Chapter 3 #2
While she stares at the bed, I’m left wondering where my offer came from and if I can retract it without being an ass.
She’s nearly ten years younger than me and the sister of a Cosa Nostra Capo.
There are endless rules in our world, for us both; so many rights and wrongs.
Even though she’s grown up away from mob life, my offer is still inappropriate.
Zeno is protective, and he would rightfully be pissed to learn she slept in a man’s bed.
I know better. Yet, my offer hangs, hung by the thin rope of my own hope.
“If you’re sure…?”
I’m not. This is my out, so politely given by the shuffle of her feet and the two wrinkles in her forehead.
Beneath her uncertainty, signs of exhaustion destroy any will to kick her out. Dark marks line the skin beneath her eyes, and her skin is a bit sallower than it should be.
“It’s not fair to sleep in a chair.”
“It definitely wasn’t the most comfortable.”
I observe with a great intensity—probably borderline creepy from her perspective—as she pulls back my comforter and slips into bed, rolling to face me.
Perched on the opposite edge, she wraps her arm around my pillow before lowering her head onto it.
A sleepy sigh leaves her, hinting at the shit rest she got by my bedside.
Her hair fans like a halo—like the angel my unconscious mind nicknamed her as.
Except, she’s far from an angel. She’s a printessa—a Cosa Nostra princess. A fact that should have me kicking her out instead of watching with fascination as deep blue eyes pin me from across the bed, which now feels ridiculously small. Too small.
Zeno will kill me if he finds her here. Vanessa will resurrect me and do it all again.
It’s their fault for not showing her a proper place to rest and mine for not telling her about it.
“I can sleep on the floor, if it’ll make you more comfortable.” At this point, I think it’ll make me more comfortable. While the noise in my mind is silenced, there’s another kind of buzzing in its place, one demanding I kick her out and reclaim normality.
“I’m not the one with a hole in his body.”
“Not the first time, nor will it be the last. Barely even stings.”
“It’s fine. You’re way over there.”
“I’ll stick to my side.” My body might be settling, but my mind is far from that, and even though shutting up means she’ll sleep, I find myself wondering aloud, “Why didn’t you wait until morning to thank me?”
Why thank me at all? is the real question.
“Wasn’t sure how long you’d sleep for, and Zeno wants to leave right away, so I didn’t want to miss my chance if we left before you got up.
You saved my life, so consider me responsible.
” She pauses, the moonlight catching on her tongue sweeping her bottom lip.
“Anastasia offered to stay, but she actually fought, so it’s better she rests. ”
Responsible? Everything she mentioned about my sister is lost in irritation over her pointless blame.
“You’re far from responsible,” I snap. “Ivan Volkov is to blame. Ana may have fought, but don’t think you didn’t contribute.
You kept your cool and remained alive. In a situation like that, it’s the best thing you could have done.
Zeno and Vanessa wouldn’t have wanted you to fight, seeing as you’re untrained.
You kept me upright and got me to the vehicle.
Serafina, you did everything correctly.”
That may have been the longest speech I’ve ever given, but every word is true. So much of Bratva training is about remaining controlled when under pressure, and a Capo’s sister with zero training did precisely that.
She’s silent before lifting her head, the moonlight catching on her face, revealing precisely how pretty she is. It’s something I didn’t notice earlier, being too busy getting her out of the warehouse. Her skin appears soft and unblemished, and I wonder if it’s as soothing as her hand on mine felt.
“That’s the first time you’ve said my name.”
“Considering we didn’t know one another before yesterday.”
“Fair. Still, I feel responsible.”
Why have we returned to this topic? Why do people always require so much convincing of facts? This is why dealing with people isn’t my forte.
“If thinking so makes it better in your head, then feel what you must, but you’re not to blame. Getting shot kept you alive, which is all that matters.”
She burrows deeper into my pillow, leaving behind a peach and vanilla scent that’ll linger when she goes. I’ll be forced to wash my bedding immediately, unable to ignore the scent.
“Thanks, Lev. For lending your bed…and saving me.”
“Anytime.” That’s an appropriate response, I think.
Within minutes, her sleepy breaths reach across the bed, a tribute to how exhausted she is.
Once again, the sounds are welcoming rather than irritating—a fact that is irritating—and I relax into my own pillow, musing how she’s the only woman to ever lie in this bed.
Besides perhaps Ana when we were kids, but that was so rare and doesn’t count.
People don’t belong in my space, especially near my bed.
Yet, my eyes shut, and in the midst of counting her breaths, sleep steals me until morning.