16. Nero
NERO
Soft hands are on me, touching me, and they feel fucking amazing.
Either some strange woman pities my sorry and drunken ass—or it’s Anastasia.
“You sure you have him? I can put him to bed. It wouldn’t be the first time.” The deep timbre of whom I assume is my best friend cuts harshly through my buzz. Or at least, he would be, if he wasn’t stating the pitiful truth.
“Da, you two enjoy your night.” The feminine voice that haunts my nightmares—past and present—shoves through the smog before those soft hands wrap around me. One arm around my back, the other on my chest, keeping me upright.
“Grazie.” I try to push that out. Whether my grunt is comprehended is an entirely different matter.
“Yeah, yeah.”
She’s surprisingly strong, hauling me around. I try to help, but even the thought of walking sends my knees crumpling, earning a louder grunt as she’s forced to catch me. It’s then I decide not helping is probably better for us both.
Eventually, after a lot of shuffling, I’m dropped onto a mattress that sucks my body into it. Sleep almost immediately attempts to kidnap me, except I kick it away and reach for the woman who’s both my angel and now my devil.
A devil because she’s cursed me with fire for veins and tangled emotions and a history meant to send me straight to Hell.
“Stay.” Please.
Her hand slides out from beneath mine. “That’ll be a no. Sleep it off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow isn’t now. When my shoes get tossed to the side and then a blanket is pulled up over my body, it feels like she cares a little. It also means her instruction is impossible to disobey.
The dark room—the mercy of blackout curtains—makes my pounding head a bit more manageable. A tiny bit.
After chugging water and taking a scalding shower in the attached bathroom, my hangover starts fucking off. He and I, we’re old friends. Pals. Basically roommates at this point. So I know all his behavioural patterns.
Given my built-up alcohol tolerance, it takes a fuck-ton for the effects to hit hard.
Dancing with Anastasia and walking away a victor, yet leaving her to find others, put my head in a negative place.
A dark place that had me questioning and despising the way this woman holds sway over me.
Given the mess of my life, it should be easier to loathe her.
The only reason I should want to grow close to her is to learn about the ex-Elite members.
It’s the logical plan, but not the entire truth.
What I told her about becoming friends in our conjoining families was the truth.
It’d make reunions more tolerable if she didn’t want to spit on me every time. We can bond in our loneliness.
Once my head is thumping slower, I leave the guest room and walk the depressing hallways of the Bratva mansion.
My skin crawls with the history lining the walls, and the knowledge of who once lived here and what had occurred.
After a single night, I long to return home where Zeno’s villa is all sun and windows and not death.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Serafina sips coffee while Lev sits beside her, his arms loosely wrapped around her hips.
The sight of them, of her tipping her head back until her lips brush his chin, makes me twitch—and my stomach churn.
She’s basically my little sister, so anyone having his hands on her sends my blood racing, regardless of the fact Lev’s making Serafina happier than any other fucker.
“Must you?” I grate, announcing my arrival. “No one wants to see you two all cuddly an’ shit.”
Serafina sticks out her tongue but grants me mercy and straightens off Lev’s chest. Lev at least has the decency to look shy, his cheeks reddening as he sips from his mug.
“Where’s your brother?” The sooner I find Zeno, the sooner I figure out how today will go, presuming the reason he dragged me onto this trip.
Sera gestures towards the hallway. “Van’s office. They’re trying to get a hold of Anastasia. She’s not answering her phone.”
Lev rolls his eyes, cutting off my surge of worry. “Vanessa knows nothing will get her out of her studio when she’s training. Especially at this time of year while she’s preparing for her annual holiday performance. Shy of a bomb maybe, but that’d get anyone running.”
“She’s starting early. It’s what…nine?”
“It’s two in the afternoon,” Serafina remarks with a knowing glint in her eyes. “Must have been fun last night for you to sleep in that much.”
Fun, yeah. Skipping over her, I move in front of Lev and toss him my phone with the Maps app open. “Put in her studio’s address. I’ll go pick her up.”
His brow lifts, considering, before shrugging and retrieving the device.
“You must enjoy pain.” After he returns my cell, he types on his.
“There, I’ve remotely unlocked the garage.
Keys are hanging on the wall. Take the car last in the row on the left.
