Chapter 56
nero,
this email’s for your boss. thought you should know how my father got the manpower required to murder zeno’s father.
see attached.
also tell him, this doesn’t change anything. this has nothing to do with him. i don’t care what he does with the information, but it felt wrong to hold onto it.
for her.
vanessa volkov
A quick tap and the email’s off into the abyss.
“That’s honourable,” Anastasia utters from over my shoulder. She dangles a shot glass in front of my face. “Now, if you’re finished working, can you please come dance? It was hard enough getting you here; I didn’t count on you sitting out.”
“Warned you,” I reply, an edge to my tone. I take the shot glass from her without the intention of drinking more after this one. “Also, my email has nothing to do with honour. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Right,” she drawls, bending over the back of the couch so I can better hear her over the club’s music. “And this isn’t about a connection you felt to your newly found sister or anything. Okay, now come dance.”
While “sister” might be the term I stuck to Serafina when I first met her, it was only a way to rationalize Papa’s role in her creation, and how that links to me. Truth is, blood doesn’t necessarily make family, and she’s merely Zeno’s sister.
Although, going by his messed-up mind, she’s also my sister-in-law.
“You sound like Dimitri. Besides, she’s not my family, not really. Family’s who we choose for ourselves.”
“Aw. Look at you going all sentimental.” Anastasia shoves into my shoulder. “Well, maybe we can march your sentimental ass downstairs to dance. I’ve been deprived of fun since you’ve been back.”
I peer up at her, her blonde curls inches from my face. “I’m here when I have zero interest in being. Isn’t that enough?”
She scans the VIP balcony, her lips pulling into a smirk. “Got it. Makes complete sense.”
“What does?”
“How’s your divorce coming?”
Heat creeps over my cheeks and it has nothing to do with the balmy temperature of the club. “It’s coming.”
It’s not coming. The Bratva keeps a small team of highly skilled lawyers on retainer in case we’re ever on the wrong side of the law. Especially since international forces have greater powers to hold us to crimes. Some-fucking-how a simple marriage certificate has them stumped. I’m nearly ready to fire them all and find people who can actually help.
Their legal battle kicked off by Zeno’s lawyers bringing a new game to the table. A contract which Zeno conveniently hid away, also with my feigned signature in which I agree to signing away all Bratva-owned businesses to him, should I file for divorce.
Essentially, my hands are tied because the asshole knew I’d never consider allowing his filthy grasp onto everything I’ve worked for. For the businesses run by the Bratva for decades upon decades.
My lawyers have made getting me out of that seemingly iron-clad contract their priority, and divorce secondary.
Anastasia’s probing gaze drills into my face until the annoying prickle has me nearly exploding. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. Just wondering if all this hesitation is because of your husband.”
“He’s not my husband.” I stand from the couch, brushing my hands down my jeans and walk away from the sitting area, only to make my point clearer to her. Even though I don’t really know what that point is. “He’s an unwanted pest.”
She trails me toward the balcony I once leaned against, studying down below, right before spotting him watching me. The memory brings a flash of irritation that tenses my shoulders, along with the reminder that everything about that fateful night was a giant setup.
“You like him.”
My barking laugh cuts my thoughts off as my arms settle on the railing. “You must be drunk already. Like him? I barely tolerate the asshole.”
“The asshole who challenges you. He gave it as good as you did. I think, deep down in that sheltered heart of yours, you appreciate that about him.”
“You’re insane.” It’s all I manage. All my thoughts manage to form because deep down amidst my denial, she’s right. Few people have challenged me how Zeno did, and in a weird twist, it reminds me of the days of proving to myself, the old Bratva heads, and the soldiers that I can do the job. Zeno’s invasion was an ultimate test, only I don’t know if I’ve won or lost. “My heart isn’t sheltered either.”
She snorts before slapping the railing. “Whatever you say. I’m going down. I’d love if you’d join me, but if you want to pout up here, have fun.”
“I’m not pouting,” I call after her, but she’s already by the staircase, waving her hand as she chuckles loud enough I can hear her over the music. “I’m not pouting.” This is a whisper beneath my breath—a reminder for myself, not her.
I don’t pout. Especially not over men.
Asshole men who deceived me.
And my heart isn’t sheltered. Where’d she come up with that? I have just enough room in there for my Elite, and no one else, but no one else needs to be. Outside of them three, everyone else is a disappointment. Papa taught me that through his own actions toward me but also his written words, recently read in his journal. Letting people inside only leads to inevitable pain.
