by Bethany-Kris
“You have until the new year to find someone to replace me, or not. I really don’t care at this point about what happens once I leave. I’ll let the kids know I won’t be teaching anymore after the winter holidays, but I’ll leave the rest up to you.”
“I don’t think you understand what that means.”
Didn’t she?
“Feliks, I am done with The Swan House, with ballet, and with you. I don’t know how I can be any clearer than I have been at this point.”
“The free program will end,” he murmured.
“If that’s what you think will have to happen.”
“The donations will also come to a stop, then. Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to know that because you never cared much about the financial side of things where the company was concerned, but the cash flow will end. The biggest portion of it, anyway. The free programs draw in the donors; every event, the balls and dinners. Vera, it all pays the bills, and not just yours. Or don’t you understand that?”
“You don’t want me to leave because I bring in money?”
“A lot of it, Vera. Tens of millions every year.”
Shocker.
She bet that would be hard on the bank, and the company as a whole.
She’d known the donations that stemmed from her program and the events to fund said programs drew in wealthy donors, but because her students and classes always had everything they needed without question, Vera never dug too deep into the details.
Maybe she should have.
Was that it?
She was just a cash cow for the company?
“I love those kids,” she told him.
Feliks released a huff of air, palming the back of his neck as he focused on the ground under his shined shoes. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“No, but it does to me. And that’s the point. I love those kids; I get up every day and go to The Swan House despite the pit I get in my stomach when I walk through the doors and the phantom pain I feel shooting up my leg every time I dance. I go there to see those kids so that they know someone cares about them, even if it is for two hours a handful of times a week. I go there for them, wishing I didn’t feel like I was constantly trying not to cry, because a part of me thinks they need me, too.”
“Again,” he said dryly, “I’m really not sure what that’s supposed to mean to—”
“The fact that everything I just said means nothing to you says everything to me. Maybe I don’t ever want to dance again. Or maybe I just don’t want to have to deal with being there anymore. Or hell, maybe it’s just you. It also doesn’t matter because it doesn’t make me happy, and I can’t make other people feel something I no longer do. You have until the new year,” she repeated, standing from the bench while her shaking fists clenched tight at her sides, “I’ll stay that long.”
“I don’t think you understand,” Feliks tried to say.
“I don’t think you do, actually. I’m not going to say it again.”
“I can’t let you quit. I don’t have the funding or the capital to keep the place afloat without the donations that come with your name attached to the company, Vera.”
Too bad for him.
“You can’t make me stay, either.”
Fuck him.
And the funeral.
She didn’t wait for Feliks to attempt some shitty apology or anything else, for that matter. Rounding the large angel statue to head back on the same pathway they’d come from, she hadn’t been taking careful note of the cracks that could be dangerous for someone walking in heels. Never mind someone who also had a weak ankle.
One of them caught the inch-high heel of her shoe, and she didn’t have time to catch her fall when her ankle rolled from the pressure the sudden awkward angle put on her foot. The cry of surprise that accompanied her fall mixed on her tongue with the spear of agony that ripped through her ankle.
“Jesus, get up.”
“Go to hell,” she snarled back.
Feliks swore, and offered to help after demanding she get up herself, but pride kept her on all fours for longer than she might have remained on the ground had it been someone else who witnessed her fall.
But then she heard another voice, too. A familiar one.
And for his call, she looked up.
“Vera!”
She hadn’t even seen him in the crowd of people gathered at the grave, but they parted like the red sea to let him through when he shouted her name a second time and started down the grassy knoll. Had he been there attending the funeral the whole time?
How had she not noticed?
Vera shouldn’t be happy to see him. Their last encounter had left her cold, unsure, and with far too many questions answered. Yet, the sight of him coming down the hill with determined strides, his scarred face making everyone who moved for him to pass through look away, had her heart picking up speed.
Just a little.
Enough to feel good.
Even if everything else surrounding the man was bad, that was the one thing that seemed to be right. At least, in that moment. With humiliation still thick in her blood, she’d take what she could get. Right, or wrong.
“Vas,” she whispered.
4.
Vaslav couldn’t think of a time when he’d descended a hill quite as fast as the one in the cemetery. He’d not actually witnessed Vera when she fell, but he had noticed the way a portion of the gatherers at the burial site turned at the commotion. By the time he was halfway down the grassy knoll, not even bothering with the pathway, she looked his way.
And so was her companion.
Feliks.
Had he not been so focused on reaching Vera, uncaring that the burial would be disrupted, then Vaslav might have paid more attention to Feliks. Except that asshole was barely even worth sharing another person’s breath, let alone their space.
Besides, once he was sure Vera hadn’t been hurt when she fell, then he could deal with Feliks. It wasn’t as if he was surprised to see the man at Nico’s funeral. It would have been more unusual—and a huge sign of disrespect to a high-ranking vor—if the man didn’t show his face. Even if no other man in the mafiya would grace the disgraced Feliks with their attention or time.
