36. Nero
NERO
If I wasn’t already addicted to Anastasia, seeing her exact revenge could have the power to make me fall in love with her.
Zeno and I have known for years that the Bratva got better under Vanessa’s rule, meaning less horrific when they ended the human trafficking. Witnessing Anastasia now shatters all those notions about them being “gentle.”
Because Anastasia isn’t gentle at all. Gone is the pretty ballerina, the hardened Elite in her place. Not apologetic, not soft, but ruthless.
I remain against the far wall, out of the way, when a nagging sensation itches the back of my neck. There’s something in her eyes as she rounds on the crying man being held down by her security guard. Something darker, something personal.
As if the customer is a stand-in for someone else.
The hidden room we’re inside is pretty small, maybe the size of two attached prison cells. Limited equipment, a single chair with chains dangling from the ceiling, the steel auburn-shaded with old bloodstains.
The way Anastasia moves around the captive is daunting.
Her steps are fluid, like the cement floor is actually a wooden stage, me the vast audience giving her a standing ovation, and the dull lightbulb overhead the spotlight that trails her dancing.
Because that’s what this is—another kind of performance.
Instead of a paying audience, it’s a show for the creep to comprehend what disobeying Anastasia’s rules results in.
I wonder how many people she’s killed over the years.
The man releases an ear-piercing shriek that brings my attention back to the scene. Anastasia whirls a knife until the tip pokes the open wound where his thumb used to be. The finger in question is a lump of skin by her feet.
“Thieves who steal my product lose things. But you…you’re pissing me off. Something about your face does it for me.” She readjusts the knife to his cheek, pressing deeply until red forms, which he barely registers, still panting through the pain of his lost limb.
“I paid”—he sucks in a sharp inhale—“for the whore.”
Her bouncer meets my gaze from across the room, a smirk pulling up the corner of his mouth, which I match. Both of us recognize those were the wrong words when having someone as vicious as Anastasia in front of him.
“The whore.” Anastasia chews on the word, the impact bouncing through the otherwise quiet room. It’s the announcement before the show; the curtain lift before the performance. “If she’s a whore for taking your money, what does that say about you, who paid?”
“A hole’s a hole,” the idiot grunts, only for his cocky attitude to transform into a screech when the knife makes another jagged noise of skin ripping. Gone is the pinky.
“If, as you say, a hole is a hole, then it won’t matter which one I poke?” She prods the fresh wound where his pinky was. “Or I could always form new ones.” The blade shifts to where his heart is buried beneath skin, earning a pathetic whimper as he leans away.
Anastasia entertains his attempt by straightening and staring down over her nose at him. “I planned on cutting off only one finger, but then you opened your mouth and irritated me.”
“Yeah?” he grits, a hazy gaze flicking behind her. “This how you conduct your business?”
“It is under the Bratva’s control. They have standards, you see.
” She pauses, purses her lips dramatically, and taps them with the bloody blade.
“Oh, did I leave that fun fact out? You chose the wrong club to be a svoloch’ within.
But let’s return to the real issue. The lovely young woman up there who had the unfortunate job of spreading her legs for you instructed you to pay for what you were trying to do.
Rules are rules, and she was following them. ”
He licks his cracked lips and bobs his head.
She hums. “Yet you chose not to listen.”
Another nod after a second’s hesitation when he realizes he’s writing his own future.
“Then, to add to your list of crimes, when she went for help, you attempted to prevent her from getting it. That is what I will not forgive. Your blatant ignorance and lack of respect for the goddess upstairs.”
He mutters something in Russian, to which she replies in their language, her sharp tongue lashing around in accent, and I swear my cock hardens for that alone. He spits on her shoe, blood tainting his saliva.
She sighs and spins the knife downwards in a sharp arc. Gone is his middle finger, the flesh thumping to the ground with the others. “You really don’t learn, do you?”
The screams last longer this time, the deep pants louder as he slumps forward. It’s a couple of moments before he tips his head sideways and glares at her. “Gonna kill me?”
“Although I’d like to, no. How else will you learn your lessons if you don’t go on living? So, this is your time to start talking. Tell me why I should save your pathetic life.” She plants herself in front of him, a reaper of pain.
“I’m…sorry.”
“What’s that?” She crouches, lining their faces up. “Repeat what you said.”
“I’m s-s-sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Finally you’re correct about something.” She straightens, clapping once and giggles a bit manically. “You are so damn right that it won’t happen again because by the time I’m through with you, you won’t have any fingers left to use.”
He jerks again, jolting his body to be freed from the bounds that keep him locked to her mercy. “You fucking crazy bitch. I’m having you arrested.”
“That’s a lie. If the term police enters that little mind of yours, the Bratva will pay you a visit.
How will your wife take it when she learns you haven’t been staying late at work?
” She gestures to his entire body, and then his hand.
“I’d love to hear how you explain this one away.
And what about your brother, living it up in Mongolia?
We’ve heard he’s into some sketchy shit. ”
His face pales, having little to do with the lost blood. “How…?”
“You assumed we don’t collect backgrounds for each guest, picking and choosing who we’d like to give memberships to?
You were granted entry because we don’t care about your adultery or money-laundering family business.
