Chapter 35
Even if, until now, New York was my one and only trip outside of Russia, it was enough of an experience to teach me I never again wanted to leave my beloved country. During the winter, it’s like nowhere else exists with the fluffy snow, chilly temperatures, and homely vibes. Jogging the trails around our home while taking in the eerily silent forest that’s crowded with bare trees trimmed by snow, was my favourite activity to escape from Papa. In the summertime, Moscow is so bright and lit up. People come alive, the city’s events are rambunctious, the sun vivid and temperatures balmy. I loved being in the city and among strangers during those times, much to Papa’s chagrin.
As the saying goes, home really is where the heart is. And my heart is presently lodged deep in Russia, inside my mansion. In the ancient castle that might seem dark and depressing to others, and once could be considered as such when Papa was roaming the hallways, but it’s now my oasis. My ultimate protection.
New York, in comparison, felt overwhelming and underwhelming all at the same time. The city was alive, but the Rossi mansion in the Hamptons seemed dead. Even overlooking the vast, beautiful ocean, the property felt too open and unprotected and was not for me.
So why is everything about Zeno’s home appealing? In many ways, it’s more open than Rossi’s oceanfront property The lands are immeasurable to the gaze, with no forest or water providing any sense of a barrier.
At the same time, it’s that openness making the land appealing too. The grass is so perfectly manicured, I’d believe the groundskeeper measured every blade before cutting. It’s bright, an emerald green, nearly the shade of Zeno’s eyes. The villa’s exterior is light in colour, and its size and shape is somehow a balance between my home and that of Erico Rossi’s. Unlike the wall of windows Rossi’s mansion has or the thick brick of mine, the upper floor boasts moderate windows, all framed by arches. It’s two stories high, making the place much smaller than my mansion, but even without being inside, I can tell it’s not in a way that makes the place cramped.
To the right, the pool is marvellous. Olympic-sized, stretching almost the length of the house, filled with a light shade of clear water. At one end, a small water fountain surrounded by rocky built-in seating pours more water into the pool.
Zeno’s home is ethereal in a way that even beats my beloved Russia—a betrayal to consider.
Even the front door is nice. Wooden with metal filigree laid overtop, and the same metal creating the large black handle that Zeno squeezes before opening.
“Get inside,” he demands.
I stare at him for a beat, seeking through his shutdown expression for the man who admitted I’m a better Pakhan than Papa. I’d like to think he was bullshitting me, but he stated it too matter-of-factly, too genuinely, and I don’t know how to feel about that.
Despite every instinct to ignore his order, I push through my hesitation and step inside the house, onto a tan marble floor, almost the exact shade of the villa’s exterior. With my back facing Zeno, I allow myself to smile. By now, he’s bound to be going crazy trying to figure out why I’m playing along so well. Why I have from the get-go and allowed him to get me inside a vehicle, a plane, and then another vehicle. If I was in his place, the need to know would be driving me insane because no captive, especially the leader of a rival mob, would accept this treatment without a greater plan.
Merely thinking about my “greater plan” makes the back of my neck tingle. Shortly after Papa’s death, when I started my bid to prove to the Bratva that I was worthy of taking over, Lev had the idea to imbed trackers in us all, especially me. Given my role, I’d be the one most targeted, whether by Papa’s crew or outsiders, and the tracking device in my neck ensures I’ll be easily found.
If I know Lev and Anastasia, they’re working on a retrieval plan this second while waiting on Dimitri to return from Canada. It’s now a matter of remaining alive for as long as it takes them to come, but if Zeno was telling the truth and is not planning to off me, we have more time. How much more, who knows, but it might be enough. Why would I fight and risk getting shot dead by one of his soldiers when I can play the broken queen, as he called me, all before turning around and playing his own game?
Checkmate. When my army gets here, I won’t make the same mistake twice.
Zeno will get a bullet to his head, that I silently vow to us both. This will be over. Whoever takes up his role will undoubtedly target the Bratva, but I’ll happily accept war because at least then, I’ll have played a part, rather than being the scapegoat for Papa’s past transgressions.
The foyer is small by a mansion’s standards. In the centre is a dark wooden table with a small statue of what looks like to be Venus, the Roman goddess equivalent of Aphrodite. Beyond the table, the space opens up to two staircases, both leading to a landing above. Both are a deep wood, like the table, with a light tile backing.
But what really takes my breath away is the unbridled sun raining through the skylights in the ceiling. It’s so natural, so bright, a beam casts right over the statue of Venus.
I’m so busy studying the area, I miss the black blur that rushes toward us until it’s too late and it’s barreling into me, knocking me into Zeno’s hard chest. He catches me, one arm around my waist, reminding me of when we were dancing and he held me.
Shying away from the memory, I all but shove away as a mini-monster stands on hind legs, large paws balancing on my hips as a rapidly wagging short tail whooshes back and forth with excitement. Ramrod straight ears, easily the height of my hand, make the rest of its head seem smaller, but it’s cute. The dog’s head tips back, its tongue hanging to the side in what looks like a smile.
