Chapter 64
“Thanks.” I shake the bar manager’s hand before turning away. “Good work. You know who to call if you need anything else.”
“Will do. Have a nice day, Miss Volkov,” the man calls out as I exit his office, heading back to the main section of the bar where I left Anastasia.
She’s leaning against a wall, halfway to the mouth of the main part, and watches me approach with an expression suggesting she has something on her mind.
“Just say it,” I grumble.
“Are you okay?”
I stop in front of her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because since the day you came home after the warehouse, you’ve thrown yourself into work, almost to an unhealthy level.”
“That a bad thing? I have an organization to run.” And to keep away from others’ grubby hands. “If that’s all you have to say…” I take another step, only for her to throw herself in front of me, making an X with her body to prevent me from passing. “Make your point. I have another meeting.”
“I wouldn’t be your friend if I didn’t mention you’re going to burn yourself out if you keep going. You have nothing to prove to anyone.”
“Noted. Thanks.” Even if what she’s claiming is ridiculous. For now, I have better things to do than listen to her heart-to-heart, so I step to the side, getting closer to the wall to pass, all for her to shuffle in front of me.
A borderline growl works up my throat and just when I’m about to explode, she asks, “How’s Zeno?”
The question throws me for a second, and it takes shaking my head to clear it of the numerous curse words I could use instead of cordial aloofness. “How would I know?”
She glances behind her shoulder before stating, “You talk to him every day.”
“I don’t.” Almost every day is not every . “We haven’t spoken in the past few days.”
I hate admitting that his lack of contact the past two days has made me wary. He’s gone from being annoying to completely giving up—which is good. I’m pleased he’s given up, and finally realized there’s nothing between us and this marriage is better off terminated. Yet, I find myself kind of, sort of, missing his name flashing on my screen.
Anastasia’s brows kiss her hairline. “Van, you ignored a distributor the other day to text him back.”
“He was annoying me.” Heat creeps up my neck. “It was the only way to shut him up.”
“Hm.” She purses her lips. “It might not be a bad thing to be his friend.”
“Except he’s not doing this to be my friend. He’s trying to get beneath my skin so I concede to the union.” This is along the same vein as when he let me out of his room, tried to be nice to me, learn about me, and then kissed me before he dropped the certificate on me. “It’s all a game.”
“And if it isn’t?”
The directness of her question stuns me because I don’t know how to respond. There’s no reality where Zeno isn’t fucking with me. “I…um—uh. He means nothing to me. Less than nothing.”
“Mhm. Well—” She finally steps to the side and allows me by and into the main section of the bar. It hasn’t opened yet for the night, which is why my meetings occur mid-afternoon, before management gets swept up in the night’s rush. “Come up with an answer soon, or continue denying what could be and hate yourself in the end. For now, you two play nice.”
“Play nice?”
She gestures to one end of the bar where a lone figure sits on a stool, a beer bottle in front of him as he chats with the bartender who’s busy preparing for his shift ahead, like some welcome guest. And like unwelcome patrons, he’ll be tossed out on his ass after I’m through with him.
It could be anyone, if I didn’t recognize the windswept hair and his skin’s shade of a sandy beach. Everything fades until he’s all I see. The only thing my focus latches on, and my body reacts from his presence.
How dare he show up here? How dare he smash his way into my life again? And how the fuck did he make it into Moscow without me being informed? There’s a reason I have the airport tracking if his plane requests landing, and this is it.
“What the fuck?” I breathe, the question for the woman beside me.
If Anastasia makes a face, I’m not looking. She nudges my shoulder on her way by, chuckling. “Don’t burn the place down. I’m off to my studio.”
I stride across the room, passing a few waitresses straightening up for the night, until I’m by his side. The bartender immediately backs away, conveniently finding somewhere else to be and something else to do.
“Who let you in here?”
“Anastasia.” He smirks around the bottle’s neck without glancing my way. “Not very loyal of her, if you ask me.”
