Chapter 18
Stella
My fists hammer the punching bag in a steady left-right rhythm, each strike sharp enough to sting my knuckles. Sweat trickles down my brow, sliding into my eyelashes, but I don’t stop. I kick, pivot, hit again, as if the damn bag personally insulted me somehow.
It’s a miracle I even have the stamina for this, considering I already had a solid workout last night at my nonno’s gym. After listening to Marcello spend an entire month ranting about our grandfather’s new hire, I finally had to see Isobel Graham for myself.
Turns out Marcello’s ‘disdain’ had nothing to do with all the changes she was making to the gym and everything to do with him liking her a little too much.
I saw it in his eyes, clear as day, how he grimaced when I dropped her onto the mat and made Isobel my bitch.
And for the record, that shit wasn’t as easy to pull off as I thought since Isobel gave as good as she got.
My ribs still ache from the woman’s left hook.
She knew what she was doing, even if she was outmatched the moment I stepped into the ring.
Still, watching Marcello begin to spiral afterward was the real kick to the stomach.
I saw how he struggled to hold himself together, how conflicted he was to be having such a visceral reaction with the sight of her bleeding and hurt.
It must have been hell for him to be caught between loyalty to me and the sharp, helpless ache he felt seeing her injured by my hand.
My poor brother is so emotionally backed-up he could probably cry diamonds if he ever let himself crack.
I just wished he’d allow himself even a sliver of joy to enter his life. God knows he’s seen too little of it.
And from the way I caught Isobel staring back at Marcello…
Yeah, she’d crawl right over those walls he built around himself if he so much as gave her a chance.
But knowing him, hell will freeze over before he lets anyone get close.
Not because he doesn’t want it but because he’s terrified of hurting someone he actually cares about.
We’re his family, and he still keeps us at arm’s length. Just in case his monster gets out of its cage and he’s not strong enough to pull it back.
I wish I could say Marcello was the only one in our family wrestling with demons, but when you have Romano as your last name, we all have a skeleton or two shoved in a closet somewhere.
Dark, haunting eyes flash through my mind, and I throw another sharp kick into the punching bag as if hitting something hard enough would erase the memory.
The old boards of the barn echo with every hit, trembling with each blow, and still the noise isn’t loud enough to drown out the faint sound of his voice in my ear.
You’re running.
“I do not run,” I grit out, striking the bag left to right with all my strength.
“Don’t you think you’ve hit that bag enough?
” my mother’s melodic voice drifts from behind me, interrupting my wayward thoughts.
I don’t look back. I just kick the bag again, harder.
“Your father is worried about you,” she says after a long pause.
I say nothing in return. I’m pretty sure she means Dom.
He’s the only one who’s seen the way I’ve been tearing myself apart in the gym these last couple of months.
“He says you’ve been punishing yourself nonstop since Christmas,” she adds, the worry in her voice unmistakable.
“I’m fine, Mom. Neither of you has to worry about me.”
“If only it were that easy,” she mutters with a sigh.
I keep my mouth shut and continue striking the bag, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave me alone. But no. Apparently my mother has nowhere else to be but here, riding my ass.
“Dominic isn’t the only one worried about you. I am too.”
“What do you have to be worried about?” I scoff. “I’m a big girl, Mom. I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?”
Her question stops me cold. “Okay, Mom,” I grumble and grab the bag to halt it from swinging, finally turning around to face my intrusive and overprotective mother. “It’s clear you’re not going to leave until you say whatever’s on your mind. So go ahead. Talk.”
For one brief second, my mother stares at me as if I just slapped her, and a knot forms in my stomach.
Damn. Why am I always like this with her?
Every time she even tries to talk to me, all I seem capable of doing is grabbing a handful of rocks off the ground, ready to sling them at her the second she says the wrong thing. Shit.
“I didn’t mean to be rude just now… it’s just that I’m kind of busy, Mammá.”
Her shoulders relax a little as she slowly steps toward me, ever so carefully, as if she were afraid I’ll lash out again.
“Then I’ll be quick,” she says, searching my face as if trying to read every thought in my mind. “I need to know why you’ve been so unhappy lately.”
“I’m not unhappy,” I lie smoothly.
