Hidden Worthiness Page 2

  Nick’s kids were the closest thing he’d ever get to kids of his own, and he loved them all as if they were his own. But Carina, she was something special. That girl would light the world all the way up.

  Or burn it all the way down, depending on her mood at the time.

  He stood at the kitchen island and grated mozzarella cheese while his don made crusts and Carina prepared the meat and ordered them around. Snuggles snuffled around the kitchen floor, sucking up bits of cheese that escaped from the pile Donnie grated. Ren sat on the sofa in the hearth room, playing on his phone, laughing when somebody made a crack or the dog did something dumb. In the heart of this warm family scene, Donnie could almost forget that this was a night of death and bad trouble. Except for the slight shadow between Nick’s brows and the hot gleam in his eyes.

  A Pagano man had to carry his life in a little black case, with compartments for anger and grief, for violence and war, and for love and warmth and family, keeping it separate, keeping it whole.

  ~oOo~

  Nick studied the photos Donnie had taken and handed the phone back. “Not see no evil, hear no evil. Blind, deaf, and dumb. That’s what it means.”

  Donnie felt like a fool not to have seen that. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  The don waved off his apology and crossed to the French doors that looked out from his home office onto his expansive back yard. The pool was lit for the night, and blue light wavered across the glass.

  Donnie sat where he was and sipped his scotch. “It’s Bondaruk. Gotta be.”

  “Yes. We knew Yuri would send another son and rebuild. These past eleven months haven’t made him calmer or smarter.” He turned from the view and sat in a nearby armchair. “I won’t go to war with this vermin, Donnie. L’aquila non fa guerra ai ranocchi. We’ll deal with this quietly and thoroughly.”

  “Agreed. But he’ll send another son. He’s still got eight left. Should we find a way to end them at the source?”

  “The source is in Ukraine. Not even I have that kind of pull.”

  “La famiglia italiana might.”

  Nick laughed darkly and finished his scotch. “This is not the time for spending favors in Italy—or here at home. No, we can handle this ourselves, and we will. We’ll end the son here now, and if and when he sends another son, we’ll end that one, too. He’ll either learn, or he’ll mourn.”

  At the word, Nick stopped and sighed quietly. “I’ll go to Sherrie in the morning and—what’s Mike’s new wife’s name?”

  Donnie had to reach for it himself. “Katie, I think. Yeah, Katie.”

  “I’ll see her, too. Get me her number and address.”

  Donnie forwarded the info from his contacts to Nick’s phone. “Done.”

  “All right. Don’t stray tonight, Don. Who’s on you?”

  “Nobody. I was at Dominic’s when I got the call, and I sent Jake on with Sonia.” The memory pushed a sour chuckle to his lips. He’d just broken up with her, not thirty seconds before he’d gotten Chubs’ call. Usually, when he ended things, he took some time to smooth things over, but tonight, he’d bundled an angry, weepy woman into Jake’s SUV.

  He never understood why women cried when he ended things with them. Though sometimes they said the words, they didn’t love him. He knew that for an absolute fact. And he didn’t love them. He made sure of that. He was not lovable, so he would never love.

  Nick never missed anything, but he let the chuckle slide with nothing more than a keen look and a pause to let Donnie explain if he wished. He didn’t wish.

  “You can’t be alone. Call Jake back, and make sure the capos aren’t running loose tonight. Get eyes on Dumas, too. We heard anything from West Virginia?”

  Trey Pagano, Nick’s cousin, and the only other Pagano in the organization, was in West Virginia with his wife, on a belated honeymoon. Lara Pagano was Nick’s cryptologist and thus an extremely high value target. The Bondaruks had already hurt her more than once.

  They had guards with the couple, keeping watch from a safe distance. They called in at the end of each day with a clear check when all was well. “Angie didn’t say. He would’ve if the call had been missed. But I’ll check in with him anyway.”

  “Put somebody on Carlo, too. They have the baby this week.” Trey and Lara’s four-month-old son, Frank. Carlo was Trey’s father, and Nick’s cousin. It wouldn’t be beneath the Bondaruks to go for an infant, if they were aware he existed. They didn’t keep to the same code that held families sacrosanct.

