Chapter 43 Slava
SLAVA
I watch Bella sleep as dawn pries open the sky with rosy fingers.
Her dark hair spreads across my bicep, and a single arm is draped over my chest right above my heart.
Ever since the hunting lodge, we've been inseparable.
We fucked again by the embers of the dying fire while our clothes dried, faster and more passionate than the first—her on top of me with her palms flat on my chest and her eyes never leaving mine. She rode me with a ferocity and threw her head back with every roll of her hips.
When we returned to the chateau, I swept her into my bedroom, and we fucked on all fours with my fist yanking her hair, and my hand covering her mouth to muffle her moans.
As my cum leaked from her pussy and rolled down the inside of her sweat-slick thighs, she positioned herself until she was looking up at me. Then, she took me in her mouth and guided my hand between her legs until both of us were utterly spent.
But we weren’t satisfied.
Not by a long shot.
Again and again, we came together. On the floor. In my bed. In the shower. Even on the dining room table shortly after midnight while the chateau slept.
And now, as the sky turns another shade lighter outside, I’ve come to memorize and crave the sound she makes when I push inside her—a soft exhale, with equal parts relief and surrender, like she's been holding her breath waiting for me.
I've committed the specific pressure of her fingers on my shoulders and my cock, the way her nails drag down my back when she's close, and the helpless arch of her spine when she comes.
I’m addicted to the taste of her throat and the inside of her thighs and that spot behind her ear that makes her gasp.
I wish I could hold onto those moments forever. Because as incredible and unforgettable as the sex is, it’s the after that leaves me feeling off-balance.
Because whenever we finish and she’s curled in my arms—her breath slowing and her body going slack with trust—I can feel a barrier that had always been there slowly rising back up.
And whenever I feel it, I’m left helplessly waiting for her to wake up so that she’ll climb atop me again, and I can pretend that this time is when I can finally smash that barrier into a million little pieces.
And I know I can only possibly feel this way because I'm hopelessly falling for her. Maybe I’ve been falling for her this entire time. Maybe I fell for her the moment she came into my life armored in sardonic professionalism and that vengeful fire in her eyes.
Outside the window, the sky is beginning to lighten.
Night is coming to an end, and we’ll soon be departing for New York and all the awful realities waiting for us back there.
But right now, she’s the only thing that matters, and I can pretend.
I press my lips to the top of Bella's head, inhaling the scent of her sleep-warm skin.
I'm sorry, I think. And then, because the thought follows inevitably from the first, I'm sorry about Luca.
I’ve never once regretted killing a man before, because every person I killed deserved death in some way. But now, for the first time in my life, I feel guilt at taking someone’s life.
Five years ago, Luca Farnassi was nothing more than the bastard who helped take Gia away from me. Five years later, he has become much more than that.
He was a man who loved his little sister, who was forced to step up after their father’s death, and who walked into the criminal world not because he wanted to but because he had to.
He did the same fucking thing I would have done in his place.
And I killed him.
The old Slava would rationalize this—remind myself that Luca made his choices of his own accord, and that the consequences were earned.
But the old Slava never met Bella.
The sun starts to peek over the horizon, and its first golden ray kisses Bella’s brow.
She stirs in my arms, a small sound leaving her throat as she shifts.
Her eyes remain closed, but she presses herself closer to let me savor her warmth for a little longer before the barrier inevitably returns when she wakes.
I tighten my arms around her, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and feel my heart skip a beat when a small smile ghosts her lips.
"I think you should bring Alessandro with us," Bella says as we start walking down the stairs of the chateau to the car waiting outside. “Back to New York.”
I freeze mid-step.
"No.” The word is automatic. “Absolutely not.”
She turns towards me, and I see an already carefully constructed argument she's prepared. “Slava—"
"He's safer here." I interrupt her. "He’ll be too close to the D’Ambrosios if he’s in New York.”
