25. Anastasia
ANASTASIA
Van
Where are you? Gabriella said you left with Nero.
Me
For a drive to his “friend’s house.”
We’re at HIS PAPA’S HOUSE!!!!
Van
Me
It’s not funny.
Van
It’s hilarious. Best thing I’ve heard all day.
Me
He’s refusing to go back. We’re sleeping here!
In his childhood bedroom!
In the same fucking bed!
Help!!!
Van
Zeno is laughing btw. He said Nero likes playing games and not to think anything of it.
The thing is…none of today felt like a game.
Me
He’s taking the floor, except I haven’t told him that yet.
Van
Riiiiigght. I can’t wait to hear the story tomorrow.
Me
There will be no story.
Van
Mm-hmm. You two have fun. We’ll see you tomorrow. Zeno’s urging me to bed.
Asshole. I slam the phone onto the bed, glaring at it—and through the device, Zeno, who stole my best friend in my hour of need.
Fucking fantastic. Now what?
Huffing, I scan what is presumably Nero’s childhood bedroom. The poster on the far wall of a woman bent over the hood of a car is probably a decent indicator of youthful horniness and puberty. Then there’s the double-sized bed which won’t fit us both.
And the black tee resting on top, tossed there by him in invitation to wear.
He’s right about my dress being uncomfortable to sleep in, though it’s a discomfort I’m debating experiencing simply to make a point. Without another thought, I yank the shirt off the bed, carrying it to the bathroom between pinched fingers as if the material is cursed.
I’m back inside his room for only a minute, staring at the cage of the bed—the cage that’ll trap my dignity—when Nero enters.
The door shuts with a quiet click that echoes through my mind.
Without turning, I slide into bed, doing my best to pin the material to my thighs.
Although he’s already seen more of my body before, at the club or on stage, his shirt is an intimacy I don’t feel comfortable sharing.
Clothing hits the floor and then a body slides into the bed beside me, the blankets becoming a few degrees warmer. He’s staring at the ceiling from his place on his back. Maybe if I don’t move, talk, or breathe, he’ll assume I’ve passed out, and this night will go on without any fuss.
Nero wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t ruin my plan, though.
“Having a beautiful woman in my bed was the ultimate dream to fifteen-year-old me. Back then, Padre would have murdered me rather than encourage it.” He laughs at the thought, shifting in place.
It’s too much, and I turn onto my side so my back is to the wall, my hand resting in the space between us.
Awareness electrocutes my skin, down to the proximity.
He’s lying on his back with an arm cushioning his head as he stares up.
The blanket is low on his waist, revealing inches of smooth skin peppered by a thin line of hair and tattoos.
“Can I ask you something, and you not get mad at me?”
It’s a risky offer, considering “something” is so broad and vague, but one I find myself whispering my agreement to.
“What were the holidays like when you were a kid?”
Non-existent. “Papa never didn’t work, even on the holidays, which left Lev and me with our nanny who tried.
When we got old enough to care for ourselves, Christmas became our problem, so we didn’t do anything.
In the simplest terms, holidays meant nothing.
We’ve all been making more effort the last couple of years since Ursin’s murder, but it’s the four of us floundering, uncertain what the holidays should look like.
It’s what made this year exciting.” I tilt my head until I’m looking at his face rather than his chest. “Gabriella included us all—even Dimitri, Katya, and me. We’re the tagalongs who didn’t need to be invited, but she did.
And you…” My grip tightens around my cell, which I never released earlier.
“Despite my initial complaints, you brought me here with good intentions, so thank you. Your father’s really nice, and it’s been… nice.”
It’s been more than nice. Between him and Gabriella, I didn’t realize what we’ve all been missing about Christmastime.
The connection, the celebration—family. To bring everyone together with food, drink, and conversation for no reason other than having a good time.
For there to be no additional expectations; nothing I need to do for a person.
Nero bringing me to his father’s sends a message that isn’t written, but he did it to be kind, to take me away from the happy couples so I wasn’t alone.
I can’t totally dislike him for that.
“I’m glad you came to Rome,” he replies after a moment. “And that this year is better than previous ones. I’m sorry your father sucks.”
In ways you don’t even know.
“What about you?” I ask before he asks more about my father and ruins my happy mental place I’m beginning to blame on the wine. “What were your holidays like?”
“This.” Warmth fills his tone. “Papa always cooked large feasts even though it was only the two of us. Sometimes extended family, but not often.”
“What about your mother?”
His hand slides off his stomach, palm flat to the bed and only an inch from mine.
“They divorced when I was two. Madre cheated on him and took off with her new boyfriend. She never returned, but I found her thanks to the Cosa Nostra connections. I left her be, though. She never cared enough to come back for me, so why should I care about her?” He pauses, the room swimming with childhood abandonment that makes my heart break for him. “Yours?”
“Never knew her. Papa needed an heir but didn’t want to get married. He paid a woman a lot of money to birth us—got two in the process—and she fucked off with a huge payday and left us with him.”
Sometimes I envision the nameless, faceless woman who conceived us. Sometimes I imagine finding her, which I have no doubt Lev could if he wanted to, and report all of what Papa did. Who she produced innocent lives for. We were bred for a madman’s use and nothing else.
Nero’s hand covers mine, pinky intertwining with mine. I don’t pull away.
“Can I ask you something personal this time, and have you not be angry?”
“I could never be angry with you. Go for it.”
While it sounds like bullshit, I skip arguing about something that doesn’t really matter. “Why do you drink so much?”
