24. Nero
NERO
Anastasia driving my car makes me want to pull over so I can bend her over the hood of it and show her exactly how fucking hard this has made me.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Everything about this woman is a turn-on.
She effectively handles the vehicle while following my verbal directions, considering she’s never driven in Italy before.
Too soon, we’re pulling into Padre’s driveway, parking behind his small and modest Italian-made vehicle. I offer to buy him better all the time, but he continuously turns me down.
I get out and round the car to help her out, knowing at any second, she’ll ask the very question any smart woman being brought to a stranger’s house would. She drops my hand and adjusts her dress farther down those thighs that are seconds from being wrapped around my head.
“Where are we?”
“A friend’s, as I said.” She’ll realize my lie soon.
Taking advantage of her confusion, I grasp her hand and lead her up the driveway and stone path. I knock once, though it’s not necessary since he’s expecting me. Anastasia as well, after I briefly informed him on the way out of Zeno’s.
The door pulls open to a joyous, “Nero! Get inside.”
I yank Anastasia through the entranceway, which faces the living room with the faded couch I binge-watched TV shows on as a kid, over the carpet I’ve spilled too many drinks on, and through the doorway I once watched my parents share the cooking responsibilities in.
It’s small, it’s modest, and it’s everything opposite of the Bratva’s mansion or Zeno’s villa. She slides off her boots, expression shifting between staring and glaring while never looking more out of place than if I stuck her on the side of a cliff with a rope and told her to climb down.
“Nero…” Pieces begin falling into place, but it’s too late because Padre’s hugging me, his smaller and frailer form being dwarfed by my arms. Then he’s shaking her hand, forcing her to kill the fishy gap-mouthed look she was going for.
“Welcome, and Merry Christmas. Nero forgot to tell me your name.”
“Anastasia. You can call me Ana, though. All my friends do.”
Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.
She winks over his head, but the genuineness of the moment is making it easier to forgive her. Especially when she immediately gives my father her attention, even ducking her head to attempt to break down the height differences between them.
“Your accent…Russian?”
“Da.”
Padre looks at me, brows lifted. He’s aware Zeno’s engaged, but not to whom. He’ll be invited to the wedding, having grown up as a kind of uncle to Zeno, but I’d intended to inform him during this visit.
“It smells amazing in here.” She glances through to the kitchen, where Padre has every pot filled with something.
He always goes all out even though it’s only the two of us, resulting in leftovers that last forever.
“Thank you for having me, and I’m very sorry for intruding.
Nero didn’t mention where we were going.
” Teeth smashing together, she playfully narrows her eyes at my return wink.
“It’s no intrusion. Always happy to meet another friend of Nero’s. I was starting to think he only has Zeno.” He gestures at the faded couch. “Get comfortable while I finish up. Nero, sit with her.”
Happily.
Anastasia’s friendly demeanour takes a trip to the kitchen with him, as the second he’s out of view, her fist slams into my gut—and straight into my breath. “You fucking dick. You said we were going to your friend’s, not your fucking papa’s! Take me back to the villa.”
“And ruin an old man’s holiday?” Yeah, I’ll pull out every stop possible, guilt being the first. “It’s only dinner, Ana. Don’t get your ballet slippers in a knot.”
She’s so pissed, she doesn’t even correct my use of her nickname. “Nero…”
“Did you really want to be around the villa where everyone’s coupled up? As I mentioned, Gabriella knew I’d be slipping away at some point in the late afternoon. After we left, I texted her that you’re joining me so no one would be looking for you.”
“That’s not the point,” she hisses, gaze darting around the living room—to means probably much less than what she was raised within. “This is your family. Who knows what he’s assuming about us.”
“Nothing less than I’d enjoy making into reality.”
She huffs and digs her elbow into my side, I swear she’s rooting for my bone marrow. Then Padre announces food being ready, which dislodges her elbow as she straightens, looking to the doorway in case he appears.
When he doesn’t, she whirls back around, finger jammed into my face. “What does he know about you, so I know how much to say?”
“Your thoughtfulness delights me.”
Her face reddens to a shade closer to her dress. “Nero.” Hell, I think Giovanni on his worst days looked more pleasant than she does.
“Your irritation pleases me too. He’s aware I’m in the Cosa Nostra, though he doesn’t really enjoy talking about it.
I haven’t told him Zeno’s engaged yet, so the Bratva has never been a topic.
I think it’d be safer to say you’re a friend of Z’s fiancée, who’s nothing more than a sweet girl from Russia. ”
The red shifts into a dull pink as she peeks over her shoulder with a sigh. “Alright, I can agree with that. It’s only dinner. But I’m still pissed you tricked me.”
I grip her hip to pull her against me, taking advantage of Padre being in the kitchen and the suddenness that doesn’t give her a chance to fight me off. Her hands land on my chest, imprinting a feeling of rightness that’ll never be washed off.
“Nero, let me go.”
“Let me call you Ana, Ana. After all, it’s what your friends do, and that’s what we’re pretending to be tonight.”
Her nostrils actually flare. The hands I momentarily enjoyed on my chest curl until her nails are digging through the threads of my shirt to reach skin. “No nickname. You get my cooperation and nothing more.”
“So tense,” I tease, and duck to quickly press my lips to her cheek before she shoves me away.
Right on time, she rips from my arms and stalks into the kitchen, entering as Padre’s pouring the wine.
