Thief (Boston Underworld #5)
A. Zavarelli
Let it ruin you. It’s the only way.
The words rush between my lips on a stolen breath, and in my mind, Vivi’s face is still as lucid as the day she uttered that direction. She was loud and unintentionally poetic. Silky locks of raven hair, red lipstick, and cat-shaped glasses. These were just a few of the threads that stitched together my mentor and my inspiration.
Every dancer at the Met tonight would sell their souls for a career like Vivi’s. I was one of the lucky disciples chosen to study under her, but I doubted it had anything to do with luck at all. She had an artist’s eye, always looking for something different. And in a flock of pale sheep, I was the lone umber wolf. Vivi liked that. From the beginning of our time together, she spoke of her plight to create cultural diversity in a world of dance that still upheld strict ancient standards.
My half-blooded Italian heritage and a dash of my mother’s ebony skin elected me as the poster child for her cause. But regardless of her reasoning, I didn’t let the opportunity go to waste. I was not under the delusion that I was special, and Vivi would be quick to remind me of it if I ever got the notion in my head. Every ballet student wanted to think she was special. That she was pure talent and natural grace. That she was the best. But every dancer’s best was only as good as the dancer next to her, waiting to steal her shine in the spotlight. Vivi provided that lesson when she allowed another dancer to do exactly that. Her practice was brutal but effective. More than structure and timing, she taught me how to live and breathe my art. And most importantly, she educated me on what happens when a dancer becomes complacent.
I remember her warmly whenever I’ve put my body through hell, and I know that she would be proud. If she was here to witness the mangled state of my feet, she would tell me that I had gone to war, and I had won.
Flexing my toes, my eyes sweep over the desolate landscape of my thighs as I swoop forward in a meditative stretch.
There is no such thing as pain. There is only discipline.
Tonight, I will take the stage as a soloist for the New York Ballet Company, performing as Ceres in Sylvia. It is a hard-won role. A role I have fought and bled for. The years of study have not been kind, but there is no such thing as mercy in ballet.
The shelf life of a dancer is short, and for me, it’s even shorter. I am fortunate that the ballet has always pleased my father because it is the one amusement he would not deny me. He told me as a child that a dancer embodies everything a woman should be. When he took me to my first ballet, I came to a quick agreement. The heavenly creatures floating across the stage in shades of pale pink and white were the most beautiful sight I had ever beheld. At the age of six, I resolved that I would be one of those dancers someday. My lofty aspirations brought amusement to my father’s otherwise brash face, and he declared that if I wanted to be a true ballerina, it would mean accepting nothing less than principle. When I asked why, he explained that in the days of old, only the best dancers could earn the accolade of ballerina.
From that day forward, I resolved that I would earn the right to be called a true ballerina. And eighteen years later, I am closer than ever to my dream. Also, closer than ever to having it snatched away.
A muted whisper jars me from stillness, and when I open my eyes, the calm before the storm dissolves.
The standing agreement between my father and the artistic director of NYBC is that I must always have my own room to dress, even if it’s only the size of a closet. My father likes to say that the guise of religion can buy you many things, but the truth is, his name is what affords such luxuries. The artistic director doesn’t blink twice at the guards who shadow my every move. Unfortunately for me, the other dancers do.
I am kept separate. Hidden away and forbidden from socializing. The circumstances of my situation haven’t bred the warmest reception from my peers, but I’m accustomed to the isolation. Which is why it is no small shock to discover that Gianni has infiltrated my improvised dressing room. I’m not even certain how he snuck in, and when I look at the door where my guard is waiting outside, a knot forms in my throat.
“What are you doing? My father will be here any—”
“Tanaka.” He lowers to my level. We’re eye to eye, and there’s no mistaking his apprehension. Gianni is the poster boy for every Italian gangster costume that gets mass produced around Halloween. Slicked jet-black hair, gold rings on his fingers, and the stereotypical New York accent. I couldn’t take him seriously on my best day, but I’m taking him seriously now.
“What is it?” I curl my legs under me and rise to my feet, my stretching forgotten. He can’t be seen here with me and he knows it. So, if he’s here, it can only mean something’s up. I have the sudden urge to puke, and it has nothing to do with the impending performance. My stomach is a riot of nerves, and it’s all his fault.
“You promised me.” My spine sags forward as I clutch my waist. “You swore everything would be okay.”
All I can think about is my dreams going up in smoke. Principal won’t matter if I’m dead. Nothing will matter if I’m dead. The years of training, the countless hurdles I’ve overcome, they will have been for nothing.
Gianni glances at the door. “I came to warn you.”
“Warn me about what?”
The conversation screeches to a halt when there’s a knock on the door. The knock I’ve been dreading since his arrival. I knew it would come, and there isn’t time to finish what Gianni started. He curses under his breath, bolting for a chair in the center of the room. I wave at him frantically while he pulls himself up through a displaced ceiling tile.