He stiffens beneath me, making my question a huge error in judgement. The kind of mistake that someone like my papa would scream at me over, so I guess I’ll see how truthful Nero’s emotional control is.
“Can you ask me that in the future, when I might be able to answer that. R-right now, I can’t.”
“Sure. Understood.” I squeeze my pinky, stunned by his stutter but not acknowledging it. “I’m sorry for asking.”
“It was only a question. It’s fine. Thank you for being perceptive enough to notice.”
Is it a cry for help?
Does no one else notice?
Did you want me and the others to realize you drink more than everyone else?
We lie like that for a long time—long enough that sleep creeps over the edges of my consciousness, only shattering when he whispers, “I’m sorry for tricking you here.”
“You’re forgiven.” I’m thankful for the darkness that hides my smile. “Your papa is exactly what I’d imagine an Italian baker being like. Fuck, that bread was so tasty.” I pause, smiling again when I add, “You’re the son of a baker. Seems pretty cliché, Amato.”
“Wouldn’t it be more of a cliché if I dragged you downtown, then pretended to know how to make the recipes? Which, for the record, I don’t.”
I laugh, the feeling once again reminding me not only of the warm and delicious food downstairs, but of the concept of holiday cheer I spent years searching for with the others. Never finding it because I never knew what it looked like.
This. Holiday cheer looks like this. Comfort with a friend—I suppose I can call him that, at least for today—and genuine glee for a mood.
This time, when silence fills the room, I don’t mind letting sleep take me away, shielding the fact of who is in bed beside me.
Awareness drags me from the blissful hands of sleep to feel heat pressed into my back and a matching arm slung around my waist. The arm pins me against a body, which is the opposite of the no-touching rule I put into place last night.
My hips move as my back stretches from the tightness of sleep, drawing attention to the hardest part of him. He rumbles in my ear, and his fingers dig into my ribcage.
“Jesus, Nero.”
At my voice, he wakes almost instantly. The arm tightens until I can’t breathe. “It’s a compliment, Ana. I woke up with a sexy woman pressed against me. How else should I react?”
“It’s Anastasia. Also, I am not pressed against you.”
“Schematics.” I roll into his arm, trying to get away, but his strength is better than my half-tired self. “No, stay,” he whines, rolling with me to bury his face in my hair. “I’m not ready to get up yet.”
“I am. We need to go.”
“But I’m not. I’m quite comfy, and if you get up now, it’ll unfortunately end. Stay,” he whispers again, rocking his chest into my back as he comes up onto one elbow, lips lowering to my neck. “Stay in the moment with me.”
He caresses low on my stomach, managing the one thing I swore no man would ever again. He scrambles my brain, my thoughts confused with the simple pleasure of his touch. Fuck if I fall victim to him, though, like I was forced into victimhood by so many men before.
Nero isn’t like any of them. I need to keep reminding myself of that because it’s the truth.
So when his hand slides over my hip and to the base of his shirt, I don’t stop him.
I even twist slightly, giving him space to slip beneath, where he lingers.
“I like you in my clothing way too much. Makes me feel like a victor. That I’ve conquered you and made you mine.
” He pushes slightly into my shoulder to nudge me flat to the bed, his teeth dragging along the edge of my ear. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
As my chest meets the mattress, it’s not his hands touching me. It’s not Nero’s bed we’re in—but the memory of one down a darkened tunnel. With another man, in another scenario, in another time. When I was a different girl—girl, not a woman—in bed with a different man, following different orders.
Papa didn’t have me murder all of the men he sent me after, just most. A handful of rapists are still alive, who didn’t care about the underage girl coerced into sex.
One in particular didn’t release me when he was done.
He forced me to spend the night, a domesticated monster, rather than the vicious one he actually was.
In the morning, he rolled me beneath him and forced a repeat.
Hands cuff my wrists to the bed, his knees pressed into my thighs as he spreads my legs. Breath that reeked last night is tainted by sleep and curls my stomach. My eyes scrunch closed, pretending to be anywhere else. Anywhere he isn’t.
“Open your eyes, girl.”
“Pozhaluysta,” I beg, though it won’t do any good. “Please, don’t.”
He holds me tighter.
“Stop…please.”
“Stop…please.”
Unlike that man, these hands release me instantly.
Because Nero is different than him. Than all of them.
Nero. Is. Different.
“Anastasia?”
The bed jostles, and he’s then standing beside it, a glow filling the room. A glow revealing tears streaked down my face. A glow I need dulled so he doesn’t see any other version of me but the one projected to the world—the strong Elite, not a broken woman.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper because it’s on me to say. All my fault. He has nothing to apologize for. It’s all me. Me and my fucked-up past.
Sorry for showing you my nightmares.
Sorry for not warning you.
“You have noth—cara mia…Anastasia…I didn’t mean to.”
“You did nothing wrong.” Gathering my cell from where it slid halfway beneath the pillow overnight—and then my guts that are spilled wide open for him and my emotions shattered across the bed, and then, oh, my dignity, I slide off the bed and reach for my dress.
“Let’s never mention this again. It’s fine. ”
“Sure,” he whispers, but as I pass, he stops me with a hand to my lower stomach.
“Only after I say one more thing. Whoever hurt you better be six feet under. If he’s not, point me in the right direction, and I’ll see it done.
Anyone who didn’t respect your choices doesn’t deserve the respect of oxygen. ”
With that ever-crumbling dignity in hand and a fresh wave of hatred for my father, I escape to the bathroom.