11. Anastasia
ANASTASIA
After a gruesome twelve hours, I’m piled in the backseat of an SUV with Nero, Dimitri, and Katya, while Vanessa takes the passenger seat beside Zeno, who drives. Lev is remaining at the hospital to be by Serafina’s side after the honeymoon from Hell.
My head drops onto the side window to tune everyone and everything out, Nero included. We haven’t spoken since I pre-emptively ended our bet without proper resolution, but when the timer on his phone ticked higher, preventing a potential war became more important.
Less than an hour after that non-bet, Dimitri, Lev, and I were pulling Serafina from the car crash she caused by stabbing Vitale.
Lev then killed Vitale—the slight bit of life he clung to after the accident—before rushing Serafina to the hospital.
Hours passed before the doctor came for Zeno, who later allowed Lev in as their secret relationship was revealed.
With Serafina in capable care and protected by a bodyguard who’d die for her, the rest of us return to the Mancini villa.
The promise of a shower so hot it’ll burn my skin and a bed that’ll steal me away from reality propels me from the SUV, murmuring “night” to the others.
Instead of heading upstairs, some random urge takes me through the kitchen and out the back door, onto the low deck with the table set that overlooks the vast greenery and huge in-ground pool.
I should have known peace wouldn’t be possible when he follows me.
In the middle of the night, when sleep isn’t happening and my body is too wound up, I slip from my room and tiptoe downstairs for more fresh air. Apparently, getting interrupted earlier meant not receiving enough.
The chilly tiled flooring makes me hiss, quickening my steps past the living room. Only a figure slumped on one of the couches pulls me to a stop in the doorway.
Nero’s eyes are shut, his head tipped back onto the leather. His suit is rumpled, his hair lifted from running his hands through it. The bottle from earlier is still in his grip with much less liquor inside, though not empty. Since he likely didn’t hear me enter, he certainly won’t hear me leave.
Just the sight of him sends my thoughts backwards to hours ago when he joined me outside. He hinted at remembering Poland, but I couldn’t address it. Not yet and maybe not ever.
“I will get that dance, Anastasia. I promise you that. And once I do, you and I will finally have that chat.”
Flicking my hair, I brace myself, adopting old attitudes that have kept me safe. “Men have made me promises before and have regretted it. Don’t be another one. That’s your only warning.”
Our interaction lasted no more than five minutes, yet it lingers, interrupting my sleep.
As I turn to leave, a deep and throaty parched tone commands, “Stay.” He lifts his head and aims a bold gaze at me.
The last man to command me was Papa, and I vowed then there’d be no one else.
Yet, without thought, I find myself slowly entering the room, watching him the way one does when faced with a wild animal as I lower onto the couch across from him and pull my legs up.
Once seated, he seems to wake a bit more, groaning and rubbing his face as he straightens.
He rests the bottle on the ground and leans forward, dropping his head into his hands. He sits like that for ten long seconds before spreading his fingers and piercing me with a look. “You did good today. You and Lev, finding Sera. I’d never want anything to happen to her, so grazie.”
This conversation, his demeanour, it’s different from earlier. I’d like to believe it’s honest, too, that I can relax around him, but I’m unsure if that’ll ever be possible.
“Though I really wanted that dance.” His hands drop away from his face with a low chuckle. “Why do you hate me?”
Defend. Deflect.
“I don’t hate you.” I hate what you remind me of.
“Dislike me then.”
“I don’t know you well enough to dislike you.”
“Yet you act like this.” He reaches for the bottle, grasping the neck but not drinking, instead staring at the three fingers of bourbon sloshing inside.
My fingers dig into my knees, biting down on my real retort. “This is my normal sparkling personality. If you don’t like it—and me, by extension—that’s on you.”
He continues staring into the bottle like it’ll answer his questions. A few seconds pass before he snorts and tilts his head. “Is it dislike or not wanting to face the truth?”
That very truth lingers, each of us able to grasp it—neither of us wholly admitting. More than once, I’ve thought about telling Vanessa, but don’t know where to begin. A part of me hoped Nero would never mention it, to put it all behind us, but I should have guessed.
“Truth about what?”
His expression turns mocking. It’s way too controlled for someone who’s supposedly drunk. “Come now, Petrov. We both know what could have happened in Poland had I made a different choice.”
Deny. I swallow, both from avoidance and the sound of my surname on his tongue. Playful yet sarcastic.
The world feels too small. Suffocating. Of every organization my Pakhan had to literally fall into bed with, it had to be the same my past is tied into? Talk about a cruel twist of fate.
