Chapter 4 Bella
BELLA
I’m dreaming that familiar dream again. The one where I got exactly what I wanted and destroyed Slava Romanov's life.
Every TV channel, every website, every streamer, and every influencer is talking about it because I passed the story to all of them.
Slava Romanov found guilty of murder.
A streamer is talking to the fifty people watching while Slava is being led out of the courthouse in handcuffs. His suit is rumpled, and that perfect composure on his beautiful face finally cracks.
I did it. Me. Five years of patience and playing the long game have finally gotten the world to see him the same way I’ve seen him:
Monster. Murderer.
But as I bask in my triumph, the scenery around me dissolves away. Voices fade into static. Sunlight grows cold and dim. I blink, and suddenly find myself bent over his desk, cheek pressed against the surface while his hand is wrapped around the back of my neck.
"I know it was you," he murmurs against my ear and that’s when I realize I’m naked. "I’ve known this whole time."
His free hand slides down my spine, over the curve of my ass, and settles—hot and heavy—where my thighs meet my hips. A searing hot current of electricity moves through me like I touched a live wire.
I hate that my body is already inching backwards into his touch, and I hate even more how wet I already am.
Then, a finger slips forward and strokes my pussy, smearing myself with my shame from ass to clit.
I bite my lips to keep myself silent. But the moment he pushes his finger inside my slick folds, a trembling moan punches out of my throat. His teeth scrape my ear as he reaches deeper, and I feel my wetness growing. My hip arches into his touch, and my pulse races against his palms.
“Fuck you,” I snarl through gritted teeth.
“Be careful what you wish for, Ms. Creminelli.” He gives my ear another bite as he withdraws his finger. “You might just get it.”
I hear the sound of his zipper coming undone behind me. Heat mixes with the masculine scent of his erection. I shiver as the engorged hot head pushes its way into my pussy and another whimpering moan drifts past my lips.
“I may have killed your brother."
He inches forward at a maddeningly slow pace. His hand fists in my hair. My traitorous hips start wiggling eagerly to meet him.
“But that’s nothing compared to what I’ll do to you.”
And that’s the last thing he says before he buries himself to the hilt in one savage stroke.
I wake up with a gasp, heart slamming against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
My hand is between my legs. My fingers are buried in my pussy, and they’re moving with a reckless abandon.
No. No, wait, I—
But my body doesn't give a shit about my protests. It doesn’t care about justice or vengeance or the fact that I'm supposed to hate him. My fingers are wet. My clit is throbbing. And before I can stop myself or do anything else other than chase away the aching emptiness between my legs…
I fucking come.
I come so fucking hard that my vision whites out and my ears start ringing.
My eyes roll into the back of my head. Pleasure rips through my body with shame following closely behind in my mind. I clamp my hand over my mouth just in time as a moan slips out of my mouth.
I lie there afterward in my sweaty, tangled sheets, and stare at the ceiling while shame bubbles in my stomach like something rotting. My ears are ringing. Tiny bursts of aftershocks are still making their way through my body.
Outside my window, the world is still draped in inky blackness. And somewhere in the wreckage of my subconscious, I’m disappointed that the dream ended.
I am so monumentally fucked.
The ringing won't stop.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, and try to force my breathing back to something resembling normal. The guilty pleasure is still pulsing between my legs and my heartbeat continues ringing in my ears.
It takes me a second before I realize that the ringing isn’t in my ears.
It's coming from my phone by the nightstand. Slowly, I untangle myself from my sheets and reach over to see just who might be calling at this hour.
The caller ID reads: TERMINAL 7
I sit up immediately.
Terminal 7 is a club owned by the D’Ambrosio Family, and the place that Luca turned to for work after our father died.
He told me that he didn’t have much of a choice.
What little of Dad’s savings weren’t enough, not after all the hospital fees and funeral expenses.
And neither of us made enough money to keep a roof over our heads.
I didn’t want him to go to the D’Ambrosio Family for work. I wanted him to be an honest man and to be the good big brother I’ve always known him as. He just told me that there was no other option.
He promised me that he would stay out of trouble. That he’ll just do the bare minimum and nothing else. That he won’t get in too deep.
I was stupid enough to believe him.
A year after, Luca was dead.
For five fucking years, I've been trying to get the D’Ambrosio Family to take me seriously. And for five years, they ignored me. No matter how many messages I left, and no matter how many times I dropped, it was just one wall after another.
And now, at four in the fucking morning, right when I'm still wet from fantasizing about the man I'm supposed to destroy fucking me mercilessly on his desk…
Now they decide to call.
The phone keeps buzzing.
I answer it.
