30. Nero
NERO
January
For the first time in forever, there isn’t a sip of alcohol in my system, and it fucking sucks.
Zeno requested I remain alert given the number of people in attendance, but more specifically who’s here. I’ve already done him wrong enough times throughout our life. I’ll remain sober tonight.
I hope. It’s practice for when the pressure in my chest eases forever—right as the light leaves the final ex-Elite’s eyes.
Even a sip could unwind the muscles that are seconds away from loosening only so I can pitch myself off a cliff if one more thing pisses me off.
It’s Vanessa and Zeno’s engagement party, and everyone important has shown up.
There are the four other Five Families’ Capos, their wives, their right-hands, and anyone else important throughout their circles, along with their personal protection.
Cosa Nostra event or not, no one comes without their own guards, regardless of the extra men Zeno stationed around the property to ensure no one uninvited gets in or out.
There are the five Commission representatives. The group of old fuckers has stuck together, silently regarding the party from a corner of the room while making their judgements on the bride-to-be.
Then there’s the other side, which keeps me on edge.
The prevalent fact that the Bratva is in Italy, and they’re both awed and feared by the crowd.
During Serafina’s wedding, the Bratva were regarded as “other” but the union kept everyone’s attitudes toned down.
They were the unwelcome guests then, but now they’re honoured guests, and the Cosa Nostra is losing their little minds over this.
Ever since Vanessa and Zeno have entered arm in arm, regarding the room as royalty of the criminal underground, the others have shut their mouths.
Behind them walked Dimitri and Katya, making a point by having Vanessa’s second close by. His gaze swept the room, promising death to anyone who looked wrong at his Pakhan. A promise I’ve come to know him well enough to know he’ll keep.
Lev and Serafina were next, which is where much of my stress comes from.
Until recently, Serafina was protected from the pomp-and-circumstance bullshit stuffed within the room.
After the cursed wedding to Vitale, there’s no more hiding her.
The Cosa Nostra princess has come out of hiding, only rather than taking her place in the organization, she’s dating a Bratva Elite.
To some in the room, it’s an insult, especially to those who were going to harass Zeno for her hand in marriage.
Anastasia entered last, becoming another tick to my stress. Having her where so many are staring pisses me off.
That, and the fact I should have walked in with her, but Zeno’s secondary request involved guarding Gabriella alongside Elio.
This is Gabriella’s first event since she was Giovanni’s wife in name as well as the church, and he isn’t sure how long she’ll be able to handle it.
It’s been nineteen years since most of these people—some of whom are her old social circle—have seen her in public.
With Elio and me, no one’s been brave enough to breathe in her direction.
So between ensuring no one picks a fight with the Bratva, says shit to Gabriella, or harasses Serafina, I’m strung so fucking tight my sanity is about to snap. The kind of snapping that needs alcohol—even a single fucking shot, maybe two—to survive.
Anastasia certainly isn’t helping.
Though she remains close to her people, mainly her brother, while Vanessa and Zeno work the room, too much attention lingers on the sexy-as-hell unattached woman who’s a beacon for their gazes.
To them, she’s different. Exotic. Not a man’s armpiece but a jewel, able to shimmer and shine beneath the crystal chandelier in a dress that rivals the piece.
The deep-blue floor-length gown clings to her every curve.
Curves I’ve felt, and ones I’m sure other fuckers are thinking about as she moves through the room, smiling politely at anyone she’s introduced to.
Then there’s the twist her hair is bound into, which leaves her neck bare, tendrils framing her face.
She took my breath away the instant she walked in. One hour later, it still hasn’t returned.
She’s only looked my way once, but it seemed to be an accident—a pass over the crowd as she was taking it all in, only to hesitate briefly on me before moving away.
It’s been two weeks since New Year’s Eve. Two weeks since seeing her, since kissing her. I’ve missed her. There isn’t a woman alive who can claim to have tugged that feeling from me.
Our kiss on New Year’s Eve was softer than the one from Christmas, and ended after only a few minutes to observe the fireworks shooting off in the distance, but it was enough. She was enough. Holding her healed a piece of me I still don’t understand.
When I finally woke late morning on the first, she was already gone to her studio, and since Zeno insisted we return to Italy, I was limited to texting her instead.
It went unanswered, and so did the one the next day.
Over two weeks, she replies every five messages or so, claiming exhaustion or being busy. It doesn’t feel like it. And seeing how she barely glances my way, reverting to old behaviours, worries me.
To my right, Zeno’s standard greeting makes its way from the group beside me. “May I introduce Vanessa Volkov, Pakhan of the Bratva, and my fiancée and soon-to-be wife. Thank you for coming.”
Gabriella rests a hand on my lower arm, following my gaze to the beacon across the ballroom. “She’s lovely tonight.”
“She is.”
“She’s also quite popular with the dance requests. It’s odd a dancer by trade is turning them all down, as if she’s waiting for someone special.” Gabriella nudges me, not at all hiding her obviousness.
Perhaps she has a point. I can prove to everyone that the unattainable is attainable.
I’m three steps in her direction when I hear them. It sets me off worse than being sober during this hellscape.
“Volkov’s friend, the Petrov girl—seems like she’s a wild thing. Imagine what she’s like in bed.”
If one wasn’t bad enough, the second has me whirling. “I’m up for the challenge of whipping that defiance out of her. The Bratva clearly allows their women to run free. What I wouldn’t pay to tame her.”
Three steps their way, ready to hammer down the vengeance of this entire organization on their heads, a hand clamps onto my shoulder, and Elio’s voice is low in my ear. “You’re here to keep the peace, not break it.”