“Yes, my sweet girl, you are,” she frowns. “Which is very puzzling, considering your father finally bent to your will and agreed to initiate you into the Outfit after your graduation.”
“Mom, if you’re here to change my mind, then—”
“No,” she cuts in gently. “That’s not why I’m here. Right now, your induction into the syndicate takes a back seat to something far more important. And that’s whatever is causing you distress and sleepless nights.”
My eyes widen at her remark. How does she know that I haven’t been sleeping well lately? Did Annamaria say something to her?
No. Anna keeps my secrets. She wouldn’t narc me out to our mother.
She wouldn’t do that. Besides, it’s not like I’ve told her the whole story about Ki…
I mean…admiting to Anna why I’ve been feeling so low lately would be the same as admitting that I’m in lov…
No. Anna wouldn’t have said anything to our mother, because she doesn’t have anything to say.
Which means, my own mother has been spying on me.
I’m twenty-one and she still acts like I’m a fucking child in need of her protection.
“I’m not sure where you’re getting your information but like I said, I’m fine. Great, even. I’m riding on cloud-fucking-nine. There. Happy?” I slam my fist into the bag again, the only thing I’m allowed to hit while my mother keeps needling me.
“Don’t lie to me, Stella. We do not lie to one another.
Not in this family.” I clamp my lips shut, jaw tight, and rip off my gloves.
Clearly, training has to wait until she gets whatever she needs off her chest. “Since you were knee-high, being made is all you ever wanted,” she begins softly.
“And though I don’t support that choice, I am confused at what could have dulled such a victory for you.
I was certain you’d be shouting it from every rooftop in Chicago just to show me I have no say in how you live your life. ”
“I thought that was a given.”
“Stella, please… just talk to me,” she says as she reaches for my face.
And for a moment, I let her. I let her palm cup my cheek.
I close my eyes, hating that she’s the only one in my family who can pull this kind of raw vulnerability out of me.
“Does your recent unhappiness have anything to do with the time you spent in Russia?”
My mother’s question has me stepping back immediately, forcing her hand to drop from my cheek.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Nothing happened in Russia.”
“Well, something did. Was it because you got shot and finally realized you’re not as bulletproof as you thought?” My lips twist into a scowl.
“I knew it! That’s why you’re here. Not out of genuine concern for me, but because you think you can use my injury to manipulate me out of going through with my induction in May.”
“No such words have left my mouth,” she says quietly. “I’m just trying to understand you, Stella. Please. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Am I that difficult to understand, Mother? Am I so far out of your comprehension that nothing I say, do, or want makes sense to you?”
“I will not fight with you, Stella. Not when I came here in good faith to help you with whatever you’re going through.”
“I’m not going through anything! I’m fine!”
“Yelling that you’re fine from the top of your lungs doesn’t make you so,” she frowns.
“What do I have to say or do to prove to you that you’re seeing things? Huh?”
My mother’s eyes dim as she lowers her gaze to the floor. “When did you start hating me this much?” she asks after a tense pause. “What could I have possibly done for you to hate me like this?”
“Hmm, let me guess,” I say with biting sarcasm. “Maybe since you’ve done everything in your power to steal my dreams from me? Always standing in my way, never letting me breathe?”
The moment the words leave my mouth, something sharp and sickening hits my chest. I don’t hate my mother.
Not even a little. I only hate that she can’t accept me for who I am, or more importantly, who I want to become.
But saying that now would only wound her more, and from the look on her face, she’s already hurting enough.
“I’ll… leave you to your practice,” she whispers. “I’m sorry to have interrupted. It won’t happen again.”
“Mom,” I sigh.
“No, Stella. You’ve said your piece. I guess I was the one who held out hope that you didn’t hate me the way I feared you did. It was foolish to believe otherwise. I promise not to interrupt you again.” She leaves, and I just stand there, feeling like the shittiest daughter on the planet.
Fuck.
The rest of my day passes in a blur, my classes nothing more than background noise I can’t focus on.
This morning’s fight with my mother keeps replaying in my mind in a vicious loop.
Why can’t I be more patient with her? Why do I always say the wrong thing?
