How Serena ended up grinding her ass on a pole in one of my clubs while her sister was at this place, I’ll never fucking know.
Swan Academy wasn’t unknown to my family. My mom loved the ballet. Because of her, I gave a generous donation in her name when she died.
“It’s weird Serena had a connection to this place too. Makes you wonder if we’re all destined to be linked in some fucked up way,” Marcello grunts, and irritation spreads through me.
I don’t believe in destiny. Fate is a made-up excuse people use when they fail at life. If it is meant to be, it will be. That shit’s for people with no backbone or drive to go after what they want.
My father didn’t build an empire on luck and the fates aligning. He got his hands dirty, he did the work, rose from the gutter and made a name for himself.
I’ve lived up to that name and taken it to the next level, carving my own place.
Organized crime has evolved over the generations. It’s had to.
The world is ever-changing, and we have to change with it, get our money into legitimate companies from the ground up. We’re like mites: unseen until the walls start crumbling around you.
“Let’s enter around the back.” Marcello jerks his chin to the front steps, an array of dancers all camped out with what looks like a cameraman filming them.
“Let’s make this quick,” I gripe. I didn’t have to come here myself. I have accountants and lackeys for this shit, but I owed Serena at least this much.
Chapter Six
Alyssa
It’s so much bigger than I anticipated.
The cab drives up a long, winding driveway and pulls into a gravel parking lot behind the building. I hand him a twenty and wince. It’s less than a fifty-cent tip. “Sorry.”
Cringing, I exit as quickly as possible to lessen my embarrassment. I take in the white stone building. I saw images online, but they didn’t do the place justice.
Almost like a castle on grounds of lush greenery—a complete contradiction to the city buildings. This place looks like an estate you’d find a member of the royal family living in, turrets and all.
Mom was obsessed with the royals even though we had no connection to the United Kingdom. She had all the princess Diana merchandise.
Squeezing the handle of my bag, I round the building and take the front steps two at a time.
Inside is a stark contrast to the outside. Modern furnishings oddly placed in the lobby. Simple, bare white walls give a more art environment vibe. Signs guiding applicants lead me through another set of doors into a large room.
I’ve been to many a cattle market, and this is no different. Hundreds of girls, just like livestock, litter the floor, all numbered and the best there is to offer.
A woman sits behind a reception-type desk, taking people's information, while what looks like a film crew interviews some of the girls.
I join the line, fidgeting with the zip of my jacket.
I should have worn a color that stands out. Instead, like many of the girls, I opted for black leggings and a leotard, my hair pulled back from my face—unoriginal and mundane.
My mother was a beautiful woman. I inherited her smooth skin, jade green eyes, and dainty features, and my figure was in peak condition.
Even though I’ve been taking care of mom these last couple years, I still trained for when this day would come.
When I finally reach the front of the line, the lady asks, “Name?” A smile growing when the camera begins filming in our direction.
This must be for their website or YouTube channel. The world is evolving, and all industries have to evolve with it.
Leaning my hands on the desk, I tell her, “Alyssa Phoenix.”
A nervous pulse hums in my veins as she flits her fake nails over the keys of her computer, searching.
Click, click, click.
There’s a list up on the screen, and even though I know my name won’t be there, I deflate like a balloon when she says, “A walk in?” All the air pushes out of my lungs on a sigh, my frame sagging.
“Yes.”
How many of us were invited and how many are just like me, living on hope?
I look around. Many of the girls have family with them. The room screams of wealth and entitlement.
The woman behind the desk picks up a form and hands it to me along with a number sticker. “Fill that out and give it to the judges when it’s your turn.”
The girl’s words from the train repeat in my mind.
“They say it’s an open audition, but in reality, Swan School of Dance doesn’t accept nobodies. They invite people they plan to enrol—the rest is just for show.”
The music moves through my limbs like water, flowing powerfully with every leg raise and toe point. I dip, twirl, and extend with precision and determination.