This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and events in this novel may reflect actual characters, places, businesses, and events but are used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual places, or actual events are purely coincidental.
No part of this novel may be reproduced in any form without written consent of the author.
CONTROL
First Edition. June 1, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 by Victoria Woods
ISBN: 978-1-7361258-5-4
All Rights Reserved
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Playlist
La Belle Et Le Bad Boy—MC Solaar
Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This)—Emily Browning
Take A Break – Interlude (Hamilton Mixtape)—!llmind
Seven Nation Army—Zella Day
Hot Girl Bummer—blackbear
Sunday Best—Surfaces
Love In This Club (ft. Young Jeezy)—Usher, Young Jeezy
I Feel Like I’m Drowning—Two Feet
Issues—Julia Michaels
Everything I Wanted—Billie Eilish
Ride It—Jay Sean
Down—Marian Hill
The Hills—The Weeknd
ROYL—Chloe x Halle
Him & I—G-Eazy, Halsey
For the ladies who ride alongside me
at motherf*cking dawn.
TRIGGER WARNING
Subject matters like rape, abuse, and human trafficking that may be dark and disturbing to some readers is included in this book.
Prologue
Jai
I hated Russia. It was cold. It was dreary. And the people I had to meet with were intolerable. I could get along with the most withdrawn and difficult of personalities—my brother was proof of that. But the Bratva was the most disagreeable organization I had been forced to deal with. It had a history of having members with extremely combative personalities, and lately, that had only gotten worse.
Shyam and I had built a relationship with the former leader. Granted, it hadn’t been a perfect relationship, because the Russians weren’t ones to have amicable relationships with anyone. But the relationship had been clear. Boundaries had been obvious, and roles defined. However, with new leadership came new rules—many of which I wouldn’t abide by.
The heels of an army of snow boots belonging to my men slapped against the uneven rock bed of the cave. The pathway was narrow, cluttered with mounded stalagmites growing from the ground. I did my best to duck my head to avoid being impaled by protruding rock as I walked. The only light we had to guide us was the fire from the torch that one of my men carried. The eeriness of the tunnel was the only reprieve from the unforgiving blizzard outside. This was why I had dreaded coming here. Both options for a meeting place were equally abysmal.
My jaw tightened upon seeing the stocky figure of the conniving tyrant as I approached him. Everything about him looked foul. His buzzed-cut hair was a sandy-blond color that didn’t look clean and the unkempt scruff on his face added to his dirty appearance. The only feature that looked clear and somewhat pure was his eyes—they were the brightest shade of green. Too bad he even managed to make his best feature appear maniacal with the way his eyelids squinted, as if he were in the middle of planning out his next sinister move.
The gold from the fillings in his mouth glinted in the firelight, making his devious smile difficult to miss. His band of equally diabolical Brothers surrounded him, looking for any excuse to draw blood. His ogre of a cousin and right-hand man, Igor, stood closest to him, whispering something in his ear that elicited a gut-curdling chuckle.
Leonid Petrov. Head of the Russian Brotherhood. He had earned that title in the most dishonorable of ways.
“Leonid.” I nodded, coming to a stop with my own men flanking my sides. Everyone was packing ammo, but that was standard procedure when doing any sort of business with the Bratva. Guns were required, not optional.
He stared me down, staying still as he sized us up. In one quick move, he invaded my space, grabbing my hand. My men reacted quickly and drew their guns, aiming them at him. In response, his men followed suit.
He rested his chest against my frame and grabbed my shoulder with his free hand, pulling me in closer. “Welcome back, brother,” he said as if we were old friends reuniting, but I knew better. He was instigating shit, praying for a fight.
I pulled away from him, revolted by his proximity.
“There’s no need for weapons with family,” he warned, eyeing the barricade of rifles before him.
“Cut the shit, Leonid.” If he thought I would back down, he was wrong.
The corner of one side of his mouth perked up into a crooked smile.
From my periphery, I could see my informant, Mikhail. He was my inside window to the goings-on of the Bratva. My eyes never fully flicked to him to avoid drawing attention to any semblance of recognition. Leonid’s eyes were already hungry—hungry for any reason to kill.
“I want my money.” The force of my voice caused it to echo off the walls of the cave, invading listening ears from all angles. I had delivered my services to him, supplying enough product for distribution and for his own personal whims, but hadn’t received payment for my last shipment, over a month ago.
His gaze fell to his feet as he chuckled to himself, as if laughing at some joke only he could hear. His men all followed their leader, snickering as if they were in on this imaginary joke too.
His neon eyes snapped back to mine—all humor vanished. “No.”
I didn’t react to his acerbity, mostly because he yearned for my fear and uncertainty.
My expression remained flat and unreadable. “Then I have no choice but to terminate service.”