Vera was already beginning to stand—albeit, on shaky legs—when Vaslav reached her spot. He could see fine and well that she would be able to right herself without help, but he didn’t hesitate to bend down and wipe away the grass and dirt from her knees when she tried to do it first.
“I’m okay,” she told him quietly. “I just walked too far in these shoes, I think.”
Barely above a whisper.
She wouldn’t even meet his eyes when he straightened to his full height, running his palms over the capped sleeves of her black cocktail dress to make sure she felt steady. A quick glance down at her feet in the grass explained her excuse for the fall. The simple pumps with a short, but thin, heel was likely a dangerous shoe choice for a woman walking across grass. Not to mention, if she already had a weak ankle from an old injury.
Foolishness.
“Okay is a matter of opinion,” he muttered back. “Who told you to wear heels?”
Vera’s head snapped up at that question, and her bright blue eyes nailed into his. There was no hiding the pink stain of embarrassment coloring her cheeks and flushing down her throat. The dress she put on was appropriate enough for a funeral, or even a lunch at a black-tie restaurant, but there was a small V-cut at the chest where a sweep of his gaze told him that blush disappeared somewhere between her perky breasts.
Not the time, he told himself.
Except it was always the time for that.
“They’re only kitten heels, barely an inch,” she retorted.
A little hotly, too.
“You walked from the church?” he asked.
She glanced away at something—or someone, maybe—behind him, and her top two teeth caught her lower lip when she replied, “So?”
Perhaps she didn’
t need him to point out how that was a terrible choice, but he still had to resist the urge to do so. And only because there was an entire hill full of people watching the exchange. Not that he suspected the funeral goers could hear their quiet conversation, but he wasn’t going to give the spectators any more gossip about than they already had.
Just him being there was dangerous enough. He no longer had the security or ability to mingle publicly with others—not for long, anyhow—even if he seriously doubted anyone had made a plot on his life that they intended to follow through on that day.
“Does your ankle hurt?” he asked.
“I didn’t know, okay?”
Vaslav stiffened a bit at the anger she let spill into her words. “I beg your pardon?”
Vera gestured at nothing in particular, saying, “This. The funeral. I was only told to wear black, not why. Yes, I may have chosen a different pair of footwear had I known the amount of walking I would have to do today. Thank Feliks for that.”
What?
All over again, that familiar, comforting rush of hatred he felt whenever he stared into the face of Feliks Abramov came back in a flash. Accompanied by his old friend, rage, he could have easily spun around and used whatever hard, flat surface was close enough to crack the man’s fucking skull on for being so stupid.
Later.
He could get to doing that later.
“Vera,” he murmured.
Slowly, her gaze met his again.
“I thought we were going to lunch,” she admitted, sadness in her eyes and shame pulling the corners of her lips down into a pouting frown. “And then I figured I could make the walk across the graveyard. Why is it so big?”
“A lot of dead men,” he returned easily, shrugging.
And women. Children, too.
Centuries worth, really.
It was easy to make a joke out of the situation even if it wasn’t exactly the time. If only that was the type of thing he cared to consider.
He almost smiled when she did—like a mirrored muscle reaction that he didn’t realize was happening until it was nearly too late. Not that she didn’t deserve a smile from him, but he certainly wasn’t willing to let anyone else in the vicinity see this woman gain that reaction from him. Nothing good could come from that.
Bad things happened to those who made him happy, even if only for a moment. It was a lesson that had been taught to him in the cruelest of ways; everyone who was anyone important to a man like him became fodder to a bigger game.
And hadn’t he already drawn enough attention to them both today?
“Is your ankle hurting?” he asked again, reaching out to tuck the stray strands of her dark hair behind her ears.
“Only a little.”
Goddammit.
Vera’s gaze skipped behind him once more, and that time, he looked in the same direction to see what, or who, kept gaining her attention. He suspected he knew exactly who—Feliks.
Except the only person he found standing in front of the old marble bench beneath the statue of a weeping angel was Igor.
A silent question passed between the men, and all it took was a raise of Vaslav’s eyebrow to get the answer he was looking for.
“He headed up the hill, boss,” Igor explained, not bothering to draw attention to the news by turning in the direction that he spoke of in regards to Feliks’ sudden disappearance. “Didn’t even wait for her to get up from the ground before he made a beeline for the grave.”
I bet, he said to himself, glowering at the remaining people still lingering around the top of the grassy knoll. Only one or two still watched the scene down below, and none of those people were men he’d have to punish for doing so. He also didn’t see where Feliks stood there, either.
Lucky prick.
Grinding his molars to relieve some of the tension in the rest of his body—not that it ever worked except to give him tooth aches late at night—Vaslav turned back to face Vera.
“You came to a funeral with Feliks Abramov?” he asked.
It was the tilt of her head that gave away her confusion. “He’s my boss ... sort of. And I already said that I didn’t know what we were doing today?”
