a year, he’s become their biggest investor.”

He has? How much money has he put into the company?

Not liking where this was going I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but this interview is over.”

I grabbed my shoes and dragged myself up.

“Wait, Ava.” Mrs. Anderson gently grabbed my arm. “I won’t report any of these questions. Trashy gossip with no evidence is not what Vogue Paris is about, but other parts of the media will look into these things further.”

My heart hammered.

“Be prepared for more barriers ahead. You may want to be careful with who you date or spend time with. Questions will come up, whether you’re guilty of something or not. And most of all, Ava, stand strong.” She let go of my arm and walked away. “There are many people watching.”

What is she talking about? I haven’t done anything, but dance.

Chapter 8

Misha

It ended up taking thirty minutes to get to the airport. I had to stop to get the bag of money first. Who knew if it would work or not?

What will save me? Damn you, Fuego. Maybe I will shoot you in the head anyway, regardless of Naveen’s feelings.

My guards had found Maxwell’s shoes in the bushes in front of the brothel. They gave him the shoes at the bank. They were brown polished leather, not exactly a great fit for the suit that I’d brought him.

I made a note to get him better ones for the ballet performance. He would have to come, although I didn’t know why I needed him near.

Here we go.

We pulled up to the airport and parked. The jet sat on the runway, riding toward the meeting place. They had arrived safely.