Chapter 2 Bella
BELLA
"Mr. Romanov, could you turn slightly to your left?" The photographer asks. “Perfect. The light loves you.”
The photographer's flash catches Slava mid-laugh, and I want to throw myself into traffic.
The truth is, Bella Creminelli doesn't exist.
She's a fiction I built from falsified records and forged references, named after a stupid childhood nickname because Luca used to call me a "little Cremini mushroom" thanks to the heinous bowl cut Mom inflicted on me in the third grade.
An entire fake identity just to get close to Slava Romanov.
An obsession that has eaten me up for five long years.
All of it in the pursuit of vengeance, and out of my vow to destroy the man who destroyed my family.
For five years, that obsession has seeped into every part of my being until I can tell you every little thing about him: how he loves a good espresso martini but you won’t ever catch him drinking one in public, the way his fingers will drum to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake when he’s deep in thought, and his habit of running his thumb across his lips whenever he catches me staring.
And as I watch Slava smile for the cameras like the legitimate businessman I help convince the world that he is, I can’t help admit that he is infuriatingly good at this.
Right now, with his hand draped over Councilman Peters’ shoulder, he looks like a man who's never hurt anyone in his life.
God, I hate him.
I hate the sharp angles of his stupidly handsome face. I hate those sharp cheekbones that can cut glass, his jaw that belongs on a Bernini sculpture, and the dirty blond hair swept back from his forehead like he wandered out of a Renaissance painting.
I hate the small scar bisecting his chin, a tiny imperfection that somehow makes everything else more insufferable.
I hate that he's six-foot-three of perfect proportions.
I hate the broad chest and muscular arms that his tailored suit can't hide.
I hate he's the kind of beautiful that makes my skin prickle with a familiar fantasy I’m not supposed to have, but one that keeps coming back over and over again.
My hand drifts to the necklace at my throat—a seven-pointed star pendant in gold with a diamond winking at its center, and I squeeze it to force me away from my inappropriate fantasy.
Luca gave this necklace to me three weeks before he died. I didn't know then that it would be the last gift I'd ever receive from him. Didn't know that within a month I'd be standing at his funeral, holding my little nephew Anthony’s hand in mine and looking down into his casket.
All while Anthony keeps repeating the words that shred my heart apart over and over again.
“Daddy, pwease wake up.”
Anthony has Luca's eyes and Luca's laugh and Luca's stubborn chin.
He is the reason I get up every morning.
He is the reason I endure the humiliation of keeping tabs on Slava Romanov's dry cleaning and fixing his ties and pretending I don't notice the parade of women leaving his office on wobbling legs with smeared lipstick and satisfied smiles.
The pendant feels warm from my body heat, and the jagged points cradling the diamond cuts just enough when I squeeze that I can focus on reminding myself of what matters.
Before leaving for the event tonight, Anthony asked me about Luca again.
"Aunt Belly, what was daddy like?"
I'd held him tighter, pressed my lips to his hair, and told him the same story that I’ve told him for five years now about his father. The good parts. The safe parts. The stories that didn't include why he died or who killed him or how he ended up in that position in the first place.
How it was all my fault.
The diamond bites against my hand, and I imagine the headline I'll write when this is over. When I've gathered enough evidence to expose what he really is. BILLIONAIRE CEO EXPOSED AS MURDERING MOB BOSS.
Sure, I could write something cleverer after all these years, but I don’t want that headline to be fancy or clever. I want it to be ugly and to the point.
I imagine his face on the cover of every newspaper, that perfect mask finally gone, those gray eyes no longer mischievous but sullen with the realization that someone beat him at his own game.
I wonder if I’ll be allowed to visit him in prison to gloat. But as soon as I think that, my mind imagines him somehow turning it against me, and I can hear his voice rumbling against my ear. “You might’ve ruined me, but I’m going to destroy you.”
My eyes suddenly fly open.
Goddamn it!
That’s when Vanessa Ashford-Price catches my eye.
She's standing near the bar, champagne flute dangling from her fingers, watching Slava pose for photographs with a pout on her face. Then, her face lights up a little as Slava’s face turns.
She pushes her tongue into her cheek slowly to remind him of what she was doing to him just a few minutes ago, and licks her lips seductively.
