Back when I was growing up, the city streets in Yakutsk offered very little comfort to homeless teenagers in the dead of winter. Not long before I found myself in the care of the Bratva, I found myself facing certain death under just those circumstances. More than a few boys had frozen to death out there, and that night, I was sure I was going to be one of them.
A kindly woman took pity on me. Her name was Mariya, and she had a child daughter named Sonya. Mariya gave me food and shelter for the night, and the next day, she sent me to find a man who she said would take care of me, give me a future — that man turned out to be a friend of the Bratva, and my career began there.
But I did not forget Mariya and her little Sonya. I stayed in touch, and she would write me endless letters about her beloved daughter. Sonya was a talented dancer; even though Mariya was a food peddler with little money when I met her, she prospered and saved enough to move to Moscow, eventually putting her daughter into ballet.
Sonya must have been rather talented indeed, because I learned that before long, she was discovered by one Jean Bouchard, a world-famous ballet coach on tour there. He offered to take little Sonya, then nine years old, under his wing, dancing across Europe and America to live out her dreams.
This offer was a dream come true for the both of them, and they readily accepted. For a long time, until very recently, all I knew of Sonya was that she was sending money back home, and that she seemed very happy.
Then I received a more urgent, discrete message from Mariya.
It had been two years since she had heard from her daughter. Two years of silence after regular contact. The money was still coming, but never a word. She started asking questions, probing friends of friends for information about her daughter, now seventeen years old.
It reached her through the grapevine that Sonya’s dream had become a nightmare.
Ever since taking her from home, Jean had been monstrous to her. The training regimen for a ballerina already pushes the boundaries of what is healthy for the human body, but Jean pushed Sonya many times harder. Jean controlled everything Sonya did; what she ate, when and how she slept, how she breathed, carried herself in public, spoke. She had no friends — she knew only her training.
As Sonya got older, it only got worse. Jean had hospital bills quietly covered up, hiding traces of his prized dancer’s malnutrition. When she was fifteen, he’s started her on drugs to keep her lively and active for her non-stop training and increasingly prestigious performances.
I did some research of my own on Jean, and this all seemed to be in the routine for him. More than one of his previous protégés had ended their careers broken, sick, or worse, and there were rumors that Jean could get too personal for comfort with his trainees.
Mariya was heartbroken to learn all this, but her sorrow was only matched by her fury. When she reached out to me, she sent me every last kopeck of the money Sonya had been sending her. It was all of her savings. She wanted Jean to pay for this.
In truth, the money was but a fraction of what such a high-profile target was worth, but to this woman, I owed my life.
And I would pay her with someone else’s.
I pull up at the Metropolitan Opera House as droves of people in expensive attire were filing in, laughing and chattering to each other. I make my way around all of them, heading for one of the employee entrances. I won’t be questioned thoroughly until I hit a checkpoint — I’m dressed in the exact outfit as the serving staff.
Before getting out of my car, I tuck the wire into my coat pocket and take out the bottle of wine. I had to have it in place just before the start of the performance.
As I approach the entrance, a guard nods to me as I flash my fake ID badge. Workers come in and out constantly, so it’s rare that a security guard at a place like this can spot a new face with any certainty. If anything, I’m just another late server.
I keep the bottle of wine low at my side, not conspicuously being hidden, but not in plain sight either.
The crowd is bustling by the time I make it to the hallways. I know the staff routes well enough by now — I’ve had plenty of time to research this place. Ordinarily, I would be loath to perform a hit at such a public venue as this, but Mariya was very clear in her instructions; Jean has been pushing Sonya to the brink of death for tonight’s performance, and she wants to return the favor. She wants him to know why this is happening.
Yet even as I try to stay focused on my objective, as I see the droves of beautiful, wealthy people milling about busily, many of them glowing with laughter and anticipation for the show, I can’t help but think back to the way Cassie looked on my bed, pristine in the dim light.