Calore Dance Academy// Red Queen AU

Chapter 4

"Haven't you filled your weekly quota for stealing things that aren't yours?" Gisa catechizes into my ear with that half-serious snark of hers.

Today, she wears a blue pinstriped dress, pieced together with transparent buttons down the middle, cutting off at her knees.

Another benefit of her job: there isn't a scrap of clothing in her closet that wasn't sewn by her own fingers. Her talent has saved us hundreds of dollars since she hasn't bought new outfits in years.

"Besides, I thought you gave up hunting for fools on Wall Street after the cops arrested you overnight."

I roll my eyes at the memory. Three years ago, I was getting a little too confident in my pickpocket talent and decided, like the fourteen-year-old fool I was, to try my tricks on New York's finest. It didn't occur to me that the rich might have more eyes than the idiots in Times Square do, that maybe, just maybe, some of them keep bodyguards and henchmen around.

I landed myself an overnight in the NYPD headquarters for that mistake. Save for the evening my parents told me I was done with dance, it was the worst night of my life, sitting in that grimy, quiet enclosure. At least the police had the decency to give a poor teenager a secluded cell, away from the drunks and actual felons of New York.

But if they really had the decency, wouldn't have they let me go with a little slap on the cheek and a warning? Not for a lowly citizen like me, I suppose.

"This week is different, Gee," I say to her, silently hoping she doesn't ask me more.

I don't know why I bother to hope such things, with a sister as smart as Gisa at my side.

Warily, she gazes upward at the buildings that scrape the sky. The streets in southern Manhattan are compact, squeezed in with concrete jungles on both edges of the sidewalks. In spite of the sun, the streets are somewhat shadowed, darkened by the tall buildings.

Around us, men and women dressed in suits and skirts and dresses scuttle about, pushing through revolving doors, snapping orders on phones, and waving down taxis to carry them to their next meetings.

Gisa halts, and her black fashion boots make a scuff on the pavement. She leans against a construction cone set between two others, giving me a frank look. "My lessons aren't for another hour. So why are we here, Mare? I thought after last time . . . you were done with Wall Street."

It isn't often my sister and I have real conversations like these. So, sighing, I glance around us, at the looming buildings, blocked-up traffic, and annoyed people, and lean onto one of the other cones. I know for a fact that I stick out like a sore thumb on Wall Street, not dressed like a tourist nor like a businesswoman.

And as always, good intentions or not, Gisa insists on being difficult by leaning against the cone, like cattle awaiting slaughter.

Or a doe, awaiting slaughter by wolves. The Wolves of Wall Street.

"Kilorn," I begin but immediately trail off, clueless of where to start. Has she even heard of the Street Fighters? My sister has never once stepped into Will's store and doesn't bother with the gossip of our apartment building. "He lost his posh job yesterday, and now he says . . . he feels like he has no purpose. He's going to try to join a gang. The . . . Scarlet Street Fighters."

The way I explain it sounds so incredibly stupid, but it's still the truth.

While she mulls over my words, I tilt my face up towards the rising sun, nearly at its height for the day. The shadows do little to keep the heat from reaching the sidewalks, turning them hot and blistering, and the sun just as quickly heats my face.