Finally, we agree on something. “I meant, how’d you get into Russia?”
He rests his bottle down and spins on the stool. His parted legs leaves an opening for me to slip myself into—if I wanted to, that is. A passing thought driven by my absolute hate for the man and no other reason.
“My plane.”
If I could growl, I would. For now, I do what little I can and swipe his bottle away, placing it well behind me and far out of his reach. He watches with only amusement in his expression, which annoys me more because he doesn’t realize that this isn’t a game. I scan the room for the bouncers bound to be arriving for their shift soon so they can toss out the trash.
“Hello, moglie . I’ve missed you.” Zeno reaches for me, but I slide out of reach.
“Don’t know what you called me, but either way, the feeling’s one-sided.” Any previous sentiment I may have had this week, any positive emotion whatsoever relating to his calls and texts, any meager form of a connection I didn’t mind in the moment—gone. Long fucking gone.
“Means wife .” Then, in a move so quickly I don’t see it coming, he cuffs my wrists and tugs me between his legs. He releases one to rest a palm on my back, pinning me in place. “That’s what you are.”
“What’s Italian for divorcee ?”
Zeno smirks but replies, “Divorziata.”
“That’s what I want to be. What’ll it take to make it happen?”
“You have the document. You know what my terms are.”
“They’re impossible. What’s Italian for widow ?”
He chuckles, the sound reminiscent of the breeze over his lands. “You don’t give up. Vedova .”
“Keep it up...” I jerk my wrist and lean back, putting weight into his hand. “...and that’s what I’ll be.”
“You’re a liar, Volkov.” Mischievous green sparkles in the overhead light, and it takes a languid blink to reset my brain from falling for his tricks—again. “You’d have done it by now, if you wanted to. You’d have put a bullet through my head before coming over.”
“I’m not armed.” My teeth grit with the blatant lie.
“You’re always armed.” He sweeps from my back to the edge of my halter dress, fingers creeping upwards. Heat blossoms across my skin, my body involuntary jumping with his gentle caress, and based on his smirk, he knows it too. He finds the holster strapped to my thigh, and the gun within it, before tapping it to make his point. “You wouldn’t be walking the city unprotected. You’ve chosen not to end my life.” He straightens, getting closer to me. So close, I can smell the alcohol on his breath, mingling with mint and something else I can’t place.
“Maybe I don’t want to leave Serafina brotherless.”
“Very kind.” Sarcasm rings through his words, and I’m busy trying to come up with something else to say, something that’ll make him go away, when he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small, black velvet jewellery box.
Every fibre of my being urges me to run away. Far, far away from whatever that is. What he’s offering. The physical representation of the documents forged. A symbol no one else could ignore.
Zeno’s legs tighten by my waist and he spins, taking me with him so quickly, I stumble. Suddenly, my back is pressed against the bar and I’m trapped within the confines of his legs. Over his shoulder, waitresses pretend not to watch.
“Zeno,” I hiss. “Let me go. People are watching.” Seems like such a minor thing to worry about when he’s holding a motherfucking ring box .
“And?” His head dips to my shoulder with a deep inhale and an even deeper sigh. “Fuck, I’ve missed you. More than you realize.”
He pulls back so abruptly, he makes my head spin for a whole other reason, before flicking open the box and showing me the large diamond inside.
“No.”
He dislodges the ring from its holder, casting the box off to the side and offers it to me. I lean as far away as I can, as though the slim gold band contains poison.
“Bought you a ring to make it official.”
Every eye in the room is on us and my plans to hide the marriage fly out the window because of him. Because this ring is a giant flashy sign that says I’m married .
“Throw it away. Shove it up your ass. Just…get it out of my sight.” I knock his hand away. “I’m not the woman you should be romancing.”