Your wife might not enjoy your secret life, but for us, money’s money.
But now, you’ve gone ahead and made me your enemy.
Which means, if you breathe a fucking word about what happened here, you’re a dead man walking.
Do not test my kindness.” She steps back to examine the blood, the panting, injured man before gesturing to her staff.
“Get him out of my sight. Ensure his name is on the banned list for each brothel.”
The man puts up no fight as the bouncer hauls him for the stairs. Between the cursing, huffs, and groans, the room isn’t quiet until they’re gone, the door shut behind them, and Anastasia and I remain behind.
Her bloodied knife clangs on the cement as she turns, spine straight and shoulders back with defensiveness.
Her walls are erected, and gone is the vicious Elite.
Everything is one step forward and two back with this woman.
She’s not Anastasia from earlier either.
She watches me shove off the wall, readying to face her judgement.
A different mask, but one worn proudly nonetheless.
Before she invents more bullshit excuses to push me away, I wrap my arms around her and bring her against my chest, tilting her chin up. “You’re amazing.”
A nerve in her cheek twitches. “You’re fine that I’m not the prim and proper woman that most men want?”
“I’m not most men.”
She leans back, searching my face. “No,” she decides after a moment, “you’re not.”
Cupping her face, I kiss her. I reassure her this doesn’t change shit. If anything, it dragged me deeper into her sphere, because not only does she fight for herself and her family, but she protects those she employs too. There’s nothing sexier than a woman who cares.
She grows heavy in my hold, kissing me back. Both of us fighting for dominance. Bloodstained hands meld with my hair, the pain of the room propelling us closer together, searching within one another for relief so rarely found in our lives.
I spin us around, pressing her up against the wall, wondering at what point her need for control will take over. I clench her hips as she climbs my body, winding her legs around my waist and finds, with a crook of her brow, what exactly watching her has done to me.
“You have no idea what you look like wielding a weapon, Petrov. It’s entirely your fault.”
“Then it should be up to me to fix it too, no?”
She lowers to her knees before her words register despite the blood—old and new—staining the floor. Quick fingers work at my zipper, freeing my cock, and stealing with it all sense, sanity, and the blood that should be in my head.
“You don’t need—” She glides her soft hand up and down my cock before lifting higher onto her knees and wraps her lips around me. My head falls backwards on the stone wall. “Fuck.”
Her tongue laps the head and down my shaft as she cups my base, stroking in time with her mouth. I want—no, need—to lift my head, look down, and see this for myself, but every time I attempt, my knees threaten to collapse at the next swipe of her tongue or suck of her cheeks.
I fist her hair, having to trust she’ll fight me if she’s uncomfortable. After today, I have no doubt she’d slice my balls off if I harmed her. So I grip tightly, guiding her the way I need, though she does a really damn good job on her own.
“Anast—cara mia…fuck.” Forcing my head up, my lids low, I gaze down on what’ll be my newest obsession. A high that liquor will never get me to. A lull that obliterates old guilt because Zeno and his family shit doesn’t matter anymore if it meant protecting this woman’s life and getting us here.
I’d burn the world before losing this moment.
I shift her hair away from her face as her eyes flash up, a cheeky grin from her mouth stretched around me just about destroying me.
“I can’t even think…” A wave of pleasure comes, my orgasm on the precipice if she keeps going. “You’re never getting rid of me. Not when knowing what your pretty mouth looks like wrapped around my cock. Suck me dry. Take it all.”
As she twists her hand around my base and tightens her lips, the tingle in my spine isn’t to be ignored. Cum shoots from my cock and floods her mouth. She keeps sucking, drinking as I come—which makes my orgasm ongoing, my hand clenched to keep her in place as white and black decorate my lids.
I pull her off me, grip her face, and lower as I tilt hers up, meeting her halfway to take her mouth with my own.
She tastes like me, and fuck all her dislike and trauma about possession.
This woman is mine—mine, mine, mine—and I’ll find a way to prove it to her.
She tastes like me. She’s on my mouth, in my arms, and splattered with blood from defending those who she cares about. She’s the best woman I know.
And all fucking mine.
She pulls back with a giggle. I press my thumb to her bottom lip until she parts and lets me see the leftover cum still on her tongue.
Mine.
“Fuck, Ana…”
“Anastasia.”
“We’re still not friends?” I cast a look to my cock still out. “After everything?”
She winks before getting to her feet. “I think we’re beyond friends at this point. Which means Ana isn’t your nickname. Pick a new one.”
Laughing, I zip myself up and find my hands wandering back to her, compelled to keep her close. “When are you finished with work? I want to take you out.”
“Not for a while. I’ll be stopping by two more clubs after this. Not all of us constantly slack off to vacation in other countries.” She grips my collar, tugging me forward in another show of strength. “Tell me, stranger. Where are you from?”
“Funny, Petrov. Would it be okay if I came with you?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Better question is why you’d want to.”
“To spend time with you.”
Her gaze shifts as she retreats into her head. After a moment of battling inner demons, she grabs my hand and leads me from the room. So I take it as a yes—and a win after the murder in Kazakhstan earlier.
There’s only one more ex-Elite member.
Anastasia and Lev’s father.