Bitch.
The jealousy that flares in my chest is immediate, irrational, and completely unacceptable. I have no right to be jealous. I don't want him. I want him brought to his knees in a way that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with justice.
And yet my jaw clenches. And my nails dig into my palms as my hand balls into a fist.
I give Slava another look, and then decide to walk over to Vanessa. She sees me coming, and her smile rearranges into the familiar mocking smile of a trust fund princess who likes looking down on help like me.
“I need to talk to you.”
"Don't worry.” She wipes a single manicured finger at the corner of her mouth and taps it against my chest. “I won't tag you when I post about it."
I look down and see my blouse absorbing what I hope is just condensation from her flute, and then back up at her sneer.
"You're not going to post about it." I keep my voice warm, but there’s no mistaking the dagger in it.
"And who the fuck do you think you are that you can tell me what I can and can’t post?"
“Mr. Romanov’s PR agent—”
“Oh right,” She interrupts, and the smile turns nasty. “His obedient little mouthpiece who watches him like a lost puppy, forever wondering when it’s her turn.”
Okay, bitch, you wanna play it like that?
“—and as his PR agent, I know all about your father’s indictment, your fights with your three stepmothers for what’s left of your trust fund, and exactly how many of your sad little stories have been outright rejected by the Post, because they’re just so tired and played out.”
Her smile freezes, and her mouth flops like a fish on the hook—opening and closing without sound.
“If you so much as think about posting, I will help Mr. Romanov bring down a defamation lawsuit so fucking big that daddy will have no choice but to cut you off entirely to save his own balls.”
Now it’s my turn to smile.
“And with daddy’s lawyers too busy trying to keep him out of prison, it won’t end with you keeping your apartment on the Upper East Side. No matter how many billionaires’ cocks you put down your throat.”
Her eyes dart away from me, and I know that she’s looking for Slava to signal some kind of protection.
Then she looks back and the uncertainty creeps in.
Her fingers tighten around the body of the flute.
For a second, I think she’s about to smash it on my face.
But the moment passes, and she slams it down on the bar.
Nobody, not even the bartender, even looks her way.
“Now be a good girl,” I say sweetly. “And fuck off.”
Bang!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
My first thought is that someone must’ve gotten too enthusiastic with the Dom Pérignon.
But then the screaming starts. Reality dawns on me. Those aren't corks popping. Those are gunshots. And they're coming from the main gallery floor.
My body moves before my brain catches up. From the corner of my eye, I see a flash of muzzle fire near the north entrance. Guests are already starting to scramble like ants from an overturned anthill, and there’s blood spreading across the white marble floor.
I blink, and my attention shifts elsewhere.
Slava.
He's still posing for the photos, and the first thought I have is: This is it. Let him die. Let someone else do what I've been unable to do for five years.
But as soon as the thought pops into my head, I know that I can’t let him die. Because if he dies now, he dies a martyr. A philanthropist cut down in his prime. The story ends with him as the victim, and I will never have the satisfaction of watching the world see him for the monster he really is.
And so, I do something that I swore I’d never do.
"Get down!"
I hit him at the waist, and tackle him to the ground with my full weight. We crash down to the ground together. My elbow slams against the marble floor, and when I hit the solid wall of heat and muscle underneath, the air tumbles out of my lungs all at once.
For a single surreal moment, everything goes quiet.
My entire body is pressed against his. I can feel his heartbeat, steady as a metronome despite the chaos, and I hate—hate—that mine is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the gunfire.
His face is inches from mine and I can see the individual strands of his hair falling across his forehead.
The taste of his cologne teases my tongue.
As more gunshots are ringing out all around us, those winter-gray eyes open wide with just a hint of surprise that looks suspiciously like amusement.
Almost as if he finds it funny that I’m pressed against his body while death dances in circles all around us.
He reaches up and closes his fist in my hair. Whether he’s keeping my head down or trapping me against him, I can't tell which.
And right now, I don’t think I care.
"Ms. Creminelli." His lips curve up, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. "I believe this is an inconceivable catastrophe that we were looking to avoid."
Are you effing kidding me right now?
Bang! Bang! Bang!
More gunfire. Closer now.