Why do I hurt her so easily? And why does she get under my skin the way she does?
I guess… I guess I lash out at her because she sees too much.
She always has. It’s easier to be angry at her than to admit I’m hurting.
Easier to shove her away than let her get close enough to notice the cracks under my armor.
Easier to pretend I’m unbreakable than face the truth that something inside me has been broken…
somewhere between Russia and a pair of dark eyes.
It’s as if a piece of me were missing. I hate that there is a hole in my chest, but what I hate most is the man who put it there in the first place.
“Siri, translate dusha moya to English again.”
“The Russian endearment, dusha moya, means my soul.”
“Repeat.”
“Dusha moya means my soul.”
I close my eyes and pretend the robotic tone has been replaced with Kirill’s voice. His deep masculine voice calling me his soul, over and over again in my ear until a part of me begins to believe him.
‘You’re running. That’s what you’re doing. I got too close and now… now you’re running home pretending none of it meant shit to you. That I don’t mean anything to you.’
Is he right? Am I running? Have I been shutting him out these last two months because he got too close?
He was never meant to matter. But now I taste his name on my tongue every time I tell that lie to myself.
“Fuck my life,” I grumble, slamming my head back onto the headrest of the car seat.
Why does catching feelings have to be so fucking hard for people like us? And when I say us, I mean my family.
You only have to pay a tiny bit of attention to know that we Romanos are fucking cursed when it comes to the love department. None of us, starting with our parents, has ever chosen the easy route when it comes to matters of the heart.
My mother fell in love with not one, but three of her best friends, unable to part with any of them. That right there sounds like a Greek tragedy just begging to happen.
My eldest brother, Jude, fell head over heels for the heiress of the Firm, Mina, which was hard from the get-go since it meant that he needed to choose between his birthright and the woman he loved.
Enzo is beyond fucked since he turned a monogamous leaf, vowing only to ever love his priest, Alejandro, even if Alejandro’s vows won’t allow him to fully commit himself to my brother.
Lucky found the one in Frankie, only to discover she’s a Bratva princess.
Even Marcello is now fighting tooth and nail not to give in to his obvious feelings for Nonno’s new trainer, Isobel, mostly because the devil that corrupts his soul won’t allow him a moment’s peace, much less love.
And me? Well, I’m parked on a street in Little Russia across from the Obsidian, just hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who has consumed my every thought since I left Moscow.
I just hope Annamaria has better luck in the love department and finds a nice young man who can love her freely and wholeheartedly without such complications.
Not being able to be with the person we love hurts like hell.
“Stop that, Stella. You are not in love with Kirill-fucking-Petrov!” I hiss at myself, disgusted that the thought even crossed my mind.
Knowing I’m acting ridiculous, I shove my key into the ignition, only to freeze when Kirill steps out of his club and lights a cigarette.
I stay perfectly still, breath locked in my chest, just as my heart remembers how to beat again.
Kirill isn’t wearing his long black winter coat, not even bothering to shield himself from the cold that bites through the air. It never seems to touch him, though. If anything, the night air recoils from him.
The amber flare brightens his face with every pull, and the smoke rises around him as if starving for his attention, curling over his shoulders in a way that almost crowns him. For a second, he looks like something more than human—danger incarnate wearing a halo of his own making.
I just sit there, staring at him as he smokes the cigarette down to its end, looking up at the night sky as if he hated its color.
Honestly, I get it. There’s nothing up there worth loving.
No stars. Not a single one. Just the moon, half-swallowed by dark clouds heavy enough to smother whatever light tries to break through.
The pitch-black darkness of it all should be beautiful, but instead it feels hollow.
Maybe that’s why he hates it. Because it’s missing something. And I know exactly what.
I’m immediately transported back to the night he took me out to the lake. The sky had been so clear it looked dusted with diamonds, each star mirrored on the frozen water until it felt like we were standing inside the universe itself.
Even at his brother’s compound back in Russia, the stars followed us there, too. They always showed up for us, shining as we wandered the grounds, his hands warm at my waist, the constellations watching like silent witnesses.
Now there’s nothing.
What is a midnight sky without its stars to bring it to life?
A whole lot darker, colder, and emptier—just like me.