Don’t tell her I gave you those directions, and don’t piss her off.
She might very well kill you. Good luck. ”
“Won’t need luck. I have charm.”
Serafina snorts into her drink. “Keep saying idiotic lines like that, and you’ll definitely need it.”
I turn away from them to head for the foyer, and then the front door. As I’m opening it, I hear Lev mutter, “She’ll eat him up and spit him out for dinner if he doesn’t give up soon.”
That’s what I’m counting on.
The address leads me to a nondescript building appearing a bit run-down from the exterior, all made of glass that reflects my image back at me.
It’s Anastasia’s territory. As if there’s a force field around it, I’m hesitant to approach. Undoubtedly, she’s aware of someone stepping into her space and is prepared to react.
After driving off the Bratva property, Lev texted me the studio’s door code to slip inside without knocking, so I type it in and open the door, bracing to be screamed at.
Instead, silence sucks me inside to the tiny foyer with a mat holding a set of sneakers, a coat hook with a jacket hanging, and a plant.
The wall in front of me has a glow coming from the other side that I follow.
Soft music notes pull me into her proximity.
I stop by the end of the wall, taking in the mirror-wrapped room with two versions of an enchantress spinning and leaping across the smooth hardwood floor. Her eyes are shut, wholly enthralled in dancing.
Crossing my arms, I lean against the wall to watch her two-step motions and impressive twirls that I’m certain have an official term. Ribbons are tied above her ankles on her legging-clad calves, and I find myself visually tracing the silk.
She goes from one end of the room to the other, and then mid-stride, lifts a foot before launching herself into the air. She comes down a couple of strides away. If only she’d open her eyes, she’d realize she’s no longer alone.
As she twists, leaps, and dances, magic is formed.
A mystical energy she began weaving eleven years ago on a different stage in a different country in a different scenario.
Back then, I was trying to make it through the night without destroying my soul and never could have guessed that years later, I’d be watching the same ballerina in a more intimate setting while our best friends are getting engaged.
Maybe I would have interacted with her differently back then, knowing she’d be in my future.
The song comes to a slow close, and she stops in the centre of the room, feet together, heels aligned, and arms in some pose I don’t get. Seeing as she’s finished, I clap to announce my arrival.
Almost comically, her lids fly open, and her peaceful expression is replaced by the familiar rage and irritation I’ve come to coin as the special look she has all for me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I shove off the wall, taking a single step into her space. “Our bosses are looking for you, so I came in their stead. They’d like to take us all to dinner, and we both know for what.”
She glances at the time on the wall. “I didn’t realize how late it got. I’d stay here all day if I could.” Her brows suddenly come together, and she jerks her head, almost like she didn’t mean to admit that aloud.
Biting down on my smile, I manage another step. “Your brother mentioned something about a Christmas show. What’s that about?”
She heads to the bench on the far side where a small bag and water bottle rest. “You know,” she says, attention narrowing to where my feet are through the reflection, “these floors aren’t meant for outside shoes tracking in snow and mud.”
“Seems I’ll owe you for two things since you put me to bed last night. I’ll send cleaners in.” Technically, her life debt is a whole lot bigger than dirty floors and being lugged into bed, but getting onto Anastasia’s side means getting onto her side.
Her face pales a bit before her cheeks flush the prettiest shade of rose pink. “Someone had to.”
“Christmas performance?”
She begins untying the ribbons of her slippers, nimble fingers quickly undoing the silk.
“Since you’re so damn insistent… Every year, a local troupe puts on The Nutcracker for about a week as a fundraiser.
Ticket proceeds get donated to women’s shelters, children’s charities, and other organizations that help the underprivileged during the holidays.
Even though I’m not part of the troupe, they always ask me to join them as the snow queen. ”
They know her worth, as does the rest of Russia. Her name sells out, and she’s a benefit to their fundraising when people come to see her. Anastasia is smart enough to be aware of how this benefits them more than her, and she does it out of kindness.
Moments like this make it hard to see the bigger picture of what is happening in my life. Because it feels like in the background, I should be aware of something else.
Once she’s finished untying her shoes and placing them on the shelf in the corner with a few others, I intercept her return for her bag. “Dance with me.”
“The bet’s been paid. How about no.”