Yours Wickedly, Sierra

SIERRA

On the biggest night of my ballet career, with the audience applause still ringing in my ears, all I wanted was to celebrate with my boyfriend, Anton.

Instead, I walked in on him celebrating with someone else.

“Oh, yes, yes!” she moaned, while he pumped into her on the sofa.

The bouquet of red roses in my arms crashed to the floor with a thud. I couldn't breathe because my chest began to burn to the highest point.

Upon seeing me, they fell off each other, hurrying to pull on their clothes.

“Sierra?!” My so-called boyfriend and director, Anton, spoke in a hushed tone. The other woman stood frozen in terror.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” I snapped, glaring at him, and hot tears flowed from my eyes. “Sleeping with my backup dancer? In my dressing room!”

Anton gave a careless shrug. “You're talented.” Then he looked me up and down slowly like I was something cheap. “But offstage, let's face it, Sierra, you are like a wet rag, undesirable, and honestly, I'm bored with you.”

My fingers flew to my lips.

Undesirable?

Then I yelled in outrage, flying at Anton with my nails scratching at his face, while the slut dashed out of the room.

Security had to pull me off Anton.

The next day, Anton officially fired me from his ballet studio and sued me for physical assault.

PRIMA BALLERINA GOES FERAL ON DIRECTOR.

The headlines splashed across media pages made things worse.

Thanks to him, no dance company in the world would ever hire me again. I lost my penthouse; all the money I had ever made went into payment for damages, leaving me homeless in France.

So, I packed my bags and flew to Boston to live with my older brother, Howard, who was also going through a major crisis.

They grabbed us in the dead of the night, tied us up, and gagged our mouths. When the blindfolds came off. We were face-to-face with a monster.

The obese man sat at a table eating a turkey sandwich...at two a.m.?

“Monroe,” he spoke with a natural ease, biting through his food as if this were a normal situation for him. “I believe you owe me a debt.”

I quickly turned to my brother in panic. “Howard, what's he talking about?”

Howard's eyes grew wide with fear. “M—Mr. Santini, I can explain—”

The man sharply interrupted him. “Always with the excuses, but you had a lot of fun gambling and partying with my hard-earned money without inviting me. See, I'm also in debt; I have to pay off the Spinellis for my protection, and you don't want to owe the Mafia!”

I started shaking all over. My hands grew cold, and my knees felt weak.

Oh God.

Not the Mafia!

Santini looked at Howard and demanded. “Do you have my money?”

“Give me two days!” Howard pleaded.

Santini didn't blink; he glanced at the large man in the corner. “Kill him.”

The large man pulled a cleaver from his