We move simultaneously, Slava rolling to his feet with a grace that seems impossible for a man his size. His hand closes around mine. It’s warm, steady, and completely wrong. In a single fluid motion, he yanks me upright and pulls out his own gun.
“We need to go.”
And that is the only warning I get when he aims it and fires three shots without flinching.
My ears ring and I flinch next to him. And despite the fact that I know that work should be the last thing on my mind, I can’t help but think about how I’ll have to come up with a damn good excuse for why he has a freaking gun at a charity gala.
So much for his promise that I won’t have to stay any later at the office than I have to.
Hysterical laughter starts bubbling in my throat as he drags me behind him. I swallow it down.
"This way." He pulls me back towards the corridor as chips of marble fly overhead from the bullets slamming into them.
I look back into the chaos and that's when I see Vanessa.
She's lying near the entrance, her beautiful red dress fanned out around her, hiding the blood darkening its fabric. Her eyes are open wide in surprise, but they’re not looking at anything in particular.
I recognize the familiar waxen look of her face. It’s the same one that I saw on Luca’s in the casket.
If she'd been a good girl and stayed away from Slava tonight, she might still be alive.
I file that away to hate myself for later.
We burst down the service corridor doors—the same doors where I adjusted Slava's tie while Vanessa was still alive—and as we emerge into the early summer air to a back alley, the sudden quiet is disorienting. The gunfire inside the Bellamy is muffled now.
And with the sound of traffic all around us, I can almost fool myself into thinking that I imagined all of this, that we’re just stepping out to talk about a change to the schedule, and that when the night is over, Vanessa Ashford-Price will be warm and alive in Slava’s bed instead of being zipped up in a coroner’s bag.
"Your shoulder," I hear my voice like it’s a thousand miles away.
Slava looks down and that’s when he sees the red staining his shirt. Wet crimson spreads along the white fabric, and he scowls.
"It’s nothing." He's not even wincing.
"It’s not nothing. Sit down."
The command comes out sharper than I intended. His eyebrows rise but he ultimately does listen to me as he leans against the wall and allows me to examine the damage.
"Tie," I say, already reaching for it.
He undoes his tie with a single fluid motion, and hands me the charcoal gray tie I wrapped around his neck earlier. Wordlessly, I start wrapping it around his shoulder. My hands are steady, but my heart is not.
“I suppose I should thank you for bringing that spare tie,” he says. “And for saving my life.”
“Can’t exactly have you writing my paycheck if you’re dead.” I give the tie a hard yank.
The bleeding slows.
His hand comes up to cover mine as I wrap it around his shoulder one more time. Heat rushes up along my arm, and I know it’s not because his blood is staining my hand. Slowly, his fingers curl around mine, and I swear I can feel his pulse jumping against my palm.
I saved the life of the bastard who murdered my brother.
And he saved mine.
The realization is bitter on my tongue, and no amount of justification that his life is mine to ruin can erase that fact.
Then he turns his head to look at me, and for one horrible moment, I imagine leaning forward to meet his lips.
But his eyes aren't on me.
They're on my necklace.
The top buttons of my blouse must’ve come undone during our escape, and the necklace is now in full view. The seven-pointed star now feels cold against my skin in the night air. Miraculously, the necklace has remained free of blood.
Slava’s grip tightens, and something moves through his expression. A shiver rushes through me again when I realize that it’s the same expression he had when he looked at me earlier.
When I jutted my chin out at him defiantly.
There’s no mistaking the recognition passing through his eyes this time. And now, in the dim light of the alley, the air between us grows heavy and pregnant with an unspoken tension.
His voice is low and dangerous when he speaks. "Where did you get that?"
"Family heirloom," I lie carefully.
I know he doesn’t believe me.
More gunshots ring out suddenly, muffled but still audible. Someone screams in the distance, and sirens start wailing in the air. This conversation will have to wait.
Slava releases my hand, and then the gun is in his hand again. "Go home, Ms. Creminelli. We’ll talk about this first thing in the morning."
He holds my gaze for a long, terrible moment. And then he taps the gun against my chest with every word.
"Don't be late."
And before I can respond, he turns and walks back into the chaos, and I’m left standing there with his blood still warm on my hands, wondering if I just gave him a reason to look at me closely enough to destroy.