  Donnie nodded. Though it was unlikely the Ukrainians would make another move tonight, it would be stupid not to guard against it.

  He would be up through the night, but it wouldn’t be the first time. He knew Nick would be as well. He was calm, because he was always calm. But Donnie knew him better than almost anyone except his wife, and he saw the rage that flamed under the surface.

  “I won’t play with this vermin, Donnie. I will send Yuri Bondaruk’s sons back in boxes, one by one, on a fucking assembly line.”

  ~ 2 ~

  The tinny music coming from the school’s sad little sound system wound to its end, and Ari and Julian froze in position. The applause started slowly, from the teachers first, and then the children. Julian drew Ari up, and they stood. Julian bowed, and Ari swanned into her curtsey, as if she were on stage at the Met and not standing on the scratched floor of a multipurpose room at Lincoln Elementary School in Washington Park.

  School wasn’t in session yet, but the district ran grant-funded summer programs. Apparently, the grant didn’t cover air conditioning, and this room was hot and stuffy. A couple of lazy fans on poles rattled back and forth in the corners.

  “Thank you very much!” one of the teachers cheered as she stepped in front of Ari and Julian. “That was really beautiful!”

  They bowed again and moved off to the side, where two plastic folding chairs awaited. Julian picked them both up and brought them in so they’d sit facing their audience.

  “Children, now Ms. Luciano and Mr. Trewson will answer your questions. Who would like to ask the first one?”

  A host of hands shot up, and Ari smiled. She liked these outreach programs, where dancers went to schools to showcase their craft to children who might follow in their footsteps, vastly more than what she faced in a few days: the premiere gala for the company’s fall season. Hobnobbing with Providence’s snooty elite over middle-shelf champagne, being eyed up and down like a racehorse, was not her idea of a good time. If she was going to wear tight clothing and uncomfortable shoes, she’d rather be dancing while she did it.

  This gala was the first time she’d be in the position of prize racehorse. Devonny Allera, the company’s prima ballerina, had torn her Achilles tendon, possibly ending her career and certainly sidelining it for the season, and Ari had been tapped to take her place as the lead of the fall season’s premiere ballet. She actually hated the story of The Phantom of the Opera—Erik was a creepy stalker and not romantic at all—but it was a crowd pleaser, and who was she to sneer at anything about her chance in the spotlight?

  The spotlight on the stage. Out in the world, she didn’t like to be noticed. A leotard and tutu were her armor. Without it, she wanted simply to fade away.

  The gala was a masked ball, and Ari was glad. She would dress as her character, Christine, and she could be the belle of the ball in armor.

  A boy asked the first question, and directed it to Julian. “Do you get teased for being a ballerina?”

  Hardly the first time such a question had been asked. Sometimes a kid—usually a teenager—asked it like a joke, and laughed with his buddies as he did it. But just as often it was asked as this boy—probably eight or nine years old—had: shyly, turning red as boys around him laughed. He was interested. And embarrassed. But he’d asked anyway.

  Julian smiled and honed his focus on the brave boy. “Well, we don’t call boy dancers ballerinas. We’re ballerinos, or danseurs. Or just dancers. But yes, I got teased a lot when I was a kid
. More than teased—really bullied. But I loved to dance from before I ever went to school, and I tried to ignore all the jerks and do what I loved. And now, I spend every day with some of most beautiful, elegant women in the world, and I’m stronger than any of those stupid boys who bullied me”—he flexed his arms, showing his impressive biceps, and Ari noticed that his focus had shifted to the laughers—“I can lift a woman with one hand, so gracefully you’d think she was made of feathers, lift her over my head, and carry her across a stage on the palm of my hand. None of the men those stupid boys became is half my strength, and none of them is doing what they love now. But I am. When people tease you, it’s because they’re scared, or they’re jealous. They’re trying to bring you down because they know they’re not as good as you are.”