If Nero made a different choice then, Vanessa might not have a best friend. Lev wouldn’t have a living twin. I may have been murdered a long time ago if Papa and Ursin weren’t able to save me in time.
In other words, he may have saved my life.
For too long, giving by obligation was trained into me by the man who made me into this person.
So while others may fall over themselves thanking Nero, proper and polite words tie up in my throat.
How do I thank him for a choice he made?
How do I display gratitude when he’ll expect payment in return?
It’s why I no longer give.
Deny, my inner voice repeats. Instead, a different force overcomes me. One that has me grasping for that truth. I wrap my fingers around it and whisper, “Why didn’t you?”
He wets his lips before replying, “I didn’t want to. You weren’t a threat, so I didn’t understand why you were my mission.”
I’d like to believe that makes him different from other men. He made a choice, indicating he had the semblance of a soul.
I peek over my shoulder to ensure none of the others have come down and could overhear. “Does Zeno know we’ve met before?”
He flinches. “Does Vanessa?”
“You never gave me your name. You look like you did back then, so when I saw you all those months ago when we came for Vanessa…” My eyes drift to the doorway, and the lobby through it that we had them once kneeling in. “I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Same.” His gaze rakes me in a manner reminding me too much of the men Papa once paraded me in front of.
The kind of gaze that’s meant to strip away my defences.
Only this time, I’m strong enough to withstand it.
“No, he isn’t aware. It felt pointless, considering the Bratva shouldn’t have been hanging around us this intimately.
” The way he says intimately is intimate itself, a caress of syllables that brush against my skin. “He changed the game.”
“That a problem?” I’d come around to the idea of Vanessa being with the Cosa Nostra, but maybe everyone hasn’t. And anyone who’s against their relationship and them by extension is against me.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” He sips from the bottle again before adding, “I won’t go after anyone from the Bratva, yourself included, so get whatever’s in your head out of it. Z deserves to be happy, and Vanessa isn’t at fault for Ursin’s actions.”
He’s alluding to something else. Some other issue he finds within the history between our two organizations that sets me on edge.
He takes another chug before resting the bottle down.
It’s an opening, and being way too sober for this trip down memory lane, I move to escape the room.
That moment in time has been addressed, so there’s no point in lingering.
From here on out, no one has to know, and we’ll go on being allies.
One interaction eleven years ago doesn’t really matter.
Except it does.
His eyes, once reminding me of ocean waves, propel me to the doorway. They stroke down my neck, water drops sluicing to the curve of my shoulders and onto my back. As a dancer, I’m used to people studying me, but Nero’s stare is different.
It’s not an examination, but rather a caress. One that goes deeper than my skin, right into my mind and body.
Maybe it’s what stops me in the doorway with words rarely spoken.
With the past in the open, it’d be cruel to ignore this any longer, even if owing him is worse than lighting myself on fire.
We’ll be around one another often from here on out, so I’ll consider this the final piece laid into the ground.
After this, it’ll be a ground we can freely cross, and our families will never be aware of how it was initially dug.
“Spasibo.”
“Which means?”
“Thank you.” I glance over my shoulder, catching a brief second of soberness as my words break through his drunken fever.
“I don’t want to imagine what could have happened if you didn’t allow me to escape.
Knowing our world, I acknowledge that you risked a lot by saving me.
I may not like you, but I’m not enough of a bitch to admit my life may have ended a long time ago without you. So, thank you. Truly.”
His deep gaze sweeps over me. Starting at my hair, following the loose curls leftover from the wedding today—yesterday, technically, seeing as it’s past midnight—then to my shoulders, where they loop over my top.
He continues down my arms, following my hips and legs.
A full-body study that doesn’t have me wanting to bolt.
Interesting.
“Prego. It means you’re welcome. It’d be a damn shame if something happened to you, Petrov.” As I turn away to cross the threshold, he speaks again. “For repayment, I want that dance.”
Technically, I owe him a life debt. A dance is nothing compared to that.
But it’s the very point that he’s demanding repayment for a choice he made that undoes so much of the past ten minutes. It’s a fucking shame, I think, escaping the room and leaving his request open-ended with neither a confirmation nor a denial.
Inside my room, I press my back to the door, hand to my racing heart. We can never have that dance because it’d mean touching. If he touched me, it’d bring me back to eleven years ago. The single time a man had his hands on me without stripping me bare—clothing and defences.
That day, his mere presence branded my skin. I wouldn’t survive his touch now, and refuse to fall victim to another man’s whims.
It’s been years since I feared a man. Not since the last time Papa lifted his hand against me.
But Nero Amato has the ability to truly and utterly scare me.