“What type of accident?”

“Gas asphyxiation.” The words leave my throat in a pained whisper. My fingers tremble around the wine glass as I bring it to my lips. I don’t want to think about that time, but my demons swirl from the background, wrapping their tentacles tightly around my throat.

“Breathe, Lia.” A hand flattens against mine, pulling it and the glass down to rest on the table.

That’s when I realize I’m balling my other hand and moisture is stinging my lids.

I stare at him, at the eternal calm that’s in his eyes despite the chaos he’s inflicted with merely a few questions. “Why are you doing this?”

“To get to know you.”

“You can’t force someone to talk about their life. That’s not getting to know them.”

“It is for me.”

“Then shouldn’t I get to know you, too?”

He pulls his hand from mine. “If you want.”

“Does this mean I can ask you questions?”

“Sure.”

“What do you do exactly?” I probably shouldn’t try to find out more about him, but I already know his name. If I want to survive him, I need to look further into who he is and what he does.

“I’m a strategist.”

“A strategist who kills?” I lower my voice.

His lips curve in a small smirk as he tips his glass at me. “Exactly.”

“A strategist for whom?”

“I don’t think it would make a difference if you knew.”

“You said I could ask questions.”

“I never said I would answer them all.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fair is for weak people, Lia. You’ve been in a monstrous world long enough to realize fairness doesn’t really exist.”

“It does exist, even if people like you are doing their best to erase it.”

He lifts a brow as he swirls his wine. “People like me?”

“You know.”

“No, not really. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Criminals.”

“Criminals. Interesting analogy.”

“It’s not an analogy when it’s true.” I push back against my faux leather seat, giving up on the salad and sipping the wine. It’s helping to loosen the nerves that have been on high alert since I first met this man.

“According to you, perhaps.”

“According to the world. You killed people.”

“People like me, criminals per your words.”

“That doesn’t make you a hero.”

“A hero is the last thing I want to be. Selflessness has never been my thing.”

“So you would rather be the villain?”

“A villain is the hero in his own story, so why not?”

“The villain always loses.”

“In Disney films. In your ballet performances, perhaps. In real life, however, the villain is the one who always wins.”

This man has absolutely no regard for morality or societal standards. While I’m not shocked such people exist, I’ve only met them in ballet. The spiteful mean girls—and boys. I’ve never met a person with a destructive mindset who wouldn’t hesitate to use a gun.

It makes him even more dangerous.

I lift my chin. “But wouldn’t you eventually be killed by a villain just like yourself?”

“Probably. Until then, I’ll do what I do best.”

“Which is?”

“Nothing you should worry about. Yet. Now, back to you, prima ballerina, when did you come to the States?”

I empty half the glass, needing more loosening of my nerves. “When I was five.”

“With whom?”

“My grandmother raised me.”

“The American one, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“Is she still alive?”

“She passed away a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. It’s more like those apathetic condolences people offer.

“If you were sorry, you’d stop asking me these questions.”

“Any other family members?” he continues as if I said nothing.

“None.”

“Friends?”

“No.” I finish the wine, refusing to tell him about Luca. That’s my secret from the world.

He slides his glass across the table, and I’m once again drawn to the masculine fingers and how they casually wrap around it, how his nonchalance is as breathtaking as his actions. “I understand now.”

I pour more wine to stop myself from ogling him. “Understand what?”

“The loneliness in your eyes. You managed to transform it and translate it with your body language on the stage. That is very creative.”

“I’m not lonely.” My voice lowers at the end, betraying my defensiveness.

“If you say so.”

“I’m not. I have…I have three million followers on Instagram.”

“Wow. Impressive.”

“Stop mocking me.”

“Wasn’t that the reaction you were hoping for? Validation by showcasing your fake followers?”

“They’re not fake. They’re real people.”

“What do they know about you aside from your pre-performance and workout selfies?”

“Have you been stalking me?”

“Your Instagram is public. There was no stalking involved. But yes, Lia, I’ve been through it, and I think it’s rather…dull.”

My blood boils, bubbling to the surface, but I mutter, “I don’t care what you think.”

“But you care about what others think. That’s why you keep that page. Be it because of the need for some sort of twisted validation or for attention. Though I don’t think you’re consciously pursuing the latter.”

How does this man read so much into details? How does he go to depths even I haven’t thought about? Consciously, at least.

“Are you trying to prove how much you have a hold on me? Is that it?”

“I’m not trying to prove anything. As I said, I’m just getting to know you, Lia.”

“And then what? After you get to know me, what are you planning to do with me?”

“What makes you believe I plan to do something?