I can’t help but return the grin and pet the dog. Its short fur is silky and gentle to the palm, and can’t recall the last time I was around an animal of any sort.
At eight-years-old, I begged Papa for a dog, and he denied me. A couple years later, I tried for a cat, figuring the gentle and quiet creature would be better. That was also a no-go, but I didn’t stop trying, and at fifteen, I asked for a Russkiy Toy dog and pleaded to his loyalist side. That having a Russian breed inside the house would be appealing to eventual suitors and the dog being no larger than a Chihuahua would mean its tiny size would keep it out of his way. That day, he screamed his denial and I finally stopped asking. For anything, not only a pet.
Zeno snaps his fingers. “Venus, get down, girl.”
My gaze drifts to the statue on the nearby table. Ah.
“No, it’s fine,” I murmur, and for once, I’m telling the truth. I shrug away from him when realizing my back is still pressed to his front, and bend slightly, stroking beneath her jaw with my cuffed hands the best I’m able to. To the dog, I say, “Hey, girl.”
She does a happy circle in response and presses harder into my hand. I can’t help but smile, even momentarily forgetting everything wrong in life right now, and look toward Zeno, expecting some sort of positivity while I give attention to his dog. Instead, he’s scowling, jaw clenched tight. He reaches by me to gain Venus’ attention, who gives it for only a quick few seconds before she’s heading to me again.
He whistles and jerks his head to the side hallway, and her training takes over. I’d like to say her eyes indicate a sense of sadness, and her tail stops whipping back and forth as she obeys, her paws making nearly silent clicks along the tile as she walks away.
Zeno immediately drags me away from the doorway, his clench tighter than earlier. I jerk my arm, meaning both for him to release me, or at the very least, loosen his hold. He pushes me toward the right staircase, and I trip on the bottom step, matching his scowl with my own.
“Asshole,” I grumble, righting myself, but ask, “What kind of dog is that?” I don’t recognize the slim body and short fur of any particular breed. In my defense, I gave up researching any animals because it all resulted in the same answer from Papa.
“A Doberman,” he answers after a moment, almost like he wishes he didn’t at all. “She’s…”
His sentence goes unfinished and halfway up the stairs, I lean back, forcing him to stop and answer with my prompted, “Yes?”
“Never mind.” We’re back to that scowl again.
At the top of the tiled steps, he nudges me to the left, suddenly in a rush to put me wherever his cruel mind has decided to make my dungeon for the time being. I imagine some empty, white room where he’ll leave me to rot and stare at the walls while my mind slowly drifts away.
Unfortunate for him, my Elite should find me long before the threat of that even begins.
The short hallway we’re in connects with a few shut doors. Only one is open and I make sure to peek inside as he propels me by, revealing a dog bed and other assorted pet items. His pet having a room all to herself is…sweet. Heartwarming in a way I wish I could ignore.
We reach a set of double, shut wooden doors that have a similar filigree design as the front entrance, and he opens them before shoving me inside.
I trip to an upright stance and take in the decently large room. It’s no stone-walled room with chains and dirty cement, but it’s also not a plain, white room meant to fuck up my mental stability. Instead, it’s an actual bedroom. Equipped with windows that showcase the vast property, a king-sized bed covered in tan bedding that’s the exact shade of the exterior villa’s walls, and an ensuite bathroom at the other end. There’s a couple of padded chairs scattered around and a footstool. Seems like a guest bedroom.
“No cage? I’m honoured.”
Silently, Zeno approaches. My stance remains firm because he’s already shown his hand at this point. If he was planning on hurting me, he would have by now.
He reaches inside his pocket and pulls out another key, this one much smaller. He shows it to me before grasping the small chain tying my cuffs together and unlocks them, freeing my wrists entirely. The metal drops with a light thud between our feet, and he turns away without retrieving them.
With his back to me, he says, “You gave me a bed while I was healing. Suppose I can repay you the same way.”
“Seems the Cosa Nostra needs some training on torture methods then because you’ve missed the mark. If I’m not here to die, I’m here for another reason.”
He peeks over his shoulder, his mouth pulling up to one side as though we’re discussing a more pleasant topic, if it wasn’t for the evil gleam there too. “That you are.”
He reaches the door, and my stomach lurches. The drive to save myself forces the next words from my mouth. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Zeno, it’s that fighting won’t get me out of here. Words will. Attacking him at this point does little when his guard is up, and there’s still so much to understand.
“An answer for an answer?”
He turns with my offer, head tipping to the side. “I have places to be, so make it quick.”
“If you’re keeping me alive, why am I here?” I gesture to the room. “In your house? In Rome?”
“You’ll learn soon.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“But it’s the only one you’re getting.”
Dick. There’s another answer I need more than anything. The fact Ivan was so close to handing over, and the only missing piece in this confusing ass puzzle Papa designed long before his death. The why in all this. Not why Zeno took me, but why our families are even at war and what’s causing Zeno to continue the campaign against the Bratva.