And out comes another personality flip. “Wow, everything looks so delicious! I truly feel like I’m intruding on your evening with your son, but now it’s getting harder and harder to leave.”
He draws her to the nearest chair and takes over for me, tucking her in.
He points out and labels the less popular and more local delicacies she may not be familiar with.
While he’s keeping her busy by filling her plate with basically everything and more, I take my seat to her right, not bothering to conceal the genuine smile slipping onto my face.
Papa waits all of thirty seconds after sitting before asking, “How did you two meet?”
Anastasia scoops food into her mouth as she looks at me, brows raised, silently saying, You’re it.
“Z is engaged, Papa. Her name is Vanessa, and she’s from Russia.”
He curses in a loving tone. “You never mentioned him dating.”
Anastasia snorts. “Dating is a bit of a stretch. They had a strange beginning.”
Padre, ever the wise one, glances between us as his lips pinch. “Organization business?”
“Sì. She…runs an organization in Russia. That’s how they met.” So much for painting Vanessa as a pretty picture.
Padre’s eyes flick straight to Anastasia, the friendliness freezing out. “If you’re her friend…”
“Yes,” she replies slowly, resting her fork down onto the edge of her plate. She straightens, licks her lips, and waits for his judgement.
“Strong girl. Not an easy life.”
And like that, Padre moves on to ask Anastasia all kinds of questions.
She answers everything with an easy smile, and the more she talks about herself, the lower her shoulders get, the less tense her expression.
He asks about her hobbies, so she goes into great detail about ballet, which leads Padre down another line of inquiries.
When he asks about family, I pay extra attention, hoping she mentions her father—since she seems so open with mine, there’s a possibility.
But she continues concealing her history firmly behind those walls of hers, and only mentions Lev.
Meanwhile, I’m ignored. It’s alright because watching them interact warms a part of my chest that the wine doesn’t reach. I find myself clinging to her every word as much as my father does, learning all I can about the woman while her guard is lowered.
Her eyes are lit brighter than the candles at the other end of the table, and like those flames, she’s warm and alluring.
A moth to the flame, I lean closer, admiring how happy and free she appears.
Unguarded—a foreign sight but one semi-familiar, reminding me of her dressing room the other day.
Or she’s putting on a damn good performance.
When she glances my way, her attention lingers a second longer than normal. Her smile is hesitant before Padre steals her away to ask about Russian winters.
I’m jealous of my own father, that he’s getting so much of her attention. Jealous she’s genuinely smiling the kind of smile I’m starting to live for.
The one that’ll fade when she learns of my plans.
“Stay the night,” Padre offers as Anastasia edges closer to the door.
Once dessert concluded, she offered to help him clean—though he all but shoved her away—then got very anxious to begin the trek back to the villa. In truth, I am too. After dinner, I want Anastasia alone, and the car ride back gives me that.
“It’s late,” he continues. “Zeno will understand.”
“Oh…” She shoots me a look, chewing on her lip—except I don’t think I’ll be helping her through this one. “We shouldn’t.”
Padre’s house isn’t large by any means. With only two bedrooms, there’s space for him and me, which limits the options.
There’s no way I’m fitting on the tiny couch to sleep, and it’s not polite to force her there either.
Which leaves bunking up with the woman who’d enjoy seeing my entrails hung on the Christmas tree behind us.
He waves her off. “Nonsense, you must sleep off all the heavy food before you drive.”
I sling my arm around her shoulders, playing right into my father’s hand. “You’re right. We’ll stay and head back in the morning.”
“After breakfast,” Padre decides with a firm nod.
“O-oh, no, it’s okay. We’ve eaten enough of your food.” Anastasia digs her elbow into my stomach, pretty much where she did earlier. At this point, it’ll be gentler to just get the spot tattooed with her DNA.
“Thanks, Padre. I’ll show her to my room.” Arm around her neck, I direct her towards the stairs, pushing her through the struggle she puts up. Not without difficulty, as her strength easily rivals some of the guys I’ve fought.
Once inside my room, she whirls around, jamming her nail into my chest—also in the place she did earlier. It seems like her holiday wishes include bruising my body. “What. The. Actual. Fuck is wrong with you? Are you fucking mental? We need to go back!”
“It’s ten p.m. Everyone at the villa is probably heading to bed. I’m exhausted. No.”
She turns, taking in my childhood bedroom, which shows many signs of my youth, from the posters on the walls to the closet full of memories—if she were to open the door.
Hidden within it is the photo of her Giovanni once gave me.
Even after everything, I couldn’t get rid of it.
It’s been years since I’ve lived here, and longer since last looking at it. It’s a tucked-away teenage memory.
At least, she sneers at the double-sized bed against the wall. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“And have you ruin your back? No, you’ll sleep in the bed.”
“So you’ll take the floor?”
“Nope, I’ll be in the bed beside you. We’re adults, Petrov. We can share a bed. Besides, it’s a single night.” A lie I tell us both, and I cross the room to cut off whatever argument is building and pull a spare shirt from my dresser. “Here, you can wear this.”
She eyes it with disdain, lips curling. “This is getting worse and worse.”
I toss it at her, her quick reflexes catching it. “Be stubborn then and don’t wear it. Sleep as is. Or I’ll give you a few minutes to change. The bathroom is the first door to your right.”
I head back downstairs to speak with Padre for a few minutes, making my wish to whatever holiday spirit there is and return to her wearing my shirt.
It’ll not only be a Christmas miracle, but the gift I never knew was possible.