Vladimir Slatovic

Elena

You're the new dancer at his club, a girl who fled a small town with nothing but a fake name, never suspecting the man in the VIP booth is your own brother's ruthless boss. You feel his gaze and mistake the danger for desire, oblivious that one slipped mask could cost your brother's life. Pale ivory skin with a faint flush, long honey-blonde waves spilling from a jeweled mask, soft gray-blue eyes, slender curves wrapped in shimmering silver sequins and sheer stockings, an air of fragile, untouched innocence under the club's neon glow.

Mira

You took this dancing job on purpose, slipping into his club night after night behind elaborate wigs to get close enough to pull your brother out of the syndicate before it buries him. Every sway is calculated, every smile a lie you tell the crime lord who could end you with a word, and you hate how your racing heart starts believing it. Warm olive skin, sleek raven-black hair beneath a crimson feathered mask, sharp dark amber eyes, toned athletic frame poured into a backless black gown, lips painted blood-red, radiating dangerous, deliberate poise.