An Aria in Venice: A Musical Interlude Novel
Read An Aria in Venice: A Musical Interlude Novel Online
Authors: KaSonndra Leigh
An
A
ria
In
V
enice
A Musical Interlude Novel
KaSonndra Leigh
Edited by Melissa Ringsted
© 2014 by KaSonndra Leigh
All rights reserved.
This ebook is licensed
for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold, copied, or
given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this
book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then
please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard
work of this author. This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations,
and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Art © 2014 Fantasia Frog
Designs.
For the dreamers in life.
For those who have found love.
And for the ones who are still searching
for the way.
Never give up.
Always choose to believe.
Wherever You Will Go by Charlene Soraia
Die Without You by PM Dawn
Ritorna A Me (Return to Me) by the Rome
Session Singers
Royals by Lorde
Cry Me A River by Justin Timberlake
Remember How I Broke Your Heart by
Priscilla Ahn
Cascade by Hyper (Club Scene Song)
Falling by the Civil Wars
A Forest feat. Marina Celeste by Nouvelle
Vague
My Skin by Natalie Merchant
Until the End by Norah Jones (The way Luca
feels about Adriana)
Girl With the Red Balloon by the Civil
Wars
Sour Times by the Civil Wars
Just A Fool by Christina Aguilera
You Lost Me by Christina Aguilera
Never Think by Rob Pattinson
Chapter 1: The Great Bangs Debate
Chapter 2: A
Matter of Thinking He’s the One
Chapter 4:
That Mean Girls Thing, But All Grown Up
Chapter 5:
Wet, Wild & Carefree
Chapter 6:
“I do believe she’s quite the little ballerina badass.”
Chapter 7:
Under the Tuscan Sun
Chapter 8:
Olive Trees & Bumblebees
Chapter 10:
If I Were the Girl and You Were the Guy ... and Vice Versa
Chapter 11:
A Breathtaking Mix of the Gothic, Water Smells and Yes ... There’s Even a
Little Stromboli
Chapter 12:
To Be Kings & Queens ... Nope! That’s Not Our Thing
Chapter 13:
A Carpenter in Training
Chapter 14: That Family Girl Thing, but With a Twist
Chapter 15: La sede di musica ... the Center of Music,
the Key to My Heart
Chapter
16: When Angels Sing ...
Chapter 17:
When Little Hints Reveal Some Pretty Big Things
Chapter 18:
When the Normalcy of Common Sense Loses Out to the Reckless Appeal of
Desperation
Chapter 19:
Sex, Lies, and the Bridge of Sighs
Chapter 22:
Reunions and Wings and Sisterly Things
Chapter 23:
Sittin’ on the Dock of theBayCanal
Chapter 25:
What Happens in Venice Doesn’t Always Stay there
Chapter 26:
Now Make These Broken Wings
Chapter 27:
What Happens in the Past Should Stay There, But When It Doesn’t that Shit Hurts
Like Hell.
Chapter 28:
Bittersweet Reunions
Chapter 29:
The Butterfly Effect and Other Insignificant Things
Chapter 30:
Well Behaved Women Seldom Make History
Chapter 31:
To Dance Away the Pain
Chapter 32:
Naughty Little Kisses
Chapter 35:
To Be a Very Bad Boy ... Or Maybe Not. Does it Really Matter?
Chapter 36:
Fighting an Urge to Scratch out Her Eyes
Chapter 38:
You Can Dance In the Dark, but ... Will It Really Make the Ghosts Go Away?
Chapter 39:
When Darkness Falls
Chapter 40:
Tears ... Those Little Slices of Forgiveness
: The Great Bangs Debate
Adriana
Will
I hide behind bangs or show my big forehead today?
I
can never decide. What type of day does this feel like … the kind where I hide
from life and overprotective mothers, like mine? Or will this be the one where
I show the world how great of a ballerina I’ll someday become? To be quite
honest, I’m not sure if I can handle either of those choices.
It’s
June here in Milan, and the sun beams through my dressing room’s window,
heating my face. Warmth should mean I’m confident, right? Don’t think so. What
a stupid theory. I do know that I’m full of nerves, and the hives on my arms
itch. God, I can’t believe how badly I’m itching.
The
final round of auditions, the ones to decide whether I get taken seriously as a
professional ballerina or not, happens in about fifteen minutes, and I’m not
sure that I’m ready for it. I do all the little things to calm my nerves so I
can stop tripping out, stuff that usually works really well for me.
Unfortunately, not this time. I either get picked as the lead ballerina in my
dance troupe’s upcoming production, or my mother will probably disown me.
Either
way, Nikolai, my brother’s incredibly gorgeous best friend—that would be the
guy who doesn’t even know I exist—says I look beautiful with or without the
hair in my face. I can’t read a lot into Nikolai’s words, though. He still sees
me as a little girl, and my mother doesn’t see me at all. I’m not sure which
one is worse.