His grip tightens as he straightens, coming closer. So close, I wonder how he’s still on the barstool, and how I’m still managing to breathe. The edges of my vision fade, the bar disappearing until I’m left with nothing. Nothing but the sight of him, the smell of him, the feel of him.
“Then tell me why I can’t get you out of my head.”
For the same reason I can’t get you out of mine.
I turn away. “You’re lying so I give up fighting with you.”
“And if I’m not?”
This conversation reminds me of the one just had with Anastasia. Only this time, I have a response. “It’s punishment for Papa’s actions.”
“If it isn’t that anymore? Not completely.”
Did he just admit—? No, impossible. “You’re fucking with me because you’re seeking amusement. But some of us are busy running an organization and don’t have time for this pettiness. Go home, Zeno, and give up.”
He smirks, reaching for my chin and twisting my head around to face him. I throw every level of hatred I can into my expression, hoping he reads how I’m slowly depicting his death.
The longer we stare at one another, the longer my jaw aches, and the longer his amusement leaks into sadness; his smirk lowering for a flattened mouth. Just when I think he’s finally accepting how serious I am, he throws me for a damn loop.
“You really don’t trust people.”
“We’ve established that.” I jerk my head back, realizing he’s still holding me, and remembering every reason I shouldn’t let him. “End this marriage and be done with me. Hell, I’ll even consider you an ally from here on out. Need a favour; I’ll support it.”
“No,” he whispers, ignoring my tangent, “this is different. There’s trusting and avoiding. You know what I think?” He goes on without waiting for my answer. Without waiting for me to say that I don’t give a fuck about what he thinks. “I think you’re not used to someone caring about you. You lost your mother young, your father used you for his own gains, and your uncle never supported you. You keep a small group close to you, and they’re the only people you allow in because you don’t want to be hurt. By having casual hookups, you’ll never open your heart to anyone. You avoid your emotional needs by satisfying your physical ones.”
My heart pounds a bit quicker, but for no reason other than anxiety—at least, that’s what I tell myself. Anxiety that he’s dissecting me in such ways, assuming he knows anything about me.
“You’re saying you care about me? That this,” I nod my chin in the space between us, “is anything beyond physical?”
“There’s something about you, Vanessa. Noticed it right away, even before speaking to you. Since I crashed into your life, nothing’s gone how it should.”
“Stop.” I shut my eyes, blocking him out. Blocking his words out.
“Vanessa.” He cups my face, but I rear back so quick, the bar jabs into my back in a bruising kind of pain.
“Stop touching me.” It comes out as a firm hiss. “Just…stop, Zeno. Let me go.” With a sigh, I let him see true emotion on my face.
Zeno falls back on his seat, granting me a few extra and much needed inches of space. “Fine.”
Finally.
“Answer for an answer.”
My heart stutters to a pause with the all too familiar game that we somehow find ourselves continuing to play. “There’s nothing I want to?—”
His question robs my rejection. “Explain to me why you’re all I’ve thought about the past few days.”
Fuck. No. Stop. “Because you have something wrong in your brain.”
His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Your turn.”
There’s nothing I want to know. Just one thing I need.
Escape. To breathe again.
With the extra space he’s granted me, my arms lower by my side, reaching for the gun he pointed out earlier. I slip it from the holster and bring it between us, twisting it to the side until the barrel’s end is prodding into the bottom of his chin.
“Do it.” His eyes glint with challenge.
Except we both know I won’t.
His chin dips, digging into the weapon, but shows no sign of pain. “If you won’t ask a question, then I’ll steal yours. Is there a part of you—even the tiniest part—that does not despise me?”
He won’t stop. Lie or not, no matter my response, it won’t change his actions. He’ll twist it to his own needs.
With an emptying tone, I lower the gun. “Return to Italy. Find a woman who’ll love you. Goodbye, Zeno, and don’t let me see you in my territory again.”
I step to the side, breaking his hold to the bar, and stride out the building without glancing behind me.
But the interaction trails me out like an unwelcome shadow.