Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(2)

“Principessa,” my father calls through the door. “Are you decent?”

The tile slides back into place, and I clear my throat. “Yes, Papà.”

The guard opens the door, and my father enters. I meet him halfway as a sign of respect, and he kisses each of my cheeks. The ritual is predictable and familiar, but the uneasiness in his dark eyes is not.

Impeccably dressed in a suit and trench coat, my father remains steadfast in his old-fashioned ways. He will always look his best, and everyone around him should too. But even he can’t hide the grimace in his step as he paces the perimeter of the room with a keen eye. It could mean one of two things. A business deal gone bad, or his debts are worse than I had imagined.

I don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell. A father does not discuss these things with his daughter. At least not in our world. My days, weeks, and hours are slave to a dancer’s regime, while criminal activities consume his.

At first glance, the man is an improbable source for my paternal genes. He is a throwback to his Italian roots with dusky eyes and sooty hair. My complexion is far more coppery, and my eyes a more forgiving shade of amber. He is stocky in stature, and I am willowy like my mother.

I am grateful to have inherited her features, believing that in some small way, she lives on through me.

“Sei Bella.” Papà roosts on the chair that Gianni used for his escape only moments ago. “Tonight, the audience will see a genuine angel.”

I smile at the compliment, but beneath his words is an undercurrent of despair, and it worries me.

“You know you must give this up soon, Principessa.”

My answering nod is stiff and obedient. “Yes, Papà, I know.”

Soon sounds quicker than I anticipated, but it is not entirely surprising. Dante has been making quiet preparations to marry me, and the moment I agree, my life will change entirely. Dancer’s accolades are of no significance in a man’s world. A mafia wife has one sole purpose, and it is not outside the home. I’ve been raised to know the challenges that await me. The sum of my life is only as great as the man’s name that I take.

“Dante would like to have a word with you,” Papà says.

I comply with a quiet, “Okay.”

After one short command from my father, Dante enters dutifully. He greets me with a respectful kiss on the cheek and nothing more. It is as much contact as we ever have under the watchful eye of my father. I am to remain pure for my husband, and only on the wedding night will my virtue be taken. This is the way of my world, and one of the many reasons for my constant guard.

“You look like a goddess.” Dante squeezes my hand. “I expect you will mesmerize the entire theatre. I am only disappointed I will not be able to see it.”

My face crumples. “You aren’t staying?”

Dante looks at my father before answering. “I wish I could, but business calls.”

I nod because it isn’t my place to argue. Business is business.

“Thing is,” Dante says with undisguised bitterness, “the business is overseas. I could be gone for a couple of months.”

A couple of months? This is news to me, and it’s the first time I’ve ever known Dante to resent his marching orders. Orders undoubtedly handed down by my father. In a bold display of ownership, he slips his hand over my cheek and leans in to whisper in my ear. “When I return, I’ll be making you my wife.”

A shiver moves through me, and Papà clears his throat. “Time to go, Dante.”

One last kiss on my cheek, and Dante does as he’s told.

I give my father a weak smile, hoping he will go now. The show will start shortly, and my nerves have not abated. I need more time to warm up. I need to re-frame my thoughts and calm the chaos eating up my focus. My father’s uneasy behavior. Gianni’s unspoken warning, and now, Dante’s swift exit. An atomic energy is building in the air with every passing second, and I don’t like it.

I force my beating heart to calm when my father gestures for his men outside, and Gianni is the one to enter. He’s here as a guard tonight, and his face is completely devoid of emotion when my eyes flash to his. He gives nothing away, and I know it’s important that I do the same.

“Tanaka,” my father says brusquely. “I’d like you to meet an associate of mine.”

My eyes move to the door, a new threat lying in wait. The associate is introduced as Nikolai, but he is hardly an associate from what I can see. The man is from a different world entirely.

The first thing I always notice about a person is their posture. I was raised to believe that good posture conveys good manners, as well as respect for those around you. Nikolai carries his posture like a casual “fuck you.” There is no decorum in his leather jacket, jeans, or his haphazardly laced motorcycle boots. Everything he wears is black, but the small glimpse of flesh beneath is a riot of colors. Tattoos cover every inch of his exposed skin, including his throat. I’m not sure which is more offensive—the ink or the fauxhawk atop his head. This is not the way you attend a ballet, nor is he the type of man I expect my father to keep company with.

“Tanaka.” He reaches for my hand and kisses it in a way that few men would ever dare to do in my father’s presence. “You dance beautifully.”

The words are unmistakably accented. Russian. My composure wavers while I struggle to make sense of this situation. My father has always been protective of me. His own men know better than to speak to me or look at me, but for this stranger, somehow, it’s okay.