Actually,
I think this will be a great day for bangs.
I
get dressed in my gear: leotard, slippers, tutu, and Pointe shoes, which aren’t
properly broken in and will sound like a horse’s hoofs clacking across the
stage because of the unbroken wood in the toes. Filling up with nerves, I
inhale a shaky breath and mentally travel through the moves I’ve practiced for
the last sixteen years of my life.
Outside
my door, I hear the voices of two men. One belongs to Pierre, Ines Barilla’s
assistant, and the other belongs to the man who could easily be considered my
second brother, Nikolai Belikov, the man who taught me all I needed to know
about the erotic aspects of the moves found in Russian ballet. I strain at the
door, listening, only to find that I can’t hear a thing. The walls in Italy’s
buildings aren’t made of just any kind of plaster; it’s the kind that’s so
thick you better not even think about trying to put a fist through it. That is,
unless you don’t mind broken bones.
I
crack the door open the tiniest bit and peek through the opening. I can’t see
Pierre, but I do have a clear view of Nikolai. Standing just at six-feet tall,
he’s slender but muscular and moves with more grace than most female ballerinas
will ever see in this lifetime. Most times he keeps his shoulder length, blond
hair held back in a ponytail, which highlights his grayish-blue eyes. They hold
too much sadness to glance inside for long, unless you want to find yourself
swept away and caught up in the spell of a man who must’ve been a supernatural
creature in another lifetime. What other logical explanation could there be for
the way he sets my heart aflutter with a single glance, or even the tiniest
hint of a smile from those lips shaped like a heart? The gray button-down shirt
he’s wearing rolled up at the sleeves and the dark jeans give the women
parading around, gawking as they stroll by and accidentally brush his arm, a
hint of the gorgeous frame concealed by his clothing. He’s the ideal image of
perfect, a guy who must be both a dancer and a mystic, the man I’ve had a crush
on since before I was old enough to realize it was no longer okay to do so.
Here
comes the twist.
But
... he’s off limits. He’s my brother’s best friend.
Even if he were to notice me, then that little tidbit keeps us from ever being
able to be any more than friends. Two people who’ve known each other since we
were snotty-nosed little kids, running the streets of Moscow with our parents
on
War and History
weekend, which begins on or after the ninth day of
May when Mother Russia celebrates our Victory Day.
No
matter. I want him to notice me. I don’t care about what Alek or my mother,
Katerina, might think. After this audition and I win the lead role in
Seraphine, and ultimately a permanent spot in
Aterballetto
, the
repertory company mother has used her influence to get me into, then he’ll be
too impressed to resist me. He sees me as Aleksandr Dostovsky’s little sister,
the human fish. Nothing more. I can change that.
I
will make him see me for the woman I’ve become.
Slowly,
I close the door, shutting out the image of Nikolai looking about as perfect as
any man candy could ever be. Walking back over to the dressing stand with the
creepy mirror, I close my eyes and inhale a shaky breath while I think of happy
memories, those times when my father and mother used to take me to the shores
of the French West Indies, back in the days when they smiled and kissed and
held hands. Before my father became a man that even the Sicilian Mafia was
afraid to challenge.
Behind
me, the door eases open and my best friend and roommate, Lis, slips into the
room. “Are you ready, Adri? Damn, I hope one of us gets this lead.” Her black
eyes beam with excitement, while splotchy red marks start to pop out all over
my skin. I cannot believe my nerves are doing this right now. I start
scratching my arms, abdomen, and lower thighs.
“Shit,
Adri. You’re breaking out!” Lis announces, her dark eyes searching my face and
arms.
“Uh
huh. Soooo tell me something I don’t already know,” I respond. Lis starts
massaging my arms and legs like it’s really going to help, although I do
appreciate the effort. Suddenly, I sit back down and the world stops. Well, no,
not really, but that’s what it feels like for me. Sharp pains— several of them
in all places over my ass and lower thighs—fire through me.
“Holy
freakin’ mama!” I cry out, shooting to my feet. “There are like bees or
something caught up in my tutu!” I gasp and start swiping at my ass, hoping to
relieve me of the pain. I’m screaming and jumping around. Lis starts yelling,
too; she’s allergic to bees. I can imagine what the girls waiting out in the
hallway are thinking.
That crazy Dostovsky girl’s acting up again. Signora
Barilla should never have let the likes of her kind into the company. What kind
of drugs is she taking?
I rip the tutu off, tearing my leotard in
the process and exposing a part of my ass, the part that’s on fire. Lis
finishes helping me remove my skirt, and quickly covers her mouth as she
inhales a sharp breath. She’s staring at my butt and driving me insane with
worry.
“What
is it? What do you see?” I ask in Russian, forgetting that Lis is American and
doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. “Would you please tell me what’s going on
back there?” I ask in English this time.
