Chapter 1

Nina's POV

The lights were burning hot against my skin, but I barely noticed anymore.

My body moved through the steps without thinking. Turn. Extend. I’d done this dance a hundred times. Maybe more. It was muscle memory now.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, I could feel him watching me.

I didn’t need to look at Box Five to know he was there. I felt it the second I walked on stage. That pull. Like someone had reached across the theater and touched me even though we were fifty feet apart.

He’d been coming to my shows for six months now. Always in the same spot. Always with those men in suits standing behind him like guards. And always, always staring at me like nobody else existed.

I only know his name. Didn’t know anything about him.

But I danced, maybe part of me was dancing for him anyway.

The music swelled and I went into my solo. Thirty-two turns, one after another. My vision blurred. My ankle screamed. But I kept going.

Because he was watching.

When I finally stopped, the audience went crazy. Clapping, some of them standing.

I bowed like I was supposed to. Graceful. Humble. All the things Madame Caruso drilled into us.

But when I looked up, my eyes went straight to his box.

He wasn’t clapping. Just sitting there with his hands on the railing, leaning forward like he was trying to get closer.

Our eyes met.

Two seconds. Maybe for three.

Then the curtain dropped and I could breathe again.

“Nyx!” Sophia grabbed me, practically screaming. “Oh my god, that was perfect! Did you hear them?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

“Good? Are you kidding? Come on, everyone’s going out. You have to come this time.”

I shook my head. “I can’t. I need to practice.”

“Practice what? You just killed it out there!”

“My extensions were off in the second act.”

Sophia stared at me like I was insane. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

Maybe I was. But I didn’t care.

She left with the others. I could hear them laughing down the hallway, making plans, living normal lives.

I went to change.

Practice clothes. Hair still up. My body was still humming with adrenaline even though I was exhausted.

The small studio on the third floor was empty. It was always empty this late. Just me and the mirror and the barre.

I started working on my extensions.

One hour. Two hours. Three.

My feet were bleeding. I could feel it, warm and sticky inside my shoes. But I kept going.

Higher. Cleaner. Better.

Again.

By the time I stopped, my phone said 1:43 AM.

The theater was dead silent now. Everyone is gone. Even security was probably up front.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the back stairs. My legs felt like lead. Everything hurts.

The back door was heavy. I had to push hard to get it open.

Cool air hit my face as I stepped into the alley.

It was dark except for one streetlight at the end, flickering like it was about to die.

I started walking toward the street.

Then I heard voices… coming from somewhere behind the dumpsters.

I should have kept walking. I should have minded my business and gone home.

But I stopped.

Took a few steps toward the sound.

Just enough to see around the corner.

Four men. Three holding someone on his knees. One standing in front with his back to me.

The man on his knees was crying. “Please, I didn’t say anything, I swear…”

“Liar.” The standing man’s voice was cold. Empty.

“No, please, my family…”

The standing man raised his hand.

Gun.

Oh god, he had a gun.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

The man on his knees started begging. Words tumbling out so fast I couldn’t understand them.

The standing man pressed the gun to his head.

“Traitors don’t get second chances.”

BANG.

The sound cracked through the alley like lightning.

I screamed.

I couldn’t help it. The sound just came out.

All four men whipped around.

The standing man’s face came into the light.

No.

No no no.

I’ve seen this face before, a man from the theater.

He stared at me. Gun still in his hand. Blood on his sleeve.

For one second, we just looked at each other.

Then his face changed. It got hard.

“Get her.”

I ran.

I did not look back. I did not scream again. I just ran.

My lungs burned almost immediately, sharp and painful, like they were tearing apart inside my chest. My shoes slapped against the floor, the sound too loud, echoing between the walls of the narrow alleyway. I knew these streets. I had walked them a hundred times after late rehearsals, memorized every turn, every shortcut, every dead end.

That was the only reason I survived.

I turned left, then right, then cut through a passage barely wide enough for one person. My shoulder scraped against the wall, skin burning, but I did not slow down. I could hear footsteps behind me. Shouting. Italian, sharp and angry, words tumbling over each other.

They were close.

My heart was beating so hard I thought it might actually break my ribs.

I pushed harder, legs screaming, body moving on pure instinct now. Dance has taught me endurance. Pain meant nothing. You could always push past it. I had done it my whole life. Tonight, that discipline was the only thing keeping me alive.

I ducked through a rusted gate and into another alley, darker than the last. The streetlight overhead flickered, then went out completely, plunging everything into shadow. I slowed just enough to pull my hood up, then ran again, quieter now, controlled.

I heard the footsteps overshoot the turn.

I did not stop.

I took another turn, then another, zigzagging through streets I knew better than my own apartment. When I finally reached my building, my legs were shaking so badly I nearly missed the door code. My fingers slipped twice before I managed to punch it in.

The door buzzed open.

I slipped inside and slammed it shut behind me, pressing my full weight against it like that might somehow keep the world out.

For a long moment, I just stood there, gasping for air.

Then I ran upstairs.

I locked my apartment door and twisted the deadbolt until it clicked. Once. Twice. Three times. Only then did I slide down against the door, my body folding in on itself.

My hands were shaking so badly I had to grab my wrists to keep them still.

I had seen his face.

The man with the gun.

He was covered in tattoos. Arms, neck, disappearing beneath his shirt collar. I did not know his name. I did not know anything about him. But I had seen him before. Countless times.

At the theater.

Standing near the back. Near the box.

Always there when he was there.

The realization made my head ache.

This was not random.