Page 5 of Violent Pawn

Me

I know. I want to. It’s just this job…

Z

Welcome to our future.

Aweek passes before my flight to Poland. Once there, I pay the owner of the auditorium where her performance is being held to inspect the back rooms and hallways, make a plan, and source exit routes.

Too soon, the day of the show arrives.

3

ANASTASIA

Despite the lights blinding me, Jakob Nowak’s intense gaze emits from the front row, exactly where Papa mentioned he’d sit. He watches me as intently as everyone else, and though I can’t see through the spotlights, when I have a moment to breathe or pause in the set, I’m certain to glance his way, dropping the subtle hints of attention that men like him eat up.

By the end of the first act, the twenty-minute intermission is a welcome reprieve. Through these, Papa never harasses me, usually mingling with whoever’s in attendance or scoping out potential future issues. So it’s valuable time that’s all mine.

A few stagehands glance over as I skitter towards the door that leads to the service hallway and the space the building manager assigned as my dressing room. As I throw open the metal door, expecting the usual clang of it hitting the adjacent wall, I’m instead met with a muttered curse.

Only staff should be back here, and I doubt any of them would stupidly hover behind the door.

I move slowly, fingers linking together to appear powerless. If there’s one positive about Papa, it’s that he’s trained me to fight. Sending me unarmed into grown men’s orbits is a slaughter waiting to happen—his words. I’m not as good as Lev is, but it’s enough to escape.

Whoever’s here doesn’t know that, so feigning defenceless could prevent a fight before it begins.

As I peek around the corner, the shadows move until a shape—a man—is visible. He’s rubbing his cheek, which is now red, and glaring at the door before the boldest blue eyes slide to me and adrenaline hammers through my veins.

“Watch it.” An irritated tone, tinged with an unfamiliar accent. Not angry like my father gets, and it doesn’t make me want to bolt. Rather, it makes me stay, curious why a guest is here—despite instincts sending my heart racing.

“No one should be here, so why are you?”

He steps farther from the shadows, giving me the chance to make him out. He’s younger than expected, probably around my age, with dark hair swept to the side and framing his sapphire-bold eyes. His skin is suntanned, and his nose a little crooked like it’s been broken before. He’s beautiful in an intense way.

“Hiding from the chaos out there.” He jerks his thumb at the door. His accent is familiar… Where have I heard it before? The logical answer is Polish, given where we are, but he sounds different than the few people I’ve spoken to this morning.

A dangerous aura I can’t help but breathe in exudes from him, reminding me a bit of the Bratva’s soldiers. I suspect there’s more to him. It’s in the hidden details—the rigidity of his body and how his eyes sharpen at my slightest shift. The way his hand twitches to his waist, where a weapon is probably stored.

I swallow, quickly scanning for possible escape routes. If he has a weapon, I don’t. Hidden knives don’t match well with my ballet costumes, so running might be my best bet, since even hand-to-hand may not end well.

“It’s intermission. You could always hide outside instead of the staff hall.”

His head tilts again, an intriguing sparkle to his eyes. A person’s eyes state a lot about them, and I suddenly find myself longing for his story. “The show is good. You’re very good.”

“Thanks,” I reply slowly, remaining cordial just in case my worries are all in my head. “You should probably return since you’ll get in trouble being here.” I pace backwards, hinting at leaving as well. “And I need to go rest before my second act.”

He doesn’t move. So I walk backwards a few more steps before turning around. I pretend finding a stranger in the dark is normal, even as alarms flash through my head. It seems silly, but Papa’s training encourages wariness of everyone and everything.

A cool hand wraps around my arm, yanking me to a stop. His steps were quiet—too quiet—trained, which tells me everything.

“Anastasia.” My name is like melted butter in his mouth, dripping through every syllable. For a second, I devour the sound, enjoying it way too much for someone trying to escape.

“Italian?”

“Sì. I’ve travelled far for you.”

Suddenly, my back is against the wall, and he’s in front of me, large and imposing but nothing I can’t escape from either. Still, playing weak is smart for now, so I tip my head and dare to look the stranger in the eye. “I’m honoured.”