43. Anastasia
ANASTASIA
Zeno joins me on the flight back to Russia, but doesn’t speak at all. I’m grateful for the solidarity, though admittingly, it’s strange to be coming from him.
While I curl up on the farthest seat available and glare out the window at the night sky from Rome to Moscow, he sits on the adjacent couch, reading a book from the small selection stored for entertainment.
I nap on and off, waking when the plane’s wheels thud to the tarmac. Zeno tosses the book onto the nearby table and picks up his sweater from where he discarded it hours prior, tossing it over my shoulders.
“You look cold.”
“Thanks.” Smiling weakly, I tuck the sweater around me tighter and even accept his offer of help off the couch. He lets me walk ahead and down the stairs, to the car I drove here earlier…yesterday—whenever.
“You okay to drive?”
Without replying, I take the passenger seat and toss him the keys so he can get us home.
It’s strange, sitting in the front seat of my own vehicle, in my own city, as a Cosa Nostra Capo drives me home. A man who’ll be my best friend’s husband within months. In another life, we should never have been in the same country, let alone a vicinity this close.
In another life, when Papa ruled me, I was once enthralled by the Italian stranger who appeared backstage, only to save me and disappear for a decade.
We approach Bratva territory, and the soldier on guard waves at Zeno and me before speaking into the radio all sentries are equipped with.
So it’s unsurprising when we arrive and Zeno parks by the side of the house, that Vanessa is exiting at the same time.
She runs into Zeno’s arms, only to immediately pull back when noticing me.
I slip off her fiancé’s sweater and hand it back with a grateful smile before turning for the door, stopping only when she grabs my wrist. “Lev told me what happened when you two went to your papa’s. I’m sorry, but incredibly confused.” Her head tips ever so slightly in the direction of Zeno.
“We should talk.” Zeno directs her inside, and I trail them like a ghost within my own house. A ghost of the woman who planned her father’s torture and death years prior only to have the build-up robbed.
I slump into my usual chair within Vanessa’s office, arms falling to either side of the curved armrests. In my peripheral vision, Lev takes the second chair while Vanessa hops onto her desk, directing her attention to Zeno.
I talk before he can start. “It’s not Zeno’s fault. It’s not really the Cosa Nostra’s either. Don’t let this change anything. Nero…” I suck in the amount of air required to push the next statement out. “Nero killed our father.”
Vanessa’s head whips back and forth between Zeno and me. “What? Why? How did he even find him?”
“We slept together, the night of your party—as you know. After months of avoiding what he was offering, I trusted him enough to let him inside. I like him.” Liked—past tense. “While I was asleep, he went through my phone for Papa’s address.”
“The ex-Elite’s been getting killed one by one,” Lev mutters, putting the rest of the pieces together, which makes Zeno tense tighter than an elastic band.
“Nero’s been going behind my back and murdering more than just your father for months?”
“Seems so.” Lev shrugs.
“Why would he want to? What’s he gain from this?” Vanessa taps her nails along the surface of her desk in no particular pattern.
We all look at Zeno, who’s merely rubbing his forehead.
“Fuck me. Months ago, he was going on about Ursin’s Elite being a potential problem, but I told him to leave it alone.
It’s not our issue to deal with.” He glances my way.
“Minutes before your arrival, he was trying to tell me something. If it was about this, it’d explain his behaviours of late and his disappearance for the past two days. ”
And the blood on his collar on New Year’s Eve. The day after, Lev came with the news about Angeloff. The signs of my idiocy were there.
Vanessa slides from her desk to kneel in front of me. “You okay?”
Old Anastasia would lie, but right now, my energy is so low, even faking requires a strength that faded with one man’s betrayal. “I was coming to like him, and he proved to be like every other man. No offence,” I toss towards the two guys, one of whom crouches beside his fiancée.
“On behalf of my entire organization, I apologize. Whatever punishment you deem fit, I’ll see it done.” Solemnity rings in Zeno’s tone, which somehow makes it feel worse.
“It’s not your fault.” I glance between the couple. “You two will have your happy ending. I’ll get over this. It just…sucks.”
Vanessa grimaces and squeezes my hand, seeing right through my shielded comments.
“As for punishment, keep him away from me. I can’t promise I won’t stab him if he were to show up. Except for your wedding,” I tack on, the thought of the happy day shredding my insides. Happiness for them will be a death march for me. “I promise to play nice for that.”
Vanessa stands and hugs me tightly. Years of pent-up strength, of hiding from old truths, embrace her back. Heartbreak slips back, leaving the organ in my chest even more dried up than after Papa finished with it.
Seconds, minutes, maybe even hours, she hugs me until I release her and stand. “I’ll be at my studio.”
Dancing always makes everything better. Even when it was the activity Papa molded for his own sick uses, he was never able to steal my love of dancing no matter how much he tried.
Practicing reminds me of the latest show I’ve performed: The Nutcracker.
Which reminds me of Nero, sitting in the front row, bringing me flowers, and being his charming self.
Which reminds me of today, when he was on his knees, beat down and broken.
Which reminds me why he was.
The last in my cha?nés turns ends with my feet crossed, and when I sink to the floor, I’m already in the perfect position to bring my legs up.
I cry into my knees, officially shattering the promise I made to myself ages ago: to never cry over a man.
So I make a new vow to live and die by.
Nero Amato will be the last man I ever shed a single tear over.