Preface

The day I got my vision back, I didn’t see stars—I saw my fiancé unzipping my nurse like a cheap suitcase behind a plastic curtain.

Poetic, if you’re into Greek tragedies and cheap lingerie.

My name is Leo Christofides. I’d lived in the darkness for two years, and I tell you, it’s not like walking in a black dream with your other senses swell and sharp—people who tell you that are full of crap. Darkness is just that, darkness—large, cold, and ugly like elderly catfish.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to dance for the Royal Ballet. But that was back when my legs weren’t just furniture in an expensive hospital. I wasn’t born blind. I’ve seen the blue of the sky and the cherry blossom in late spring. I remember a photo of Margot Fonteyn on my bedroom wall. It was black and white, blurry, and preciously old. It showed Margot dressed in a black leotard, with her right leg poised in the air like she was kicking fate right in the teeth. Her points looked worn and not that clean. Her face was full of disgust for life and the effects of extreme dieting. But I liked the hard sweetness of it, and her eyes were cheerful and dark, like a drop of good whiskey.

That portrait wasn’t just art—it was a challenge. My dad bought it at a swanky auction at Christie’s. It cost him a fortune, but he didn’t care. He slapped it on my wall like a personal dare. My dad—hard as a nail, built like a tank, and twice as thick-skinned. He wasn’t the guy who believed in half-measures. You did it right, or you didn’t do it at all. Deep down he was proud: his little Leonida had talent. She wasn’t just another soulless, well-stretched doll. He used to say I had a touch of magic only a few dancers had. That magic was all I had left when he died in the car accident. Mom never got over it. She couldn’t find her way out of the hole it left in her heart. She lives in a posh clinic now, sitting on a carved bench by the river, waiting for dad to pick her up. It’s been years. She’s still waiting.

When my dad died, his friend volunteered to look after us. He called himself our guardian. That was Ricky’s father—Rick the Slick, heir to a dodgy fortune. He was cute the way a baby gator is cute. But I didn’t mind the nasty side of Ricky. I liked his carefree life, his infectious laughter, and his hands on my waist like he thought he was holding something fragile.

Then there was that night. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was in my room, staring at Margot Fonteyn’s poised leg, wondering how long it would take me to get there. Then the phone rang. It was Ricky. His voice had that lazy drawl, like he was born bored and never quite shook it out.

“Done with the audition, pretty? Fancy a fast ride?”

“Check,” I said, not thinking twice.

“Yey! Come to my friend’s place. We’ll figure out the rest. 5314 Lakewood Walk. You know where that is?”

“Sure, Rick. You slumming it now?”

Ricky gave me a lazy chuckle. He sounded half-drunk. “I’ll send you a cab. Don’t keep me waiting.”

I didn’t like it. Not one bit. But Rick had a way of making you feel like saying no wasn’t an option. The cab dropped me at a modern, sleek villa with an artful sandstone staircase. The place looked cool and wonky, as if a drunken moose had given it a few good kicks. Rick opened the door—tall, blonde, with a sun-kissed face that made women’s pants drop. He yanked me inside and kissed me like he was claiming lost property.

“Change of plan,” he whispered in my ear, voice tight.

“Plans are for suckers,” I shrugged, trying not to sound weary. “What are we up to?”

Rick lit a cigarette, and I watched the flame flicker against his blue eyes. “We are doing business. Nothing to worry about.”

I laughed, low and sarcastic. “Sure.”

Ricky and doing something, especially business, were mutually exclusive concepts.

His grin was quick, like a knife flicking open. “You are coming with me. We hand over a bag of cash, get some stuff, and leave. No big deal.”

“Sounds swell.”

“It’s nothing, baby. Just keep quiet and don’t look anyone in the eye.”

We got in his car—a long-wheel black Merc that purred like a happy fat cat. I took the wheel because Rick looked jittery. I’d seen him like that once before—after his dad caught him with coke in his pocket.

We took a winding road that seemed to go nowhere fast. The air was wet and thick, and the mist made the headlights look like fireflies. We stopped near a wide-span warehouse made of steel containers. Rick looked pale, sweat pooling at his temples.

“Stay put,” he whispered. He slipped out into the dark, leaving me with the smell of his sweat and a nagging sense of doom.

Then I heard it—two gunshots, then metal grinding against metal. I didn’t think. I just ran. I found Ricky pinned under a steel container, blood spilling like cheap wine. I dragged him out, slipping on the wet ground. Didn’t notice the cliff until I fell, and when I hit the rocks, the world blacked out.

When I woke up, I couldn’t see a thing. I heard footsteps crunching closer and a voice rough but not unpleasant.

“You’re a tough one, Leo Christofides. Just like your old man,” the voice said.

It was Ricky’s dad. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, voice shaking but strong.

“You saved my son. He’ll marry you, Leo. You have my word. But first, we’ll fix you like new. You will be fine, I promise.”

I didn’t answer. My face felt like a crushed vase, and everything around me was black as coal. In the distance, I heard a helicopter. It sounded like salvation, but not mine.