29. Anastasia
ANASTASIA
The town is partially blurred, lights from stoplights and store signs blending into streaks of colour that confuse my mind while also sobering me.
Nero’s arm is around my waist, keeping me upright, and I trust him.
Between the two of us, he’s more sober, which seems to be huge for Nero. He had a single shot when speaking to Zeno.
I know because I watched.
At the end of the block and away from the club, he hails a passing cab and helps me inside. He shows the driver an address on his phone and settles in beside me.
“Where are you taking me?”
Going anywhere with Nero feels like a bad idea.
Inside the club, other people and our bosses-slash-friends are around.
People who’ll distract and ensure I don’t repeat the stupidity from the other night.
Alone gives him the kind of power others once stole from me.
Alone in their hotel rooms, me bound by my father’s death threats, them by desire.
Though Nero is vastly different, leaving with him has me feeling bound. Tied up and confused by emotions that can’t exist.
“It’s not much farther.”
It seems like it. I’m freezing, and would have dressed differently if aware of my New Year’s near-midnight adventure.
The car drives a bit over ten minutes, going away from downtown, before reaching a stretch of greenery and a small paved road.
We drive partially up before parking. Nero pays the man with the worst Russian I’ve ever heard a person speak, but the fact he’s trying to learn the local language warms a part of me the negative temperatures have frozen away.
“Sparrow Hills,” I remark as he helps me out of the vehicle and farther up the incline.
It’s the highest point in Moscow—besides high-rises—which isn’t saying much since the city is pretty flat to begin with.
It offers a panoramic view of the area and, given the time of day and holiday, is empty. “Why?”
He peeks over his shoulder as he guides me up to the very top. “It’s quiet and away from the club and liquor. And it’s where I want to be.”
He drops onto a stone bench before pulling me onto his lap and bringing my legs up to his chest. Wind seeps beneath my dress and up my thighs, but he wraps his coat around to cover me. Basically, I’m curled on his lap and in his arms and am supposed to accept being okay with it.
“So, lemme get this straight… You drop into the city, interrupt my celebration, and steal me away.”
“Sì. That’s what a man does when they miss a woman.”
My heart skips a beat. “You shouldn’t miss me. I shouldn’t be missing you either.” My head falls forward until I’m staring at my lap rather than him. “It makes no sense why I can stand you at all.”
“Hmm, I can think of some reasons. We make a lot of sense, except you pretend we don’t.
Why else would you have kissed me?” When I don’t have a response to that, he asks another question.
A murmur tainted with a determination I pretend not to hear.
“What did you mean earlier when you said that I remind you of others?”
Fuck the alcohol. Between the drive and now being outdoors, I’m more sober than earlier and unfortunately recall the little tidbits that slipped out.
“Doesn’t matter.”
His arms tense. He disagrees but doesn’t push the matter. Instead, he pulls out his phone, checking how close we are to midnight.
“I planned on kissing a stranger at midnight. You’ve stolen that from me.”
I wasn’t. My midnight plans consisted of hiding until that part passed and the dancing resumed. Kissing strangers—or doing anything else with them—no longer holds the same appeal as it did a few months ago.
Ocean eyes and an Italian accent destroyed me.
His chest rumbles. “None of those assholes, that’s for certain.”
“Yet you’re not jealous…”
“I’m not.”
I hum, agreeing to disagree, as my hand rests against his chest. I bring it up to the skin above his collar, seeking warmth to numb my cool fingers, and it’s then I notice the spot of red. Like the lights scouring the club, this is as flashy and noticeable since it shouldn’t be there at all.
“Why do you have blood on your collar?”
He tenses again, warning me that whatever the excuse he gives will be a lie. “Nosebleed.”
In the criminal underworld, blood is an everyday aspect. It was likely a Cosa Nostra job this morning before he and Zeno flew here. I’ve decided I trust him, which means actually trusting him and letting this go.
“We have a few minutes. Tell me why ballet? What interested you in it?”
“That’s something I ask myself often,” I murmur, continuing to fiddle with his collar.
“Papa needed us out of the house one day, so he had our nanny bring Lev and me to a local show. I was ten at the time, and can recall the dancer’s face as she performed.
She seemed so calm, happy, and I wanted to be her, so I asked Papa to get into the sport, figuring it’d make me calm.
Ten-year-old me assumed it’d change my life.
Obviously, it doesn’t work like that. But I enjoyed it enough to stick with it. ”
“Long-term, it makes you happy. It does make you happy, right?”