He scoffed. “No, you won’t. We owe you nothing. You stole that bitch from us when she was rightfully ours.”
I clenched my fist so tightly against my side that I felt the band of my family ring dig into my flesh at the mention of my sister. “That deal was settled with your last Pakhan.” Boss.
“I am the new Pakhan and I see no need to keep my end of deals if you do not do the same,” he smirked.
I hadn’t been running this empire for so long by giving my product away for free, and I wouldn’t start doing it for the likes of scum like Leonid.
I moved in closer, towering over his short frame. “You underestimate me,” I said, keeping my voice low so that only he could hear. “You’d do well to keep me happy. I won’t be as easy to take down as your father.”
His eyes widened at my revelation. He hadn’t thought anyone else knew. I almost hadn’t figured it out, but unlike the unrightful boss of the Brotherhood, I had access to all secrets in the underworld. My skills at hacking were unmatched, even by the Russians. I was a damn near tech genius. Anything I ever needed to know was at my fingertips, as well as things that I wasn’t meant to know.
I straightened up and redirected my gaze to the band of Brothers before me. I was certain none of them had heard what had transpired between their boss and myself, judging from the puzzled looks on their faces. The only one who looked worried was Igor, and rightfully so since he was just as guilty as Leonid.
I glanced back over to Leonid, who’s eyes were now full of bane. Satisfied with the outcome, I nodded to him. “Dasvidaniya.” Until we meet again.
I turned to walk away, my back to the Brothers, with my men in tow. But before I stepped out of earshot, I turned back to address the eyes that were on me with one last blessing. “Long live your Pakhan.”
He wouldn’t. Irony was a bitch.
Chapter I
Claire
“One, two, three. And one, two, three. Relevé.” The speakers crooned out the melodic notes once composed by Mozart—each tinkle of the piano keys matching the movements I had choreographed for the girls. Ten pairs of little feet clad in pink ballet slippers that matched the tutus and tights above were lined up along the bar, all moving in unison to the rhythm—or, rather, moving together as well as could be expected from five- and six-year-olds.
The audience waiting for the girls grew as we neared the end of class. Mothers, fathers, and even nannies hovered near the door, whispering to each other as they watched their little ones dance. Every so often, someone would hold up their phone to take photos or record videos of their ballerina. I didn’t mind. Their excitement stemmed from love for their child and reminded me of my own mother’s. She never had the chance to see me perform after my studies. Everyone’s days were numbered, so who knew how many more ballet classes these parents would live to see? They could continue taking as many videos as they wanted during my instruction.
I stepped over to my phone and pressed pause on the music before clapping my hands to get the girls’ eyes to focus on me. “C’est ça. Très bien.”
They stared at me with, pint-sized eyebrows knitted together in confusion. My most brazen student stepped forward with her hands on her hips resembling a grown woman in her thirties. She had beautifully tanned skin, dark wavy hair, and the prettiest green eyes I’d ever seen. She couldn’t have been more than a few feet tall, but the air about her made her seem like she had her life together, a car that was paid off, and a 401k plan. It was amusing to see such a big personality in such a small package, decked out in pink tulle and pig tails held together with matching bows.
“Oui, Meena?” I said, putting my hands on my hips, mimicking her stance. I wasn’t about to be shown up by a five-year-old.
“Madame Varon, why do you always speak French?” she demanded.
I held back the giggle that was dying to burst through my lips. I was sure Miss Assertive wouldn’t appreciate the humor I found in this. Clearing my throat, I replied, “Because I’m French.”
“We’re not French, and we don’t understand what you’re saying.” So, now she was speaking for her whole crew?
I couldn’t fight my grin. If she only knew how cute I thought she was, she’d probably scold me to remind me she was a big girl. “You will with time. It’s good to learn new languages. You will be able to speak to so many more people if you do.”
“I already know other languages. My daddy speaks Hindi to me,” she answered proudly.
I bent over to meet her at eye-level. “That’s wonderful. And now you’ll know French, too. Oui?”
She let out a big sigh in defeat—too big to possibly contain only the amount of air that could fill her small diaphragm. “Oui, Madame Varon,” she ground out, probably pissed that she had lost this argument.
“Okay, class. Work on your chassé for next class. Make sure you have a partner, like your mom or dad, to practice. See you next week.” I waved them toward their chaperones.
They skipped across the dance floor to find their adults, who showered them with hugs and kisses. I always watched each child to make sure that they went home with the correct guardian.
A beautiful red-headed woman approached me, with Meena in tow. I knew it was her mother, as I had seen her at dismissal before. This was our third week of this round of classes, so I hadn’t had a chance to speak to each parent individually yet. “Madame Varon?” she asked.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Sethi?”
