Dirty Desires: Interracial Russian Mafia Romance

“I’m on it.” She pulled another pair out. “You know I am to serve as your assistant too.”

I snapped my attention to her. “Really?”

“Yes. I’m not only working for the artistic director, but you too.”

“I. . .I had no idea. I don’t remember you around O.”

She nervously shook her head. “Olesya’s girlfriend asked me to stay away from her. My understanding was that she provided Olesya with her own assistant.”

“Oh, Valentina. Yeah. That was an odd relationship.”

Lisa nodded. “I’m sorry by the way. I know you were close to Olesya.”

“Yeah.” I swallowed in sadness, wishing O could see these shoes. I had bothered her for days, when the companies’ announcements came out. “I definitely miss her.”

Silence fell over the dressing room.

After a few minutes, Lisa ended the quiet. “Well, I will begin prepping these so you can make your lunch date with Akiva and the patrons.”

I quirked my brows. “The patrons? What patrons? I thought it would just be Akiva and me.”

“Well. . .” Lisa stirred. “There’s a few that have paid to have a personal lunch with you today.”

Intuition told me to push on, so I did. “Who are the patrons?”

She pulled out her phone and checked it. “Mr. Kuznetsov, Mr. Oblonskey, and Mr. Turgenev.”

I studied her. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“Who are they really?”

“P-patrons.”

I lowered my voice. “Stallions?”

Lisa turned her attention back to the shoes. “Maybe, but. . .I don’t know a lot.”

“What do you know?”

“Ava, I really don’t like to be on Akiva’s bad side and—”

“I won’t tell anyone that you said anything. I just want to be prepared with what I’m walking into.”

She let out a long breath. “I overheard Akiva talking on the phone with one of the trustees. He was saying that these men were willing to pay close to a million to have you.”

“Have me?”

“At first, I thought he was talking about the price of the lunch. They’re paying for that too, but. . .”

“Yes?”

“Please, don’t say anything. This job is all I have.”

“I won’t.”

She whispered, “Akiva laughed and said that these old men would pay anything since they had never enjoyed any black kiska.”

Pussy.

Lisa glanced toward the door to make sure no one had walked by. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Everything is fine.” I rolled my eyes. “They can pay the theater all they want for this black kiska, but they won’t be getting anything from me. Thanks for the heads up.”

She swallowed.

“I guess it’s time to go to lunch.” I turned around and headed off.

Lisa rushed after me. “I think Akiva wants you, showered and dressed—”

“I bet he fucking does. I’m showing up stank and sweaty.”

“Uh.”

“And you should take your own lunch break.” I touched my chest. “My orders. You can prep the shoes later.”

“But I probably should do your shoes or—”

“Take a break, Lisa. We all have to stick together.”

“O-kay.” She stopped in the hallway as I stomped off.

Are you fucking serious, Akiva?

All the dreaming I’d done. All the energy and sweat. All the goddamn toilets my grandmother had scrubbed to get me here. We’d done the right thing. We’d worked hard and prayed. Believed and did our best. And after all of that…to be pimped out to some crusty old men, from old money that probably never had to wipe their own wrinkled butts.

I don’t think so. I won’t be nice. I damn sure won’t be doing any private dinners or going back to anybody’s house. And if they didn’t like it, they could fire me.

My first stop would be with Vogue Paris the next day, talking all about the reasons for my firing.

Oh they don’t want that. It’ll be crazier than what happened in Moscow.

In the past three years, scandal had been taking over Russia’s ballet world. One of Russia’s leading dance companies—Moscow Ballet—had been barricaded by controversy.

First they fired their prima ballerina Svetlana Nijinsky, without any real reason. Next, Svetlana had gone to any network that would take her and told a story of the theater being made into a brothel for millionaires. She claimed even ballerinas as young as fourteen were instructed to sleep with the theater’s top philanthropists.

The company ran a whole million dollar campaign against Svetlana, dirtying up her past and flashing pictures on billboards showing her partying and snorting cocaine.

A month later and after a big performance, someone had thrown acid in the artistic director’s face. Not knowing who the culprit was, they arrested the ex-prima ballerina, thinking Svetlana had enough reason to do it. No ballerina believed she could. Still, she confessed to it. Many whispered that her family had been threatened with violence.

But the best part of the story for me was that ballerinas all over Russia united. I’d even signed the petition that was sent to President Smirnov, demanding that they free her and do a more thorough investigation. We all threatened to not dance. That meant well over five hundred ballerinas would simply sit on the stage and stare at the audience for the whole performance. Money would be lost by all.