Page 1 of Violent Pawn

PART 1

PAST

11 YEARS AGO

1

ANASTASIA

Men only ever want one thing from a woman: their compliance. To maintain control over them by making themselves the bigger, harsher, stronger ones.

Papa taught me that early on in life through the worst circumstances. Sadly, there hasn’t been a man other than my twin brother, Lev, who hasn’t fit the mold. Papa himself designed the damn mold, and everyone else seems to wear it.

Hell, even my ballet instructor demands compliance in the most teeth-gritting manner.

“That pirouette wasn’t nearly good enough. It must be smoother! More graceful! You’re a swan, not a duck. Make it so.”

Vladimir Egorov is the ballet master of a renowned local dance school. His last name is a bit too on the mark since his ego is so fucking large, it’s about to make me insane. Papa hired him to be my private instructor since he’s one of the best, but in doing so, Vladimir kisses Papa’s ass like no tomorrow while hounding mine for the most minuscule things.

It doesn’t take brainpower to figure out why Vladimir is worse this week. My first-ever performance outside of Russia is mere days away, and Papa is determined to ensure its perfection. Sadly, his version of flawlessness is about ten levels above everyone else’s—those of us who still live on Earth, anyway.

Most performers enjoy working with their instructor, but I’m an exception. Not because Vladimir’s methods suck—though they’d be more tolerable if the stick was removed from his ass—but because Papa hired him. Anyone working for my father is my enemy.

Is it normal to despise one’s parent?

I’m assuming it’s a Bratva trait, considering Vanessa—a close friend and the Pakhan’s daughter—loathes hers; her cousin Dimitri’s relationship with his own is downright chilling; and even Lev is tormented by ours.

Vladimir snaps his fingers to shift my attention back to the dance studio he’s been restricting me to for hours. Hours where my only form of energy comes from my water bottle. But, oh, I can’t drink too much or else Vladimir will bitch that my bladder is being filled “for no good reason.”

Not dying seems like a decent reason, but what would I know? I’m merely a sixteen-year-old girl without a brain of her own. According to some people anyway.

“Anastasia, pay attention. You will become the laughter of Warsaw if you do not focus.”

At least there’s one positive in this, and it isn’t the performance itself. Warsaw is the capital city of Poland, so getting out of Russia is exhilarating since I’m so infrequently allowed to. I’m almost excited for this experience, if not for the true reason we’re visiting.

Papa wants someone in Poland dead. Rather than be a normal mobster and target the man himself, I’ve been given the “great honour”—his words—of doing it. Exactly as I’ve done to the handful of other sorry souls. Some of which were deserving and others less so.

Papa has been selling this as a whole charade to the media to draw in crowds and give me a decent alibi for being alone with a man who’s probably triple my age.

“Famous Russian ballerina, one of the youngest on the scene, is doing a once-in-a-lifetime performance in Poland!”

On Papa’s orders, the news outlets are selling the story alongside the allure of exclusivity. He’s been harassing Vladimir to ensure I’m ready, hoping to draw in such a crowd that one day these people will travel to Moscow to see me perform. By doing so, more money ends up in the Bratva’s pocket because no way in hell do I see a single ruble from the sales.

Lining the Bratva’s accounts is Papa’s entire life goal. No matter who and what he sacrifices to make himself look better to his Pakhan, no one is safe. Lev and I are his usual scapegoats, but occasionally, it’s soldiers in their employ.

Vladimir snaps his fingers again before tossing his hands up in the air with a harsh curse. “Blyat. Pay attention, or you will fail!”

Gritting my teeth, I whirl around. He’s rude and prickly, yet I can’t entirely blame him either. He’s another victim of Papa’s controlling antics and cruelty, so I understand he’s trying to stay on my father’s good side—if such a thing exists—by focusing on his own survival.

If only he’d speak to me a little kinder. Just a bit. Not asking for a ton…

“When have I ever failed? It was one tiny mess-up!”

His nose wrinkles at the implication of my words, drawing attention to his many other age lines. “A mess-up that would be horrible on stage. Try again.”

With a huff, aware that the only way to end arguing is to obey him, I return to position. Spreading my legs, feet angled outwards, I sweep my left one in front of my right while bouncing onto the tips of my pointe shoes. My core, arms, and the flat edge of the shoe work in tandem to maintain my balance. My left leg slides up my right calf until pausing by my knee, and with a slight bounce, I propel myself to the side, letting instincts and years of training bring my limbs into a pirouette. I spin four times before my leg lowers as I end the last. It stretches out behind me as my arms lift, dispersing my body while dipping into a low bow.

Vladimir claps, but only once. Heaven forbid he show genuine pride in his student. “Much better. Your set will have a lot of pirouettes, so maintaining this is important.”