Missions (Part 3)

The Life of Aurelius Valemont: Missions (Part 3)

Victor Valemont (#father) stood in front of me, as cold and sharp as the winter air he probably crawled out of. His voice, as usual, lacked anything remotely human.

"You have to do this alone. Practice ballet in one day—you'll be fine. You'll pose as a male ballet dancer. Target: Mikhail Morozov. Russian. Former mafia. Now hides behind a ballet studio in Saint Petersburg."

I blinked. "…Ballet?"

"You'll stay there for five days. Philip will be your hacker. He'll stay in contact from the estate."

My jaw clenched. "One day of ballet? You think I can just wing a career that takes years to master?"

Victor didn't blink. "You fought 12,000 men with no weapons. You can dance."

Later That Night — Aurelius's Room

I stood in front of a mirror, shirt off, in leggings, trying not to fall over as I attempted a plié. My left leg cramped. My pride snapped.

"This is degrading," I hissed.

Yumi peeked into my room holding a tray. "You want warm milk or ice for your bruised ego?"

"Neither. I want to break my father's kneecaps."

"That's a bit harsh," she said gently. "Start with his toes."

Philip appeared on my screen. "I downloaded a tutorial called 'Ballet for Buff Men' and sent it to your tablet. Also, you might want to stretch before you pop a hip."

I groaned. "Thanks, Mom."

Day 2 — Russia: Morozov Ballet Academy, Saint Petersburg

I walked into the studio, dressed in all black: tight-fitting shirt, leggings, and ballet shoes that were killing me softly. My muscles screamed in betrayal.

Mikhail Morozov—tall, elegant, late 40s—stood at the center, judging everyone like a swan among ducklings.

When he saw me, his sharp blue eyes paused.

"You. New."

I nodded. "Arseniy Volkov. Transfer from Paris." (Fake name. Fake résumé. Real ankle pain.)

He smirked. "We will see if you are worth stage time."

Philip's voice in my earpiece:

"He's pulling up your fake background. Keep up the lie."

I turned, leapt—and almost dislocated my spine. Morozov arched an eyebrow.

"Passable. Better than I expected."

I gritted my teeth, smiling. "I aim to please."

That Evening — Morozov's Office

I broke in after hours. Inside his drawer: guns. IDs. And a ledger of trafficking victims. My hands curled into fists. He wasn't just hiding—he was running an empire under tutus and pirouettes.

I whispered into the comm. "Philip, we got him. We end this by Day 3."

Philip: "Copy that. Just don't pirouette to death."

Me: "Noted."

Day 3 — Morozov Ballet Academy

"Tonight, we perform," Mikhail announced to the company. "A surprise number—'Death of the Snow Prince'. Our special guest from Paris will star."

I turned to Philip through the earpiece. "What?! I thought I was just infiltrating—not performing in front of a full audience?!"

Philip: "Well… Morozov changed the plan. Also, he just tweeted it. Sold out. Diplomats and underground clients in attendance. Including your target."

I groaned. "I'm going to die in leggings."

Backstage

Yumi somehow snuck into Russia with Luciana's forged IDs and was now helping glue sequins onto my costume.

"You're the Snow Prince," she said, dabbing powder onto my face. "Act cold and tragic."

"I already am tragic, Yumi."

Matthew, dressed as a tree (don't ask), gave me a thumbs up. "Break a leg."

"Please don't say that," I muttered, adjusting my rhinestone crown.

Onstage

The lights dimmed.

Classical music swelled.

I stepped onto the stage.

Half the crowd whispered in awe at the "new prodigy from Paris."

The other half—clearly Morozov's black-market contacts—sipped champagne like bloodthirsty vultures.

My heart pounded. I lifted my arm… and danced.

Badly.

At first.

But then—

Leap. Spin. Fall. Recover.

Spin again. Dramatic reach toward the ceiling. Trip over a fake snowflake prop. Gasp from the crowd.

And Morozov?

Smiling.

Delighted.

This man was obsessed with drama, and I was unintentionally serving it raw.

Backstage — Later

Philip: "Congratulations. That was the most painfully emotional ballet performance I've ever seen."

Me: "I think I bruised my pride. And my ribs."

Yumi: "Morozov called you a tortured soul."

Matthew: "Someone threw a rose."

Me: "I stepped on it and slipped."

Philip: "Doesn't matter. Morozov's smitten. His guard drops tomorrow at brunch. You end this mission with a pirouette and a punch."