“Not
a thing. We’ll take care of this. Dontcha worry a bit.” Right. I know she’s
lying. I can tell by the tone in her voice. She tucks her lips and sets to work
removing what I’m assuming must be dead bees from the remains of my tutu and
leotard.
“This
isn’t a good sign,” I say, thinking there’s no way I’m going to audition with a
butt covered in hives. Laima, the Russian deity of fate and luck, isn’t
watching over me the way she usually does. That’s what Nikolai always tells me;
that I have the spirit of a deity watching over me, gifting my body with the
power of dance and beauty. Not every ballerina gets to be so lucky as this.
Just me.
Sharp
pain rips me back to the situation at hand, and I let out a yowl. “Screw all
this!” I yell. “How big was that stinger?” I ask, squinting and bouncing up and
down a bit while Lis works on whatever she’s trying to do to my ass cheeks.
“Keep
still,” she orders.
“I
can’t. It hurts.”
“Don’t
go blaming me if I screw something up back here,” she warns.
Okay that
doesn’t sound good at all.
“I
want to see.”
“Almost
done.” One final pull and the stingers come out, making me feel as though I’ve
lost a chunk of skin along with whatever Lis removed. I shriek through my
teeth, my face screwed up in an ode to pain. I spin around, rubbing my buttocks
and glance at what Lis holds in her hands. My pain turns to shock, and
instantly anger sets in. They’re not stingers. Shiny, silver thumbtacks are
gleaming under the fluorescent lighting. Somehow, someway, a sneaky little
gremlin managed to sew a small piece of mesh wire into the lining of my tutu.
As soon as I sat down, the trap released the mesh and stuck to my leotard and
my skin.
“Are
you kidding me? Tacks?” Angry heat boils up in me. Only one person … no, wait,
two people would be capable of doing something like this. I take them out of
Lis’s hand.
“Turn
around. I need to make sure I got all of them.” She spins me around and starts
massaging my ass. Suddenly, the door opens and our faces snap toward it.
Nikolai stands in the doorway, his handsome face looking wild and concerned,
and checking me out as I stand there with my ripped leotard hiked up in the air
and Lis’s hand still on my butt. I pull what’s left of the fabric down at once.
I mean, sure, ballerinas show our stuff all the time, but not our bare bottoms.
And how must this look to a man who walks in and finds two women grappling each
other? My cheeks fire up and the hives reignite next. Nikolai lowers his eyes
at once, reminding me of a child who just got scolded for stealing something,
with his blond hair loose and falling around his shoulders. Any other guy
would’ve taken in an eyeful of my assets and not thought twice about doing so.
“Everything
all right in here?” he asks, still staring at the floor.
“We’re
fine,” I answer, smoothing the back of my suit and feeling Lis’s hands trying
her best to hold the fabric down in back. She’s also crying, and no, her tears
aren’t because I’m in pain. She’s laughing at me standing here in my ripped
ballet uniform while the man I have a mega crush on stands in the doorway
looking mortified, as though he doesn’t have enough of a potty mouth to rival
Hades the way I’ve heard him use before. Looking at him right now, the way he
innocently shies away from gawking at me, somebody might think I’ve defiled a
male virgin.
“Are
you sure?” he asks. “I heard screaming.”
“More
certain than I’ll ever be,” I answer. Lis’s attempt to restrain her grin fails
and her laugh forces its way out. Spit flies all over my arm. I close my eyes
and shake my head, because I think I’ll just die on the floor now.
“All
right. Good luck,” Nikolai answers, lowering his head again, but not before I
see him hiding a smile.
After
threatening to string Lis up by her ankles for laughing at me, I manage to
change into a new white leotard and tutu, an outfit that makes me feel sexy as
well as athletic, and head down the Grecian’s long hallway until I reach the
main auditorium.
My
instructor and the woman who manages the troupes that practice the Italian form
of ballet, Ines Barilla, waits at the doorway. Standing at 5’10” tall,
Aterballetto’s top instructor commands respect. No one dares go against her.
Her performance history as a top ballerina during the 80s and early 90s gives
her an authenticity that can’t be denied or disrespected. The woman pretty much
invented her own style; a combination of moves that includes a mixture of the
classic and the taboo, the graceful and the sexy. She lives and breathes her
art—churns out successful productions with a passion that doesn’t always make
her the most pleasurable boss, but always an effective one—and trains world
famous ballerinas on a regular basis. I always wondered how my mother managed
to secure a job for me under her instruction. Everyone knows Signora Barilla is
known for being an abrasive businesswoman and not the type to be influenced by
money or a person’s status in society. I’m sure there’s some secret Signora
Barilla let slip by Mother that, unfortunately, is now being used against her.
That is the way Katerina Dostovsky became a billionaire’s wife and that’s how
she has run her children’s lives, as well.
“You
took your time, by the gods. Do you think no one else intends to audition
today, girl?” she scolds, leading me into the room where a small table is set
up at the bottom of the stage. Two men and one other woman stand and greet Ines
as she walks over to them.