“Oh, please, call me Amelia.” She waved off my formality with her left hand. An enormous diamond ring flashed against her skin, the classic setting matching against her bare but manicured nails. She was groomed perfectly but wore minimal makeup on her light skin. I could see the resemblance to her daughter. They had the same crystal green eyes.
Her features were radiant, but I was particularly interested in her outfit. She seemed like the kind of woman who was powerful, probably had a big-time career in an office, yet she wore a Metallica concert t-shirt under her tailored suit. The realness she emanated was refreshing, since most of the parents I met were very well off and often stuffy.
“I’m sorry about Meena today.” She held her daughter’s hand and looked down at her as if expecting her to apologize. Though, Meena wasn’t interested in her mother’s subtle cues. Amelia smiled nervously at me as she whispered so her daughter couldn’t hear. “We’re working on politeness.”
“No need to apologize.” I looked Meena in the eye to address her. “I respect your bravery to speak your mind. That’s an important quality to have.”
The little girl beamed at me, happy that she wasn’t in trouble.
“Thank you so much for your patience. She really does love your class. It’s all she ever talks about at home,” she said, petting her daughter’s head lovingly.
“I’m happy to have her. She’s a great dancer.”
My compliment must have warmed her inside because Amelia’s smile reached her eyes, lighting up her whole face. Parental pride. “Say goodbye to Madame Varon,” she said and nudged Meena.
“Goodbye, Madame,” Meena said, with one arm wrapped around her mother’s leg impatiently, showing she was more than ready to leave.
“Au revoir, Meena.” I waved.
“Goodbye Madame Varon,” said Amelia as she tried to untangle the little one from her limbs so she could walk.
“You can call me Claire. I feel odd having the parents call me by my last name.” Though it wasn’t my real last name. Nobody needed to know the truth.
She nodded in understanding. “See you next week, Claire.” Turning and walking to the door, she locked hands with Meena on the way out.
The studio was finally empty, and I was finished teaching for the day. I rummaged through my bag, finding my pointe shoes. I sat on the shiny polished-wood floors to fit them on my feet. They were thoroughly broken in, with holes in the uppers of the nude satin, and in dire need of replacement after years of abuse, but money wasn’t something that flowed freely. Replacing them wasn’t an option right now, and I sort of preferred it that way. Aged shoes were more flexible and allowed for more movement. They also carried with them the past of the dancer who wore them. They were a testament to the journey of their owner. The laces held the triumphs of every dance. The soles bore the pressure of every fall. The seams revealed every loss of composure. Each pair of shoes told a story, and mine cried of pain and frustration. They spoke of abandonment and betrayal.
I thumbed through my dance practice playlist on my phone. Most of the songs I played were for the children I taught, so I had never-ending lists of songs by classical composers and piano renditions of princess-movie theme songs. I found it difficult to find time to practice
these days with my teaching schedule, so my personal list usually went untouched.
It probably seemed like such a waste—a once aspiring prima ballerina who had trained at The Paris Opéra Ballet School giving up her dreams of performing and settling on teaching children to make ends meet. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t stay in Paris any longer to pursue my ambitions. I had to run—run for my life.
I settled on a cover of that song by The White Stripes. The mellow yet eerie strumming of the guitar echoed through the speakers. After years of dancing, my heart rate would automatically match the beat of the song I was about to perform.
I closed my eyes, letting the melody move my feet. I lost myself in a flutter of spins, leg extensions, and jumps. The scuffing sound of my shoes on the floor added an extra chain of melody to the song.
With every move, images played in my mind, like scenes from a movie. The lift of my leg into an arabesque projected the trails of blood along the carpet. The jump into a sauté flashed the broken glass that littered the room. The spin into a pirouette displayed the image of Maman lying lifeless, bleeding out from her neck. I spun faster around the room, as fast as my feet would take me, to shake the visions. No speed nor force could free me from the image of her wide eyes staring up to the heavens. My knees gave out from the abuse and I collapsed onto the floor, my hands breaking my fall.
I opened my eyes, which had been tightly shut the whole time. Mirrors surrounding the dance hall reflected only one image—mine. Gasping for air, I stared at the tortured woman I barely recognized anymore. Her body was slick with sweat, not from exertion, but from terror. Blonde hair that had fallen loose from her bun formed a curtain around her face, hiding most of her features. No, this wasn’t Camille’s daughter staring back at her. This was her father’s daughter.
Chapter II
Claire
“Whose party is this again?” I asked, walking quickly to keep up pace with Lana. My strappy black stilettos were failing at giving me the traction I needed to avoid slipping on the sidewalk. Thankfully, it was summer, so I didn’t have to worry about loading on layers to keep warm before leaving the house. I threw on a black motorcycle jacket that I had found at a thrift store over my fitted nude dress. It had been a steal at only ten bucks at a second-hand store a couple of blocks away from my apartment.
Control: Power Series #3 Page 1