"Ms. Farnassi." A smooth voice slides through the speaker. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
I hate that whoever is on the other side knows my real name.
“Who am I speaking with?”
“Nico D’Ambrosio. I knew your brother Luca when he was still alive.”
I sit up a little straighter. Finally, the guilt starts leaving my body as I slip back into my desire for vengeance like a comfortable old shoe.
“How can I help you, Mr. D’Ambrosio?”
“Please,” Nico says. “Call me Nico. I understand that you had a recent run-in with some of my men at the Bellamy gallery earlier tonight.”
Unwanted memories come rushing back. Gunfire, fear, and the steady heat of Slava’s blood on my fingers as I bandaged his wounds.
“I did.”
“Then you must know that both of us want the same thing.”
My brow furrows and I bite my tongue before my own accusation comes jumping out: if we both want the same thing, you have a funny way of showing it by calling after I almost died at your men’s hands.
“But why are you contacting me now?” I say instead. “I reached out five years ago.”
“Because there wasn’t anything that you could’ve done five years ago. And because now I know just how much Slava Romanov cares about you from how readily he tackled you to the ground tonight.”
An unexpected blush rises to my cheek at the thought of Slava Romanov caring. But there’s just one little detail Nico mixed up: Slava didn’t tackle me to the ground. It was the other way around.
Maybe he’s just having a lapse of memory at what really happened, I think. But a tiny seed of suspicion has been planted in my mind about Nico D’Ambrosio’s trustworthiness.
“So, what can I do for you?”
"Information, Ms. Farnassi,” Nico replies. “As Slava’s PR agent, you know exactly where he’ll be and what he’ll be doing.”
I close my eyes. Of course this is what Nico wants. He’s not interested in justice for Luca. He’s interested in taking down a rival his way: the dirty way, with guns and bullets and violence. And my grief is just a convenient lever for him to pull.
“Are you planning on killing him?”
“Isn’t that what we both want, Ms. Farnassi?”
“I—”
Isn’t it? I’d be a liar if I tell Nico that I don’t want Slava Romanov dead. But there’s another part of me—maybe a simple and na?ve part—that wants him to be more than dead.
I want him to face justice. And justice can’t be served by an assassin’s bullet. The only thing that can serve him justice is for him to face the crime of what he’s done to me. Then, and only then, can he have my permission to die.
“I need him to do more than just die, Nico. I want him to face justice.”
The silence is longer this time, and I almost check my phone to make sure that it hadn’t disconnected.
“And what do you think death is?”
“No, death is vengeance. Justice is having the world see him for what he is.”
Nico chuckles. “I can help with that.”
Hope suddenly blooms in my heart and I stand up out of bed. “How?”
“You tell me about his schedule and public appearances, and I’ll do my part to make the world see him for what he really is by showing the world exactly the kind of people he deals with on a regular basis. Not donors, not artists, not his bullshit philanthropy.”
“Criminals,” I finish.
“Exactly.”
The gears start turning in my head. Yes… this could work. If I can somehow organize it so that criminals like Nico D’Ambrosio start appearing at Slava’s public events. Then, I’ll let Slava’s own feuds with his rivals set the gossip mill aflame with rumors.
And then I can work my magic, and fan the flames while still playing the part of his obedient little mouthpiece.
"There's a fundraiser gala next week," I hear myself say. "For Arkadi Milerovo’s mayoral campaign."
"Tell me more."
"Doors open at nine PM. It’s technically public in case any unexpected donors want to show up last minute. Slava will be there front and center."
I can practically hear Nico smiling on the other end.
"Perfect.”
"Wait," I blurt out. "Just promise me that it won’t turn into another Bellamy gallery. Promise me that you’ll only show up to get people asking questions. Nothing more.”
"Nothing will happen that isn't intended to happen."
"That's not reassuring."
He laughs. "What's wrong, Ms. Farnassi? Isn't this what you wanted?"
Yes. This is what I wanted. But then again, I don’t want to be responsible for another violent shoot-out. I don’t want to be the reason innocent people are sent to their deaths.
"I'm just concerned about collateral damage," I try. "If something goes wrong—"
"They won’t."
"How do you know?"
"You don’t, Ms. Farnassi." His voice hardens. "You’ll just have to trust me."
Before I can answer, the line goes dead, and I stare at my phone for a long moment.
Isn't this what you wanted?
Truthfully speaking? I don't know anymore.
I want justice. I want to look into Slava Romanov's eyes and watch him pay for what he took from me. But I have a sneaking suspicion that justice isn’t going to look anything like the story I've been telling myself.
And it might come at a price I'm not willing to pay.