Dirty Desires: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

“Over the Atlantic Ocean.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Get everyone on those codes but keep it a secret for anyone outside of the group. Kazimir cannot find out right now.”

Due to the intensity of the situation, Naveen went formal. “Yes, sir.”

“Keep me up-to-date with any new information.”

“Yes, sir.”

Get those goddamn codes back immediately and find out who took them!” I shut the phone off.

Sweat had begun to trickle down the sides of my face. My heart was close to slamming and pushing out of my chest.

My father had a vault below the castle. Inside, he kept his most valuable treasures. Also, there were several hidden maps showing the location of the brotherhood’s weapons. Kazimir had control over many arms, but his favorites were the nuclear ones. Leave it to my cousin to love the most explosive devices that a person could find in this world.

Kazimir called them his babies. With his temper, they were probably the only children he would have. His babies remained hidden within Russian’s secret bases.

He had a brother and sister set of codes that turned the weapons on. The brother remained with him in Moscow. My father had been in charge of the sister set.

And now they’re flying across the Atlantic.

The only thing that kept me from shitting in my pants is that whoever stole them, couldn’t activate them without Kazimir’s brother unit.

Kazimir is going to kill me. My father was in charge of them, and now I am.

In silence, Maxwell and Mrs. Jones watched me.

I must’ve looked like a man slowly losing my mind.

Don’t worry. I have tracking devices on them. I’ll have them before Kazimir knows. It will all be fine.

My heart didn’t get that message. It continued to bang and boom as the limo entered downtown St. Petersburg and fear shot up my spine.

Chapter 9

Ava

I arrived at the theater an hour before practice.

When I’d first been brought to the company, it blew my mind.

The Mariinsky Theater was one of the most significant institutions in all the country. The very symbol of St. Petersburg.

Russia’s Alexander the Second had built the theater in honor of his wife Maria. Not just a ballet hall, the theater boasted performances of famous stage masterpieces from Tchaikovsky, the singing of Fyodor Chaliapin, and others.

O’s great-great-grandmother Anna Pavlova had performed on this very stage along with other amazing ballerinas—Galina Ulanova, Rudolf Nureyev and even Mikhail Baryshnikov. The elite tourist dropped in for a show. To not go to Mariinsky Theater, was to not visit St. Petersburg at all.

It had been a long day of sex with Misha, and then the big Vogue interview. A month ago, I could have never envisioned experiencing either of these moments.

I thought back to that time when I was an understudy to O. Usually, I would come to practice for her, waiting on the sideline and being used by the director to stand in for other ballerinas arriving too late to practice. There, I would do simple roles until they arrived. Once they did, I went to the corner and stayed quiet, watching O twirl and spin around everyone. She’d been an amazing dancer. It was breathtaking to watch her in motion.

The fact that many of the journalist reporting last night’s event thought I outperformed her had shocked me.

O, are you proud of me? Am I doing your memory justice?

My heart ached to think of my best friend. There’d been no time to mourn. This week, her cousins had held a private funeral in Moscow. They hadn’t invited anyone outside of the immediate ones. All I had was our memories and her pointe shoes that I kept in my duffle bag.

As people walked on the stage and began to stretch, I opened the bag and stared at O’s shoes.

I should give them to your family, but I can’t separate from them. Is that okay, O? Can I keep a part of you?

Her family would truly get the symbolism of them. They would probably think they were some ugly, torn up shoes.

As little girls, every aspiring ballerina dreamed of the day they were given their first pair of pointe shoes. It was a momentous occasion.

I touched O’s ballet shoes but didn’t lift them out of the bag. Pale pink. Long ribbons. Delicate and satin. They were even more gorgeous on her feet, even more eye-catching when she wore them on stage.

Pointes were captivating.

But one would be tricked by the overall awe of them. Made from layers of fabric and glue, pointe shoes were sturdy creatures. They forced the ballerina’s toes to hold three times their body weight. The shoes didn’t have a heel. Instead, it was a sole made from hard leather. Not the standard pointe at all.

The professional ones were even more powerful. Commanding, yet dazzling. And we bought many. Had them custom made to our feet. That raised the price to over a hundred dollars. How could they not? The shoes propelled us through even the most strenuous performances. They made the magic happen. Without the shoes, the ballet didn’t occur.