The next day — The Swan's Final Dance

I woke up to the sound of a ringing phone. My muscles ached in ways I never thought possible, and not from the usual missions, but from the sheer emotional weight of the ballet I had performed the night before.

"Hello?" I croaked into the phone.

Philip's voice came through. "Aurelius, I've got good news and bad news."

I rubbed my eyes. "Let me guess. The good news is I'm not going to be the one arrested for ballet atrocities. The bad news is…?"

"The bad news is Morozov is hosting a private dinner at his estate tonight. The entire thing is a show-off for his associates. He wants you to dance again. And this time, it's with a partner."

I froze.

"A partner? Who?"

Philip's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Lucky you, it's Irina Petrov—the prima ballerina from St. Petersburg. You know, the one who's known for breaking men's hearts."

My stomach churned. Not only was I stuck in a ballet rut, but now I had to perform with a woman who could probably shatter me physically in about two seconds.

The Dinner — Morozov's Estate

I arrived at the estate dressed in the most ridiculous costume. Imagine a black, sparkly leotard with tights that felt like they belonged to a child rather than someone who was supposed to be an international criminal mastermind. But, of course, Morozov thought it was "theatrically perfect."

I could feel the cold eyes of the audience on me as I was led into the grand ballroom. The chandelier sparkled overhead as the guests sipped their champagne, eyeing the 'performance' like it was the most expensive thing they'd ever seen.

Then, I saw her.

Irina Petrov.

She was everything that ballet had promised: grace, beauty, and the ability to make even the coldest of men weak at the knees. Her performance aura was so intense, it nearly knocked me off balance the moment I laid eyes on her.

She looked at me with an amused smile, probably because I was sweating buckets and looking like a deer caught in the spotlight.

"Ready, Snow Prince?" she asked, her voice dripping with mockery.

"Do I have a choice?" I muttered, trying to keep it together.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said, offering her hand. "Let's dance."

The Performance

The music began to play.

I tried my best to follow the steps, but Irina was way more experienced than I was. She spun and twirled effortlessly, while I was... struggling to keep up. At one point, I accidentally kicked her in the shin. She flinched, then glared at me, which only made the whole performance even worse.

The audience, however, was eating it up. They thought it was part of the show, that my awkward moves were intentional.

Then, in a dramatic moment, Irina and I were supposed to do a lift. She would jump into my arms, and I was supposed to twirl her gracefully before setting her down.

I was not prepared for this.

She leaped into my arms—and I immediately lost my balance.

Everything felt like it slowed down. I could hear the gasps from the audience, the shuffling of feet, and even the ticking of the clock.

No, no, no, no, no.

I tried to steady myself, but gravity wasn't on my side. We both toppled. Irina screamed in surprise, and I plummeted to the floor, landing awkwardly on my back with her sprawled on top of me.

The room went dead silent. Then, one person clapped.

Then another.

And another.

Before I knew it, the entire room was applauding.

I looked up, mortified, and saw Morozov standing in the corner with his arms crossed, smiling.

"Well done, Arseniy," he said. "A truly unforgettable performance."

Backstage

I was in pain, physically and emotionally. Irina, on the other hand, was casually sipping tea like nothing had happened.

"I've seen worse," she said with a sly grin. "But you, you've got potential. Let me know when you're ready for a real partner."

"Thanks," I muttered sarcastically, still processing my first-ever live ballet disaster.

Matthew appeared from behind the stage, looking unusually pleased.

"Did you see that?" he said, grinning. "You totally knocked her over."

"I did not knock her over!" I snapped.

"Sure you didn't," he said. "The entire audience thought it was intentional. At this rate, you're going to be the first ballerino to become a legend for... making an entrance."

The Mission — Later that Night

As we sat down for dinner, I could feel the eyes of the guests on me. They were all whispering and laughing amongst themselves, probably talking about the 'unforgettable' performance.

Morozov called me over to the corner, his eyes gleaming.

"Arseniy, my dear," he said, his hand landing on my shoulder. "You've done more than I could have asked. You are now part of my inner circle."

I nodded, trying to hide my disdain for the whole situation.

"Thank you," I said through gritted teeth.

"Now, tell me," Morozov continued, "who else would be perfect for my next ballet? Someone who truly understands the art of being unforgettable."

"I think," I said, "I know just the person."