  The boy who asked the question smiled with secret happiness. The boys who’d laughed at him sat quietly, and for a few seconds, Julian’s strong wisdom overtook the room. Then the teacher in charge cleared her throat. Julian had basically called out several children in the room for bullying, called them jerks, and stupid, and weak, and jealous. Ari was curious how the teacher would handle it.

  She didn’t. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Trewson. Who would like to ask the next question?” Hands went up again, and she selected a little girl with long, wild black hair, dressed all in pink. A glittery image of ballet slippers adorned her t-shirt.

  “When did you start dancing?” she asked in a soft voice, her eyes downcast. She hadn’t indicated whom she meant the question for, but Ari exchanged a glance with Julian and took it herself.

  “I’m like Mr. Trewson, in that I’ve been dancing since before I could stand. But I’ve been in real ballet classes since I was three. You don’t have to start as early as that to have a career when you’re grown, but if you haven’t started yet, you should soon. And there’s never any time you’re too old to start if you just love to dance and learn. I teach a class with seniors—grandmas and grandpas—who are just learning.” She leaned in and stretched out one leg, going into full point, affecting a balletic pose while seated on a cheap folding chair. “I like your shirt. How old are you, sweetie?”

  “Eight,” the little girl in pink answered.

  “Do you take classes?”

  “I took one, but my mom said it was too expensive. It was fun. Miss Paz said I was good. I watch a lot of videos online.”

  Ari knew Gloria Paz; she’d retired from the Rhode Island Ballet a year or two after Ari had joined. If Gloria had, in fact, told this girl she was good, then she was good. She made a mental note to leave brochures with the teacher for the company’s community classes. There were low-cost and free opportunities for students that showed talent and fire.

  “It can be expensive, your mom’s right. But there are ways to help with that, too. We’ll leave some information with your teacher, and maybe you can show your mom, okay?”

  Smiling brightly, the little girl sat back down.

  “Is it hard?” was the next question, and Julian and Ari fell into a rhythm of answering the questions that always got asked.

  ~oOo~

  Ari hated to eat right before a fitting, but she’d taken a pain pill last night after a grueling day of dress rehearsal, and she’d nearly overslept their first school visit. Julian had finally dragged her from her bed with just enough time to shower, dress, and grab her gear, so she’d skipped breakfast. She couldn’t skip lunch as well.

  All her life, meals had been highly organized and scheduled activities. There were times of the year she could be a bit more flexible, and she didn’t deny herself every gustatory joy, but her body was her work, and food was fuel. She spent hours of her days at peak physical effort, so she didn’t fuck around with how she ate. Protein. Vitamins. Fiber. Calcium.

  Julian ate well, too, for the same reasons, but he had more room for flexibility. He needed bulk on his frame. Also, he’d had his final fitting last night. Ari couldn’t help but glare at the pumpernickel roll slathered in butter as he took a bite.

  She sighed at her grilled salmon salad. Salmon was one of her favorite meals, actually, but right now, with her stomach lamenting its missed breakfast and her best friend nomming on a yummy roll, fish and lettuce didn’t really appeal. Knowing what she’d face at the fitting tonight, these few calories hardly seemed worth it.

  Baxter would be there this afternoon. Their director and choreographer was a supercharged control freak who had to have everything exactly to his microscopically detailed specifications. He’d even dictated her costume for the gala, and he made a nuisance of himself at every fitting.

  He was angry at her, had been angry at her throughout rehearsals, yelling and demanding, threatening to replace her with each tiny misstep or question. Somehow, he blamed her for Devonny’s trouble, as if she’d done something to his muse to bring on the injury.

  She stared at her salad again, thinking of all the cruel bullshit that would spew from Baxter’s mouth if she had even the teensiest food belly—and she would. When you ran at less than ten-percent body fat, and wore skin-tight clothing, a little bit of food in the belly showed.

  “You have to eat, Ari,” Julian said, and stuffed the last of his roll into his mouth.

  “I know. I’m just psyching myself up for Baxter.” It wasn’t just children who were bullies.