My phone vibrates with an incoming email, like the universe is reminding me of what’s truly important and breaks my wandering, borderline self-deprecating thoughts.
is this for real? how do i know you’re not making it up? how do you even know about this?
nero
did you not see my attachment?? it’s taken right from my father’s journal.
vanessa
it could be doctored.
nero
my fuck, you’re as paranoid as your boss. fine, i did doctor it. or , consider this: maybe there’s nothing nefarious happening. as i said in my first email, i truly don’t care what you do with the information but i’m letting you know for her . ignore me, and see what happens when her fiancé finds her.
goodbye. this will be my last reply. i’ve said what i need to.
vanessa
Annoyed, I slide the phone into my back pocket, also thankful for the weight of that responsibility lifting off my shoulder.
It’s taken me a month to get the courage to let Zeno know about what I found out about Serafina in Papa’s journal. The day after finding the journal, I intended to call Zeno directly and tell him myself.
When it came time to dial his number…I didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to risk what’d happen if I allowed him back into my life. In the days following my return, my time with Zeno stuck to me like an unwanted bug bite. Pesky, uncomfortable, while being an endless itch demanding me to think about him.
The next day, I tried again, but failed. This went on for about a week before I gave up altogether, and then time blinked as I fell back into my tasks and my focus became forgetting Zeno, not reaching out to him.
The club’s song changes smoothly into the next one and I scan the floor for Anastasia. I spot her in the centre of the dance floor, a guy wrapped around her. As though she feels me watching, she peeks toward the balcony, waving me down, but I shake my head, once again wondering why the hell I’m even here.
Three Fridays have passed since I’ve been home and she’s bugged me to go out for every single one of them. What once was an enjoyable weekly activity is now a chore. I told myself not wanting to go was because it’d be forever tainted by Zeno’s actions, but in truth…it’s just tainted by him . After three weeks, I finally conceded to Anastasia’s begging, but I wish I didn’t.
Even standing here, in the very place I first saw him, feels wrong. My gaze flits to the edge of the room where I noticed him. With my next blink, he appears. His rakish smirk centred on me, those bright as hell eyes glinting through the club’s dim light, pushing my body upright, seconds away from running down the stairs to him. To embrace him? Hit him? Possibilities are endless and unknown at this point.
I blink again and he’s gone, the memory dissipating into the room packed with sweat, sex, and sin.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I lower my head until my forehead nearly touches the railing. I need to go home. Sleep.
I think of him more than I’d like. It’s a fact I hate admitting to myself, but a fact nonetheless. At first, rage accompanied every thought, but as the days slipped away, so did his deception. Instead, I was left with everything else.
During my morning runs, I imagine him beside me and remember the trip we took around his property.
When I shower, I imagine him washing me and remember when he held me in his own, through my moments of “processing.”
When I lie in bed, I imagine him beside me, remembering the way he felt wrapped around me when he shifted me from my upright guarded position against his bedframe to his mattress on the floor.
As I thought before, he’s like an unwanted pest. A bug bite that just won’t stop itching. A shadow no sun can eviscerate. A drug no detox can cure.
Even throwing myself back into work over the past few weeks has provided minimal distraction. It’s good in the moment but the moment I close my laptop, lay down a pen, or leave a meeting, I’m right back in Rome with him.
I hate him for it. I want him gone.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Once again, a fresh wave of anger toward Zeno bombards me. If I wasn’t thinking about him , I would have heard the steps coming up beside me. I push off the railing, finding a man beside me.
He’s cute. Tattoos run up the side of his neck, stopping only inches from the mouth currently smiling hopefully at me. His hair is short—shorter than Zeno’s, and like him too, this man’s eyes are also green. But not a vibrant hue, rather a dull one. Like a field over a cloudy day.
Why am I comparing him to Zeno?
I should take this guy up on his offer. Let him buy me a drink, then take him home and fuck Zeno out of my head for good. Maybe it’s all I need. One fuck. A “normal” Friday night, and then the rest of me can return to normal too.
Instead, I step away from the railing. “Thanks, but I’m good. I was just heading out.”
After a quick text to Anastasia to let her know I’m leaving, I do, stepping outside into the rainy night, the cold drops falling on my face. For me, rain has always represented change. Growth. It rinses away all the bad shit to make room for the better stuff.
So why do thoughts of Zeno continue to plague me on my way home?
The second I walk through the front doors of the mansion, Veles, my newest family member runs down the hallway—probably from his preferred sleeping location in my office—to greet me. I reach for the hyper Doberman puppy, lifting him into my arms as I head deeper into the mansion, flicking on lights as I go.
