THE MAFIA LORD'S BALLERINA

“Again!” The word echoed in the studio, sharp and relentless. My body collapsed to the floor after the pirouette, and intense pain shot up my knees, leaving me trembling and shuddering in place. Above me, Madame Colette’s voice sliced through the air, agitated and commanding, louder than the music from the vinyl player. “Madeleine, again! Again!” Two beads of sweat slid down my face, splattering onto the wooden floor in sync. My chest heaved, struggling to pull in the air as my lungs burned. My brow furrowed in a deep frown, nostrils flaring. The raw sting in my knees throbbed where they’d slammed against the hard floor, and I was curled over, my body a shaking mess. Madame Colette stood over me, her slender frame casting a shadow, her bare feet nearly touching my face. I could see her toes, pink and sore from her endless lessons—proof of the perfection she demanded from us—me especially. When I refused to lift myself from the floor or meet her gaze, she crouched down, her slender frame folding with an almost predatory grace. Her nimble finger hooked under my chin, forcing my eyes to meet hers. Gone was the gentle softness I had known in her before lessons. Her green eyes were now cold and piercing, drilling into me with an intensity that made my skin crawl. The delicate wrinkles around her nostrils flared, her expression twisted into something that made me feel small and inadequate, like a disappointment. “Zee way you dance, eet ees disgusting!” she hissed, her Parisian accent sharper than usual. “Did you wither away in America? You used to be top of my class—” “Seven years ago!” I interrupted, my breath still ragged, my heart pounding in my chest. My frown mirrored hers, defiant. “I was top of your class seven years ago when I was fourteen! When life mattered—when ballet mattered!” A sharp gasp echoed through the room. The music momentarily came to an end. The other girls froze, their eyes wide with disbelief, none of them daring to even breathe. They couldn’t believe I had the audacity to challenge Madame Colette, let alone speak back to her with such force. But while she was just Madame Colette to them, she was my miserable aunt. And I guess I deserved the ill-treatment, the reason her only sister is behind bars was because of my mistakes. Our gazes locked, the tension thickening between us, her features a hardened reflection of my own. For a moment, I thought she might say something—acknowledge the history we shared, the pain between us. But instead, she rose from her crouch with effortless grace, her movements as fluid as ever, as if to mock my struggles. Towering over me, she clapped her hands sharply. “Again! Again!” she commanded, her eyes never leaving mine. The haunting melody of the Black Swan orchestra version filled the studio, the sound bouncing off the walls. My breath trembled as I spread my arms, leaning forward despite the fire in my shoulders. The pain was sharp, radiating through my body with every movement, but I pushed through it. My left knee stayed planted on the wooden floor while my right leg extended, lifting into the air. The music seemed to pull me off the ground, my body responding to it as if in a trance. I knew this choreography—it had been etched into my bones, though the pain and exhaustion blurred the edges of my memory. My chest heaved, my legs and toes burned, but I repeated it like a mantra: I know this, I know this. “Please. Please. Please,” I whispered under my breath as if begging my own body to remember, to not give out. My muscles screamed, but I moved into position, fighting to maintain the elegance the dance demanded, praying I wouldn’t break before her eyes. I had tried the dance over and over, to the point where I’d lost count of how many times I’d gone through the routine in just one day. My skin was slick with sweat that clung to me uncomfortably, and at the tip of my ballet shoes, I could see the blood beginning to seep through, smudging the satin where my toes pressed painfully against the material. But still, I rose onto the very tip of my aching toes, closing my eyes briefly as I reached the part of the dance that always filled me with anxiety. I could feel the eyes of the other girls on me, their silent pity hanging in the air. It crawled under my skin, making my insides churn with disgust. I didn’t want their sympathy. I, Madeleine didn't need the pity looks. As I spun into the Fouetté triple, my mind betrayed me. My senses flooded with memories I had fought so hard to bury. The distant wail of ambulance sirens echoed in my ears, the putrid stench of blood and gasoline clawed its way back into my nose, and in the background, the relentless beeping of my shattered sienna. I saw unblinking eyes—red, bloodshot, frozen. My hands, quivering uncontrollably, clasped the cold, lifeless ones in my lap. I could feel the metallic taste of blood on my lips, coating my tongue, at the back of my throat. I was spiraling, lost in the memory, and suddenly. “—Madeleine!” The sharp voice cut through the fog, yanking me back to the present violently. My balance faltered, and I slammed headfirst into the studio mirror before I could catch myself. It didn’t shatter, but the impact sent shock waves through my skull. I stumbled, my legs giving way as I crumpled to the floor, my stomach churning with a wave of nausea. Bile clawed its way up my throat, but I swallowed it down, hunched over once again, only this time, it wasn’t just sweat dripping onto the floor. Blood poured from my nose, splattering against the wooden boards beneath me. My head throbbed, a sharp, blinding pain that made it hard to think—made it hard to breathe. Instinctively, I wanted to cradle it, to comfort myself, but before I could, Madame Colette’s voice cut through the haze. This time, her patience had run out. "Zee way you move, eet ees like an éléphant!" Her voice was scathing, dripping with contempt. "Until you are back in zhape to be zee lead danseuse for Le Concours de Ballet Élite, you are not to be seen in my studio, comprends?” Her words hit me harder than the mirror had. I barely had time to process the sting before her voice rose again, this time with unmistakable fury. “Out!”