“Da.” I’m pretty happy right this second too. I’d be even happier if the weight leftover from the holidays were lifted, though. “Why did you leave the morning after Christmas without a word?”
“I had to.” He bends his head, looking off in the distance.
“We woke up beside one another the morning prior.”
“I know. Just…I had to, cara mia. It wasn’t you, all me. I-I…the kiss made things more real, and I had to be careful for both our sakes.”
I study the side of his face, picking apart his expression—the pain. I want to ask more about it, but if anyone understands boundaries, it’s me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “If it made you feel cheap or something, that wasn’t the intention. Believe me, spending the morning with you is all I wanted, and I’ve regretted leaving every day since. Forgive me?”
Forgiving isn’t in my wheelhouse, but this I can do. Unlike the blood on his collar, I feel his truth. Something freaked him out, which I completely understand. How can I ask him to be careful with me when he too has his own shit to work through?
“You’re forgiven.”
He brings his phone up again to open the clock app so we get the precise time to the second. At 11:59:11, he counts down, his voice coiling my stomach with desires I still haven’t allowed myself to embrace.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…”
I join in, mouthing but not verbalizing the next few numbers. Not until whispering, “One.”
His arms tighten. Head descends.
His mouth touches mine gently. A brush of his lips and nothing like the other night, but still one to ignite a fire in his eyes that the blue burns through and drowns out my trauma. A simple press of our lips before he pulls back, seeking permission like he had the other night.
Cupping the back of his head, I pull him back down.
Fireworks shoot off in the distance, but we don’t break apart to watch them. Not for a while, anyway. Instead, we kiss and kiss. Slowly, gently, tentatively…neither taking it further.
Both of us present in the moment.
Happy New Year’s indeed.
My brother has zero tact or patience, so as Vanessa and I are slurping down much-needed caffeine after getting home late, he bursts through the kitchen entranceway.
“Abrum Angeloff is dead.”
What? Still foggy from the short handful of hours, my brain doesn’t fully hear him. Nero and I had gotten home around one in the morning after taking a silent taxi trip back. He walked me to my bedroom, kissed my forehead, and went to his borrowed room. I’ve yet to see him since.
Vanessa coughs into her mug, the first to make sense of Lev’s announcement. “What? How? What? I think this is a good thing?”
Abrum Angeloff was one of Ursin’s Elite, and one I barely knew since Papa generally kept me away from the other Elite members, pretending I was a respectable good girl waiting for marriage. Only Ursin as Pakhan and Ivan as Ursin’s brother knew my rough reality.
He was one of a few who got banished from the Bratva after Vanessa’s takeover, but Lev has their names flagged by the Moscow Police Department so we’ll know if anything happens with them.
“I received the call about nine minutes ago.” Ah, my brother’s odd penchant for numbers and being precise. “Neighbour called it in when she went next door to see him. They found his body, neck slashed, in his living room.”
“Good,” Dimitri chimes, entering the kitchen with Katya and catching the end of Lev’s recounting. Though they have their own house, they’ve been around frequently for the holidays. “One less bastard from that time alive.”
Vanessa lowers her mug, frowning. I could all but see the gears in her mind working. “A home invasion gone wrong?”
Lev shrugs. “Police are reporting there wasn’t forced entry. Nothing was out of place or stolen from what they could tell. They discovered no traces of DNA. Whoever did it was in and out quickly.”
“And only there for Angeloff,” Dimitri comments, now matching Vanessa’s shrug. “This could be…worrisome.”
“Mercenary?” I offer. “Who else would get that kind of job done with that level of meticulousness?”
“But”—Vanessa pauses, the question settling within the room—“who besides the four of us wants him dead?”
“That list would be pretty long, given all the shit he did in your papa’s name.” Lowering onto my elbows, I scan the room. “Could be anyone.”
“See if the cops figure it out,” Vanessa commands Lev.
“Report if you discover anything. This could have been a coincidence or planned. I have to wonder if it’s the start of something more.
” She scans the room, grimacing, and then sighs.
“For now, I need to wake my fiancé and return a call from the wedding planner. Not to change the subject so abruptly, but do you know how often she harasses me over this event? I love him, not whatever flowers will hang from the goddamn ceilings! When she asked about a colour scheme, I said burgundy. There was a follow-up question. What fucking shade? A shade! Why the hell should I care?”
Lev and Dimitri take Vanessa’s rant as time to leave while I settle into an empty seat beside Katya and we listen to her shout, all while thinking about a blood drop on a man’s collar.