"The D’Ambrosios almost got to him here in France." She crosses her arms and the defiant jut of her chin returns. "And no matter how many assurances Lavoisier makes, you know that the D’Ambrosios will try again."
"Then I’ll provide my own security for him." I step closer to her. “I’ll send my own men to the school so that no-one can ever get close to him.”
"That might’ve worked when the D’Ambrosios didn’t know his location. But now they do." Her voice softens. "You can't protect him from across an ocean, Slava."
My jaw clenches at the certainty in her voice. "And how are you so certain I can protect him in New York?”
Bella uncrosses her arms and she places her hand on my heart. "I know what the city took from you. But you can’t hide him here forever."
Bella's right. It was a stroke of luck that the D’Ambrosio hitman didn’t actually manage to reach Alessandro. And I can’t count on luck to be the thing to keep my son safe.
Maybe the illusion of safety I've built around him is exactly that: an illusion.
"It's the same thing I feel about Anthony," Bella continues. "Being away from him, not knowing if he's safe, not being able to see him. It's unbearable.”
I stare at her and she meets my gaze. I know that protective terror in her voice. It’s what’s driven every choice I’ve made about Alessandro ever since Gia was taken away from us both.
And on a deeper, instinctive level, Bella understands this as well.
"You're sure," I say finally.
"I'm sure he's safer with you than without you." She reaches out and adjusts my collar.
I catch her wrist. "If anything happens to him in New York—"
“You won’t let anything happen to him,” she says. “Because you’re his father.”
I bring her wrist to my lips and press a kiss to the pulse point, feeling her heartbeat against my mouth.
"Okay," I say. "We bring him too."
Alessandro is sleeping quietly in the bedroom at the rear of the plane while Bella and I sit together in front. Her shoulder is pressed against mine, but she keeps turning to look out the window even though the only thing we see outside is the endless blue expanse of the sky.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask.
She doesn't look at me. "Anthony."
Yes, I suppose she would be thinking of him. She's been away from him. She's worried about him. She almost died after leaving him the other day, and she hasn’t had a chance to see him.
I drape my arm over her shoulder and bring her closer to me. "You'll see him soon enough."
"I know." She leans her head against my shoulder, and for a moment she comes back to the moment with me. "I'm just ready to be back."
I press a kiss to her hair.
"Take tomorrow off," I say. "Spend it with Anthony. I can survive without you for a day."
"And what will you be doing?"
"Preparing."
"For what?"
"For our date."
“Really?” She goes still.
The truth is, I've been thinking about this since the hunting lodge. The idea has been turning in my mind, and I’ve examined it from every angle like it's a problem I need to solve.
Except it’s not a problem. It never was.
“Yes, really,” I tell her. “I want to take you on a proper date. I want to sit with you and talk about everything and nothing. Just for a night.”
"Slava—"
"Say yes, Ms. Farnassi, and I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven."
The seconds stretch into hours, and I know there’s something on the tip of her tongue. But whatever it is she’s about to say, she keeps it to herself. Then, she leans over, and puts the tiniest of kisses on my mouth, like a preview of what’s to come.
"Okay," she says finally. "Tomorrow night at seven."
"Good."
She continues to look at me, and I can feel her pulling away already even if she’s still physically here in my arms.
Something flickers in her eyes briefly, there and gone too fast to catch, and she looks back outside the window.
"I need to text Lydia," she says. "Is there a way to do that from here?"
"There’s a satellite signal. No password. You can call her too, if you need to."
"Okay." She squeezes my hand once, like she's making herself let go, and stands. "I'll be right back."
I watch her walk toward the rear of the plane, her small frame silhouetted against the dim cabin lights.
Something feels wrong.
I can't put my finger on it, but I’ve survived this long because I can pick up that specific frequency of unease humming at the edge of my awareness.
For a dangerous moment, I almost contemplate following her.
But then the moment passes, and now it’s my turn to look out the window.