Zeno’s been amusing himself by sending gifts every week. The first two weeks involved flower bouquets, which I tossed out, not wanting my house to have anything from him in it. Anastasia saved them by taking them to the brothels, explaining fresh florals would brighten the places up. I couldn’t care less, as long as I didn’t have to see them.
Week three brought a brand-new Beretta. Given Berettas are manufactured in Italy, it’s likely Zeno’s people have a lot of dealings with the company. While the gun shoots with amazing accuracy—I of course tested—I gave it to Dimitri, not wanting to enjoy anything from him.
Zeno’s only doing this to make a point. The point being: he’s a dick who can’t take no for an answer.
Earlier this week, gift number four arrived like clockwork, and I couldn’t turn this one away. Like he knew, the asshole, I’d never deny such an adorable creature. I took in the Doberman puppy without a second thought and named him Veles, after the Slavic god who rules the underworld. A king in his way, like I’m a queen in mine.
I stop by the kitchen for a large glass of water, now wishing I took Anastasia up on her offer of more drinks. I certainly could benefit from erasing this pointless night from my mind. Going didn’t do any of what I hoped it would—bring back a sense of normality. Instead, it showed me how... different things feel now. I can’t even explain what or how, just that they do. I’d rather have stayed behind and continued what’s more important: hunting my uncle and Boris.
With a deep, annoyed sigh, I set Veles down and he trails behind me, his short tail twitching through the air as I head toward the basement. It’s Lev’s domain where he and Dimitri have been holed up for weeks. A warm draft greets me as I open the basement door and ascend the staircase into a wide-open space that’s a mixture of bachelor-style pad and evil genius computer lab. Veles makes panting noises and rushes past me, reaching the bottom before I’ve even made it down two steps.
Although Lev has a bedroom upstairs by the rest of ours, he usually opts to sleep down here, claiming the whirling from his servers lulls him to sleep. I suggested a white noise machine but hey.
Industry-grade servers are rack-mounted in a large contraption, which takes up an entire corner. Lights flicker and coloured wires bound tightly together run from them, connecting to more devices on a metal shelf beside it. I barely recall the names of all his devices, let alone understand their purpose. Lev once walked me through each of them, and then explained why he has duplicates of some. “For high availability,” he told me, which, if memory serves correctly, is a failover server. In case his main one randomly crashes, the other can adopt the load and everything retains its function until he resolves the issues.
Whatever makes him happy.
I find Lev and Dimitri where they’ve been for most of the month. Lev at a large computer desk in front of three widescreen monitors, his fingers flying across a keyboard as he remains focused on the centre screen. Dimitri is seated on the futon, a laptop beside him.
I cough to announce my arrival, only Dimitri glancing up. I cross the room and flop on the couch beside him while Veles hops up on his other side.
“Anything?”
“No.” He flicks the edge of the screen, where he has his email brought up, and what looks to be at least fifty outgoing messages, all with the subject line of his father’s name.
The two have been working hard to figure out which corner of the world Ivan slithered off to. His phone has been switched off, with his last known location being the edge of Moscow. Men were sent immediately but found nothing.
Dimitri grunts and leans back. He rubs a hand over his face, showing me how exhausted he is. Dark circles lines his eyes, his skin a bit shallower than days ago, and I wonder when he last slept.
“Tell Mancini about his sister?”
Putting aside my question about his sleep habits for the immediate future, I reply, “Yeah. Reached out to his second.”
Dimitri glances at me from the corner of his eye. “You didn’t contact Zeno directly.” It’s a statement not a question.
“I’m not opening that door. The less Zeno and I interact, the better. Until I can get the contract broken, I want nothing to do with that man.”
Maybe once it is, I can stop thinking so much about him. Surely, it’s that stupid piece of paper not allowing me to move on.
“Okay.” Skepticism rolls from every syllable, and my comeback is instant, daring him.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He returns to his email, ending one of the most non-conversations we’ve ever had.
“You sound like Ana.”
Lev, who apparently has been listening, chimes up. “My sister might not seem smart all the time, but she’s actually insightful. You’ve been different this month, Van. More irritable than usual. To be precise: I can recount three examples from this week alone, if you’d like.”
Of course I’ve been more irritable. I see Zeno in everything I do and whenever I finally manage to get him out of my head, someone for some fucking reason insists on bringing him up, asking how the divorce is coming, or if I’ve heard from him, or numerous other pointless questions. How can one not get irritated by it all?
“I’m good,” I snap, not needing him to lay it out. “Get kidnapped and see how you are afterwards.” I stand without a goodbye to either of them and swiftly escape the basement and the ongoing judgement from my Elite, who think I’m different from my time in Rome.
I’m fine.
Completely fine.