But the head bodyguard took two quick steps and suddenly he was there, blocking Danny’s path. He was big, up close: not as big as Danny and much older, but he had that wiry, tough look, like he’d been fighting wars when Danny was still in diapers. He gave a tiny shake of his head.

Danny put up his hands: okay, you got me. “I just want a quick word with your boss.”

“Is busy,” the head bodyguard told us. His Russian accent carved the words into rough-edged blocks of ice, the s’s becoming z’s. “With his girlfriend.” He nodded at me. “Maybe you should be with your girlfriend. Ballet is no place for business.”

Meanwhile, Luka and his girlfriend had continued up the stairs. I exchanged panicked looks with Danny. We were going to lose them!

Danny frowned. Filled his lungs and bellowed—

“OI!”

The shout bounced off the stone pillars and marble statues. It set the crystals in the chandelier tinkling. Every single person in the lobby turned around, appalled by the blue-collar, uniquely British sound. They stared at Danny as if he’d ripped open his tuxedo and revealed a janitor’s uniform underneath.

But it worked. Luka stopped dead and turned around, buying us a few seconds. He glanced at us, then at the head bodyguard. “Yuri?” he asked. What is this?

The head bodyguard—Yuri, apparently—scowled at us, clearly not happy that we’d caused a scene. He grabbed Danny’s lapels and started to muscle him back down the stairs. The other three bodyguards were rushing up from below. It was all smoothly practiced and professional: Yuri turned and nodded curtly to Luka: don’t worry, we’ve got this.

Except…he hadn’t reckoned on Danny. As Yuri turned back to him, Danny punched him in the face, fast and brutal. Yuri staggered back and Danny charged up the stairs after Luka with me by his side.

Luka whirled around to face us and stepped protectively in front of his girlfriend. However evil he was, apparently he really cared about her.

We reached him just as the three bodyguards from downstairs grabbed Danny. But now we were close enough to be heard. “I know who killed your boy Gennady,” Danny told him.

Yuri stalked up the stairs, his white shirt soaked with blood from a broken nose. He grabbed one of Danny’s arms and wrenched it up behind his back. “Outside!” he snapped.

Luka held up his hand: wait. “Who?” he barked.

Danny didn’t flinch. He just gave one of those cocky grins. “Ah, well, see, I need something from you, too,” he told Luka.

“Is not negotiation!” thundered Luka. “Gennady was a friend. Tell me or Yuri will break arm.”