There’s another question that comes instead. One I might have briefly wondered over the past twenty-four hours but also one not remotely important. “Was everything in my bedroom real or was that a giant act as well?”
Did you play a role just to appeal to me? He was the perfect submissive so if it was a performance, then it was a damn well executed one. And that’ll make this hurt more.
Zeno tenses, as though readying for an argument. “Other than lying about my identity, everything else was the truth.”
Which means?—
“What did your father do to make you despise him so much?” His rapidly fired question interrupts my line of thinking, but perhaps it’s a good thing. To remain focused, everything occurring that night needs to remain an error in my past and nothing to resonate on.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Zeno steps my way. “That’s not an answer.”
“But it’s the only one you’re getting,” I toss his own words back at him.
He smirks and takes another step. Another, until there’s a short distance between us. “You want to know why there’s war between our families.”
I tip my head up, realizing how little space there actually is. If I take one step, I’d be against his chest. “Yes.”
“Answer for an answer. Tell me what he did to you.”
I break his stare. No one outside my Elite knows. No one’s trusted with this fact because there’s little point. It happened. It’s over. And I’ll get my revenge on Boris eventually, but Papa’s long gone now. It was a moment in time that now only exists in my memories and my nightmares. To disclose the truth to Zeno feels…
I don’t know what it feels like, if I’m being honest. Wrong would be the correct response. Boris and my father used me in their fucked-up political schemes. Put a price on every part of me and sold me to the highest bidder. But it also feels like something I should admit to Zeno. Everyone who knows the truth are close to me, but Zeno isn’t, and there’s a rightness in telling my enemy, even if the logic behind that notion makes no sense.
“Vanessa.” A gentle tone. A softer touch. His fingers come beneath my chin and with a barely-there stroke, he tips my face up to his. Bright eyes study me, my lips, my eyes. “Tell me.”
The last man I obeyed was Papa. When I took the Pakhan role, I vowed I’d never again.
Zeno’s broken through that wall for this instance at least. Answer for an answer is what I remind myself. If I admit this, I’ll get the truth I’m seeking too. And my truth reveals nothing useful because Zeno being aware of my shitty past doesn’t help him.
For every logical reason my head tells me, and for every illogical reason my heart pushes me to, I answer him. “Not what. Who. When I was fifteen, he sold my virginity.”
Zeno’s touch drops from my face and I feel bare. Barer than I already am. Like, as fucked up as it is, his palm sent a renewed strength through me that’s now waning with my every breath, every tick of the invisible clock around us, and every fraction of his faltering expression.
“Who?” His deathly tone kickstarts my lungs again, and I think it’s the only reason I manage to keep talking.
“Boris Agapov. He was once the Russian Minister of Finance. Being an insider of the government, he was valuable to Papa and there was also a revolving payout given to the Bratva each year. In exchange for the deal, the price was?—”
“You,” he cuts me off.
“Me,” I agree with a downturned smile. “Papa did a lot of cruel things in the name of the Bratva. He saw the only path forward was to kidnap women and children, train them in these facilities, and sell them off.” The horror they endured. The abuse, the rape… “He tried to kidnap and kill Erico Rossi’s wife all to force me into marriage. No one was ever safe from him, so as I’ve said before, yes, I’m aware he was a bad man. I experienced emotional and mental abuse. The yelling. The scheming. He never wanted a daughter, but Mama died before he could produce a male heir, so he was stuck with me. Eventually, he rationalized my gender by believing women are a commodity, so even bearing his last name couldn’t save me. Being the Pakhan’s daughter was enough for any man to want me as a wife, so he felt that my virginity—my purity ,” I spew the word, reminded of the way he said it that day, “could be an additional transaction. That it wasn’t needed for a marriage deal. And so, I was forced to give it up while being tied to a bed.”
When I finally stop talking, my lungs are working harder. My breath coming out shorter. I didn’t mean to reveal so much, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. Truths rolled syllable from syllable from me and it feels fucking good to have someone else aware of what I lived through. Someone who has no real stake in knowing.
Zeno’s hard, deadly gaze is sharp on my face. Unblinking. And for the next five beats of my heart, neither of us move.
When he finally speaks, it’s with a low, grave tone. One that is warm and cold all at the same time. “You didn’t give it up. Don’t ever associate those words with what happened to you. Fifteen fucking years old…” His gaze finally breaks from my face and roves down my body, but more like he’s conducting a medical examination.
His gaze strips me bare. Makes me feel like nothing I have before. Disgust and protectiveness all rolled together in one look. One slow blink that has my hands linking over my stomach, my arms covering my chest. Not from him, per se, but the memories of horrors past. Of what Zeno wants me to say. Of feeling…well, cared about.
Once his examination gets too much—once my skin prickles and the urge to bolt grows stronger—I remind him, “Answer for an answer. What did my father do to your family?”
Zeno looks away, and I’m grateful for the reprieve. “Not what. Who.”
“Then who?—”
“Serafina.”
And then Zeno takes off, out the double wooden doors, and slams them shut. The lock clicks from the other side and I’m alone.