He nodded once. “Right, don’t do that again.”
Vera’s eyes widened. “Excuse you?”
“I understand that your involvement with the ballet house makes it difficult for you to keep a distance from that man, but that is what you’re going to do from now on. Yes?”
“First of all—”
He chuckled dryly, stopping Vera from finishing her indignant reply. “It’s much easier to just tell me yes, kisska. Then, I don’t have to show you why yes is the only option, hmm?”
“I can spend my time with whoever I want,” she snapped. “And I was quitting my job today, thank you very much. Or trying to ... before I fell, and made myself look like a total idiot.”
That, he did find interesting.
Vaslav also didn’t have the time or ability to stand there and have an entire discussion with her to get all the details about why she planned to quit her position. There was still a man who needed to be buried, after all. Not to mention, another that was damn close to getting thrown into the grave as well.
“You’re not an idiot,” he told her.
Vera let out a huff.
“And,” Vaslav added, “you’re not walking all the way back to the church. Igor will get the car, and he can even drive you home.”
“Vas?”
At the same time Igor said his name, Vera muttered, “I just need a break. I’m sure I can walk back on my own.”
“You could, but you won’t.”
“Stop it, I’m fine.”
“Again, a matter of opinion,” he returned, bored. “We already know that everybody’s got one of those.”
“Haven’t I already drawn enough attention to myself?” she asked. “Nobody needs to wait for me to get on with ... well, whoever the hell died.”
“Nicolai Lebedev.”
Vera’s shoulders dropped. “What?”
“The man being buried today. We called him Nico, for short. He was the best man at my wedding, and my lawyer in later years.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Those things are also the only reason he gets a funeral today,” Vaslav interjected before she could apologize for disrespecting a dead man who honestly wouldn’t give a shit about her slight. Especially not when he was about to be dropped six feet deep into Russian soil inside a casket where he would do nothing more than rot. “Nico won’t mind if you make the rest of them wait a few more minutes before they can say a final goodbye.”
Not bothering to give Vera the chance to argue his decision further, he snapped his fingers, asking Igor, “Aren’t you getting the car?”
Only then did the man approach the two. “I’m not sure it’s a great idea for me to leave you alone for that long with the amount of vory in the vicinity, boss.”
“I didn’t ask about your ideas, no?”
In a black suit acceptable for the day, Igor glared up at the bright sky overhead. “If you’re sure ...”
“I am.”
“He doesn’t have to get a car,” Vera said, her defense weak. “They didn’t even allow anyone else to drive up here except the hearse and the family, so—”
Ignoring her altogether, Vaslav gave Igor a nod. “Get the car.”
His man was already walking away letting the wave of his hand over his shoulder be the reply. Realizing she clearly wasn’t going to get Vaslav to change his mind, Vera let out another one of those huffy puffs of air, and folded her arms over her chest.
“Would you rather sit?” he asked, gesturing at the bench.
“I’d rather people didn’t stare,” she replied, her gaze zoned in on the hill again.
Vaslav didn’t bother to see who was still staring, or if others had come to stand on the crest of the knoll again. “They’re only partly curious because of you.”
Vera’s
nose crinkled. “What does that mean?”
“They’re mostly staring because of me.”
“I don’t understand, Vas.”
He laughed, reaching down to pick a stray blade of grass from the skirt of her dress as he said, “How often does the beast leave his castle? Well, only when required.”
Then, she surprised him with a question he didn’t expect.
“How does someone get a funeral, anyway? Isn’t that something that typically happens when a person dies?”
“Usually,” Vaslav returned, grinning a bit as her gaze turned on him. “Unless, of course, I also decide when that person dies. That changes all the rules, and I’m also the man making those.”
Vera stilled in her kitten heels he was seriously considering burning—what if they made her fall again? “I think this is another one of those things that I don’t understand.”
“Or you understand perfectly well, and choose not to say so.” He shrugged under the weight of his suit jacket, all too aware of the hot sun beating down on the back of his neck. “I’ll be honest, Vera, and I say I prefer it that way.”
It made things easier.
Nobody said she had to like it.
5.
“‘Tchyo za ga ‘lima—what the fuck?”
For the second time in less than a handful of months, Feliks strolled into his office to find Vaslav waiting for him. He sat in the man’s plush office chair that squeaked too much for his liking whenever he leaned into the backrest. That trash would have been tossed out the closest window had it been Vaslav’s office.
Hell, he considered throwing it out of Feliks’ window—or even, using it to break every single pane of glass in the office—but not because it squeaked. Simply because he hated the asshole who sat his ass in the leather every day.
Grudges were Vaslav’s best friend.
He held them mighty close.
“Apologies,” Vaslav muttered, although he wasn’t the least bit sorry, while he continued looking through the folder in his hands. Or rather, the contents of said folder. Glancing up, he found a fuming Feliks standing in the doorway of the office, glaring at the door frame. “Ah, I see you found that you need a new lock now.”