Zeno would kill me if I ruined their party, but these fuckheads are doing it for him. Vanessa would approve of me teaching them a thing or two about respect when they’re insulting her best friend.
Elio’s point is enough that when shrugging him off, I inhale a seething breath between my teeth and nod, reassuring him I’m calmer.
Before ignoring his advice and stalking their way.
I grab the first by the scruff of the neck while hauling the other closer by his arm, using height to my advantage. “You two say one more word against Signorina Petrov, and I’ll be sure your dicks are permanently out of commission.”
“Mancini will—”
I laugh in his face, lamenting not remembering which asshole said what, not that both weren’t equally disgraceful.
“You really think Zeno will care when you’re insulting his fiancée’s best friend?
Did you not hear him when he commanded respect to the Bratva, or are you two just too fuckin’ stupid to get your heads out of your asses and listen? ”
“It’s not an insult if it’s true.”
My fingers clamp tighter on his collar, pressing into his pulse, the delicate part of his body that ultimately decides his life. “And now, you’re just insulting me. You really want to play this game, Costa? I promise it’ll end bloody for you.”
Z’s peacekeeping mission can suck it. Besides, he can’t actually believe I’m the best for that job.
I release them with a snarl and send them skittering away before making good on my promises. Elio has approached in the time I’ve been dealing with them, while Zeno watches from across the room. Both tense, as if I’m the issue.
A third set of eyes is on me too, and really, I’m not surprised she noticed.
Anastasia is so much more than someone to tame. She’ll be the one doing the taming, smashing through any of us before allowing herself to crumble. She’s too strong and way too smart to play the stupid, petty games others enjoy. She’s not the princess, but the knight who saves herself.
I’d die before seeing her charm be snuffed out.
I skirt the dance floor where Zeno’s now with Serafina and Vanessa with Dimitri. Across the room, Anastasia’s angled herself in front of Katya and Lev, as though to keep them out of view. I step beside her, murmuring her surname while nodding at the other two.
“Amato,” she greets coolly.
“Since we’ve practiced in your studio that one time, I vote we host the performance now.” I offer her my hand, palm up. “That’s how it works, hmm? You practice in the studio, then repeat it on the stage.”
Despite her snort, she rests her hand into mine and allows me to lead her to the floor. “That was corny.”
We move into the formal dance position. “It worked, so it couldn’t have been that bad.”
“No,” she agrees softly, eyes drifting all over the room. “Gabriella and the wedding planner did well.”
“And whoever chose your dress deserves a raise.” My thumb presses into her lower back, nudging her even nearer.
“It reminded me of your eyes.” Her eyes are comically wide as she struggles to pull away again, licking her lips and looking anywhere but me.
I spin her faster than proper, yanking her against me. “You can’t take that back, Petrov. It’s out there. You like my eyes then?”
“Da,” she admits after a moment.
“I like yours too.” I like your everything. “What I don’t like is this dress and how you look.”
“But you just said—”
“I don’t like how everyone is looking at you.” Hand to the curve between her ass and her back, I no longer care what the others think. Let them see this woman is becoming mine. “It pisses me off.”
“Playing jealous again? On New Year’s, you claimed there’s no reason to be.”
I duck my head, eyes dropping to the lips I long to taste.
I wonder what she’d do if I kissed her in front of everyone.
“You’re right, I don’t. I can’t be jealous over someone who was always meant to come into my life.
Eleven years ago, we met in Poland, and I couldn’t get you out of my head for weeks afterwards.
I was dying to know if you were alright.
Then, all these years later, you stormed my home and forced me to my knees.
It was unnecessary because the sight of you put me there anyway. It’s fuckin’ fate, cara mia.”
The room falls away as she looks at me. Like nothing else here matters. Not the party. Not the many observers.
“Fate isn’t real,” she whispers after a moment.
“Until recently, I didn’t believe it either. What else explains this?”
“This?”
“The fact you’re addiction personified.” And I know addiction quite well.
“That I can’t get you out of my head. You’ve infected me, but it’s an illness I’ll be thrilled to die from if it means you’re beside me.
That kiss on Christmas had the power to destroy me, but New Year’s…
fuck. Then you ignore me, barely responding to my texts, and still, instead of seeing this as a sign, you’ve reeled me in deeper. ”
“It’s attraction. Chemicals in our body.”
Chemicals have me inhaling her sweet scent from her neck. “Chemicals don’t explain connection.”
Her mouth opens to respond, but we’re interrupted by some asshole who’s decided death by hanging will be a pleasant way to end his night—because that’s what I’m doing to him if he doesn’t fuck off.
“The song is over, Signorina Petrov.” Some slick cousin of the Romano organization juts his hand forward, and my own twitches for the knife on me, prepared to cut it off should he bring it anywhere closer to her. “May I have the next dance?”
My hand tightens around hers as I glare at him. “Signorina Petrov is off-limits—now and forever. She’s mine. Go find your own.”
My words register too late.
Too late is a second after Anastasia’s hand turns as icy, and that wall I’ve been breaking brick by brick is reinforced with steel, shoving me onto one side with no doorway back.
Horror consumes her—her brows draw together as betrayal darkens the emerald of her eyes.
She jerks away and backs up a few inches, which feels like a cavern.
“Ana—” I stride forward, intending to climb the damn cavern back to her if I must, but her palm on my chest pushes me back down.
“An object,” she grates. Her defences unpeel to reveal the kind of pain captivity brings with it. “That’s all I am to you? An object to possess?”
“No, Anastasia—”
She turns and flees through the crowd, my fingers brushing her dress before she’s out of reach.