THIEF Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Glossary of Terms

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  THIEF © 2018 A. Zavarelli

  Cover Design by Coverluv

  Photo by Wander Aguiar

  Model Marshall Perrin

  Editing by Jenny Sims @Editing4Indies

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Glossary of Terms

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Works by A. Zavarelli

  ARCHIS—Bittersweet

  Camila Cabello—Never be the Same

  Halsey, G. Eazy—Him and I

  Symon—Lonely Girl

  Eminem, Ed Sheeran—River

  Rita Ora, Liam Payne—For You

  Zac Effron, Zendaya—Rewrite the Stars

  Sia—The Greatest

  Selena Gomez—Wolves

  Imagine Dragons—Believer

  Craig Armstrong, Lana Del Ray—Hotel Sayre

  R.I.P.—Rita Ora

  AWOLNATION—Sail

  Bruno Mars—It Will Rain

  Leona Lewis—Bleeding Love

  Plumb—Damaged

  Leona Lewis—Angel

  Yiruma—River Flows in You

  Leona Lewis—Take a Bow

  One Republic—Apologize

  Avtoritet—authority, captain

  Boevik—warrior, soldier, strike force

  Pakhan—leader, boss

  Nika, Nikolasha, Kol’ka, Kolyan—diminutive forms of the name Alexei

  Nakya, Tashechka—diminutive forms of the name Tanaka

  Zvezda—star

  Bratan—brother

  Sovietnik—councilor, advisor to the pakhan

  Vory v Zakone—thieves in law

  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.

  “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.

  At least my manners are still intact, so I reply as I should. “You’ve seen me dance?”

  “I like to invest my time in the arts.” The stranger flashes a boyish smile in contrast to the deepness of his eyes. Eyes as blue as an iceberg, and as enigmatic as one too. They invoke a feeling of shallowness in my chest. It’s an odd sensation, but it feels as though he’s laughing at me.

  I look at my father, the most powerful man I’ve ever known. Everything has shifted as he stands beside Nikolai, suddenly dwarfed. I want to know the purpose of this meeting. Nikolai is not an Italian associate, and he has no business being here.

  An assistant pops her head in to alert me to the time, and my thoughts are swiftly refocused. I have less than five minutes to be upstairs. Papà apologizes for keeping me and says they will leave me to prepare. But Nikolai doesn’t heed my father’s words. He lingers unnecessarily, his eyes examining my face with unsettling curiosity.

  “Tanaka?”

  “Yes?”

  His eyes cut through me. “Break a leg, won’t you?”

  “Merde,” I correct him. “You don’t tell a dancer to break a leg.”

  He shrugs, and with that remarkable impression, he leaves.

  My fingers tremble as I reach for my pointes. I’ve spent hours preparing these new shoes—burning, smashing, sewing, altering—and when this performance is over, they will be ready for the trash.

  My feet are battered and swollen, calloused and on the verge of deformity. The severity of my practice has left me no choice but to use ouch pouches. But as I look around the room, I can’t seem to find them. I know they were here, and I didn’t forget them because I never come unprepared. But they aren’t here now, and I have less than ten minutes to curtain.

  The decision has been forfeited. I have no alternative but to go without, since there isn’t even a cotton ball to be found in my bag. The other dancers would surely have some on hand but asking for them would be admitting weakness. I would rather suffer an eternity in hell than admit I was weak. A principal would do whatever it takes, no matter how much it hurts.