  “Baxter thinks he’s a tortured genius and can do what he likes.” Julian picked up her fork and speared a piece of salmon. He held it up, and Ari took the bite. “But remember, he’s nothing more than the director of the Rhode Island Ballet. He’s never stepped foot on a stage in New York, and you have.”

  Her brief sojourn in the corps de ballet of the American Ballet Theatre. “Yeah, and I failed.”

  And Baxter had come from a leading ballet company in Europe. The fact that he’d never been in a New York ballet company was about geography, not talent, so Julian’s attempt at making her feel better was pretty pathetic. But it worked, because he’d tried.

  “You didn’t fail. You’re a soloist here, doing what you love.”

  Her friend’s eternally upbeat outlook on life. He could find the bright side of a black hole. It didn’t matter that his argument was circular and nonsensical. He’d simply shone light until the world looked brighter.

  He offered her another bite of her salad, and she took it. “Fine. Baxter is a jerk because he’s a failure, but I’m a huge success in the exact same place.”

  His wide grin showed all his beautiful white teeth. “Precisely!”

  ~oOo~

  “Can we please do something about these? How many times do I have to ask?” Baxter grabbed Ari’s breasts with all the sensitivity of a man complaining about the quality of the produce. “She looks like a bloody tavern wench.”

  She was hardly buxom; she barely filled out an A cup. But Baxter complained about the slightest hint of tit in the line of a costume. In his mind, the most beautiful female body was starving to death.

  Bastien stepped in, pushing Baxter aside without seeming to have done so. “This is the Hannibal costume, Bax. It should be alluring.”

  “Alluring, not tawdry. Take it in, tape her down, do something.” He let her go with a little shove and twirled away in disgust.

  The bodice was already so tight it threatened to constrain her breath and movement.

  “If I can’t breathe, I can’t dance,” Ari said. She spoke quietly, half hoping her mild protest would be missed, but he heard her and turned back.

  Pointing his finger, he drove it into her stomach. “Maybe you should think of that before you shovel slop into your mouth like a pig.” His weaponized digit came up and poked her in the nose. “Besides, you should get all the air you need and then some through this thing.”

  Ari knew she was a pretty woman. She had seen thousands of photos of herself, and she knew it. She had a beautiful body, strong and sleek. Long dancer’s legs and arms, slim hips and waist. Her breasts were perfectly average in the dance world and sufficiently perky for the real word. She ha
d a graceful neck many of her colleagues coveted. Long, thick hair, dark with lots of natural highlights. Big blue-grey eyes. A nicely shaped face, almost oval.

  She knew she was pretty. The factual evidence was everywhere. But when she looked in the mirror, all she ever saw was her nose.

  It wasn’t a sideshow exhibit. It wasn’t oddly shaped or weirdly placed. It was just a nose. She could look at any one of the many photos—professional and otherwise, retouched and natural—that showed her face and see that it was just a nose.

  But it was a bit too much for her face. Just a bit bigger than was proportional. It had been even bigger, relatively speaking, when she was little; she’d grown mostly into it during her teens.

  From the first time a schoolmate had run up to her on the playground and yelled HONK HONK! in her face, she’d been self-conscious. In high school, as she was becoming good enough to plan for a career in ballet, she’d begged her father to let her get a nose job. Just a little narrowing, maybe some shortening. A nip and a tuck. Nothing more.

  Her father had refused, insisting that she was beautiful just as God had made her, and that he absolutely would not allow her to be cut on solely to conform to somebody else’s arbitrary standard of beauty.

  So she’d learned to contour.

  As an adult on her own, she’d planned to have surgery as soon as she could afford it, and when she’d been brought on at the ABT as an apprentice, she’d been sure it was just a matter of time before she’d be beautiful. But apprentice dancers made very little money. They didn’t make much more in the corps. She’d lost her place in the company without rising higher than that.

  Here she was, in Providence, a soloist in an inconsequential company, sharing an apartment with her best friend because neither of them could afford to live alone in anything like a decent neighborhood.

  She was thirty-one years old, probably at the peak of her anemic career, and she was still wearing the nose God gave her.