58. Nero #2
“What do you know about it, mini-Mancini?”
She winks and rejoins Lev and the others. Elio and Gabriella stand beside me, while we watch the photographer capture the newlyweds from every angle possible, eventually forcing the wedding party to join in, and later family portraits.
The ones of just Anastasia and me are my favourite.
Italians enjoy going all-out in receptions, but fuck me, if this is destroying me from the inside out. Destroying all my sobriety and my withdrawals—worse than last night—and making me want nothing more than to get blackout drunk because she’s right there.
The entire fucking time, this whole hellscape of an evening, she’s close, yet further away too.
Within ten minutes of the reception, Zeno’s over the entire thing and eager to begin the honeymoon, which I toss my vote into as well. The sooner they leave and end the reception, the sooner I can escape the woman who makes life confusing.
At the same time, if the night could go on forever and I could remain in her vicinity, I’d die a happy man.
Once we arrived at the reception, Anastasia ran off to her family, spending the evening beside Dimitri and Katya while the newlyweds tour the room and greet guests.
Dinner passes as depressing as the rest. I’m seated on Zeno’s left while Anastasia takes Vanessa’s right, and the rest of our family is at a nearby round table. The delicacies Gabriella picked out barely resonate with my taste buds as I chug water to drown out my bourbon craving.
Once dinner is over, I head for the others, dropping into the chair that Gabriella vacates. A bottle of champagne is open and half empty in the centre of the table. I don’t even like champagne, but I’d take it if I could.
“You could at least pretend.” Serafina pouts. “Your depression is so loud, I practically hear it.”
The DJ invites the newlyweds for their first dance, so Zeno and Vanessa lose themselves in those few moments that’ll pave the rest of their lives. It means in minutes, the wedding party will be invited to join.
How can I anticipate and dread an event so fucking much?
“Now I’d like to invite the wedding party to the floor.”
Fuck me and my life.
Anastasia stands and brushes her dress before coming around the other side, hesitating by the edge of the dance floor. I meet her there and offer my hand to swing her into a hold reminiscent of when we danced in her studio.
Our walk down the aisle didn’t count as touching like this.
For the first time in months, my soul takes a deep breath.
My insides rupture, breaking the barrier covering every locked-down emotion.
Every drink I had in preparation for this moment.
Every punch to my wall. All broken down by the feel of her palm and her body against mine.
The silence between us is stifling. Soon, the DJ invites other people to join, but she doesn’t yank away when the dance floor fills up, and we’re no longer the focus.
She’s staying, and seeing it as my opportunity, I step into her, my hand on her hip sliding deeper into her skin, bruising her in the same manner she bruised me eleven years ago.
“You’re not drinking. Tonight or last night.”
She’s talking to me. More so, she’s noticed. The pressure in my head explodes, and my nerves tighten as if I’m a pre-teen boy speaking to his crush for the first time.
“No. I don’t drink anymore.”
She leans slightly back to look me in the face. A flash of pride mingled with confusion has her whispering, “Since when?”
“Almost a month now.”
For a moment, just a brief second, there’s a flicker of the Ana who was once in my bed. Compassion melts her eyes until her next blink. She positions herself a respectable distance away again but remains in my arms.
“Good,” she remarks in a chilling voice. She stares over my shoulder, all those signs of my ballerina, my angel…gone. “Your conscience is cleared. Months of murdering Elite so you can end your pain. I’m glad.”
Except she doesn’t sound glad. She’s empty—flat. Reciting facts.
“You read my explanation.”
“You know I did.”
“The message being marked as read doesn’t mean you actually did.” My tone becomes argumentative, which won’t help my case, so I inhale, using the scent of her perfume to calm my mood. “I hope my explanation brought you some peace. Sorry for showing up in Moscow the other day.”
This is so fucking formal and sickening. Knives digging into my spine would be gentler.
“It helped me understand. Sorry for how Poland went. It was unfortunate.”
That’s what she got out of my messages?
Hand to her back, I drag her nearer until our noses brush. An intimate hold to the many observers but one I couldn’t care less about, so long as she doesn’t break her gaze. That she listens to me.
“I’m not sorry for any of it. Not for Giovanni’s death, nor for saving you. Because the day I saved the enthralling ballerina from a worse fate, she danced right into my very fucking soul and saved me in return.”
Her lips part. I long to kiss them, to show her all the ways I’ve missed her. “How did I save your soul?”
“By being. I arrived in Poland intending to kidnap an innocent girl, but ended up not blackening my soul because of everything you were. No matter what’s happened recently, you made me a better man.”
Emotion swims, splashing the edges of her consciousness. “You made yourself a better man, Nero. You made the choice not to kidnap me.”
I’ve made many choices I regret, but nothing more than hurting you.
“Like the choice you made coming to Moscow, ready to turn yourself in,” she continues. “You shouldn’t have risked it.”
“Z said the same, but it wasn’t a risk in my opinion. I’d do anything to keep you safe, Petrov. Prison is the least worrisome on that list.”
“Why would you?”
“I think you know why.”
Her reply is right fucking there, but Zeno approaches and clears his throat, breaking us apart. He offers his hand to her for a dance, really testing my restraint. He won’t have that honeymoon he’s been wanting when I kill him before the night’s end.
“Dance with Vanessa,” he commands before stealing Anastasia, but her attention remains on me as he spins her away.
So in the end, I’m the winner.