The Night of the Performance

The final night had arrived, and I was no longer a mere dancer in a tutu. I was a hunter, cloaked under the guise of a delicate artist, prepared to execute the mission given to me. My ballet performance was over, but the real work had just begun.

Mikhail Morozov, the ballet instructor who had been running a covert smuggling operation under the cover of his high-profile studio, was my target. He had no idea that his grand performance would soon come to an untimely end.

Dinner had been served. A luxurious spread of Russian delicacies lay on the table in front of us, but I wasn't interested in the food. Morozov had been too busy praising my "perfect performance" earlier to even notice my indifference. He didn't care that I had barely survived the night, performing what could only be described as a disaster.

No, tonight was about something far darker.

I sat at the table, my posture straight, my mind working over the plan. From across the room, I could see Morozov, enjoying his wine, surrounded by his trusted associates. The air in the room had shifted. I could feel it—the heavy, expectant silence that spoke of danger lurking beneath the surface.

Irina, who had so graciously 'guided' me through the performance, leaned in next to me. Her smile was colder than I remembered, and for a split second, her gaze flickered toward Morozov.

"Is it done?" she asked, her tone barely above a whisper.

"Almost," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

The plan was simple. I would get close to Morozov, pretend to be part of his circle of trusted dancers, and then make my move when he least expected it.

The Stage Is Set

I stood up, excusing myself from the table. A few eyes followed me, but none of them suspected anything. I slipped into the back hallway of the estate, where the grand stage was. It was dimly lit, the shadows hiding my movements as I walked silently toward the storage room, where I had stashed my real weapon—a small, razor-sharp blade I'd hidden inside the folds of my costume.

Morozov's back was to me as I approached him from behind. He was laughing with his associates, boasting about his ballet mastery and the riches his smuggling operation had brought him. I took a deep breath. This would be over soon.

I approached from behind, my footsteps quiet against the marble floors.

"Excuse me, Mr. Morozov," I said, my voice sweet and respectful, as though I was simply a loyal admirer.

Morozov turned, flashing me his typical condescending grin. "Ah, the Swan Prince himself. What can I do for you, my dear?"

I stepped closer, my body barely brushing his. I smiled—falsely, of course, but just enough to make him feel like he was in control.

Then, in the blink of an eye, my hand shot forward, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him toward me.

His eyes widened in confusion.

"You're not a dancer," he said, too late to realize that his life was already slipping away.

With a fluid motion, I drove the blade into his side, the cold steel cutting through the flesh. He gasped, his breath stuttering as blood spilled from the wound.

Before he could scream, I covered his mouth, holding him in place as I twisted the blade, ensuring the job was done.

The world seemed to slow down. The sound of the blood pulsing in his throat, the hiss of his breath as he tried to fight against his fate—all of it felt distant, like I was watching someone else's nightmare unfold.

With one final movement, I released him. He collapsed onto the floor, his eyes wide with disbelief, but it was too late for him now. Morozov had been a stepping stone, a necessary part of the puzzle. His death was as clean and quick as any mission needed to be.

After that...

I stood over his body for a moment, catching my breath. The adrenaline was high, but I had done this enough times to know that the task was far from over. The next step was always the hardest: getting away undetected.

I moved swiftly, leaving the room before anyone could notice his absence. Irina had already vanished into the shadows, leaving the estate just as quickly as I had arrived.

Once outside, I took a moment to breathe in the cold night air. The mission had been successful, but I couldn't help but feel… empty. This wasn't victory. It was just another night in a never-ending cycle of bloodshed.

As I walked toward the exit of the estate, I heard footsteps behind me. I didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"You did it," Philip said, his voice muffled by the mask he wore to keep his identity concealed.

"It's done," I replied, my voice distant. "We need to leave before anyone notices."

He nodded, falling in step beside me. We didn't need to talk much. After everything we had been through together, the silence between us was comfortable, even in moments like these.

The Return to the Estate

Back at the estate, I reported to Father, who was, as usual, seated at his desk, awaiting my return. He didn't look up as I entered, as though he expected nothing less than a flawless performance from me.

"Mission complete?" he asked, his voice cold and emotionless.

"Mission complete," I said, my voice steady, though my mind was still racing from the events that had unfolded.

Father didn't acknowledge my success in any significant way. "Good. You've learned well. Now, prepare yourself. There is more work to be done. More targets to eliminate."

I nodded, knowing that this would never end. But what choice did I have?

The mission had been a success. But what came next… would be just as bloody.

End of chapter 52.