Page 143 of Violent Pawn

The girl slides to the right, only to notice me and stop. Her bare shoulders curl inwards, eyes darting around the room. Anastasia steps closer, and I nudge myself between the girl and Zeno. If anything, just to diffuse the fear radiating from her.

Zeno, now occupied on his phone, doesn’t fight me pushing him backwards. He whips it into the air, an article up on the screen, dated recently, with the headline: Two powerful families unite under one rule. The attached picture is a wedding photo. The bride⁠—

Anastasia’s gaze darts from the picture to the identical-looking woman standing between us, gaping. Her face, eyes—everything is the same.

Vanessa brings Zeno’s phone closer to the girl, showing her the article too, who looks as lost as the rest of us. “Explain this.”

Ella grasps the phone from Vanessa as her mouth falls open. Her skin flushes red. And then—rage. She stalks to the opposite side of the room, shaking her head at the screen and apparently mumbling to herself in a not-so-quiet voice, leaving the rest of us looking on. That wasn’t an expected reaction.

“Fuck! I should have fucking known. Mom, why would you…?”

Vanessa’s on her heels, reaching for the girl. “What did your mother do? We won’t hurt you, despite how this looks.”

She turns, scanning the room. Zeno shakes his head. Ana is clearly confused. I’m playing bodyguard by the door. Vanessa looks as powerful as her nickname makes her be. When the girl looks at Anastasia, her façade melts off her with a resigned sigh.

“My name is Alexis Graves, not Ella. I’m sorry for lying. That photo is of my sister, Harley. That’s whose wedding you attended.”

Zeno growls, shaking out of his stupor. “No, we attended Alexis’s wedding. You must be Harley.”

Gotta hand it to the girl, she doesn’t back down, whirling to throw all her attitude at Zeno. If only she knew who she was actually shouting at. Something is confident about her demeanour, like she’s stood up to people like Zeno before.

“I think I know my own name, but thanks for your help. Fuck, you’re exactly like him! You wonder why I ran?”

“Him? Romano?” Zeno barks, naming the Cosa Nostra family based in the US whose wedding he attended. “You ran from Adrian fucking Romano?”

“You ran from your own wedding?” Vanessa jumps in, her softer voice almost comical in comparison.

Whatever-her-name-really-is rubs her face while looking back at the phone. “I should have guessed my parents would do this. They made Harley step in, and now she’s wed to a monster.”

“A powerful monster,” Zeno interjects, tugging on his hair. “A monster you’re going straight back to.”

Red fills her cheeks as she rounds on him. “I ran for a reason, so fuck you!”

“Why did you?” Anastasia pushes between the two leaders, approaching the girl with all the grace she has on stage and the affection she displays to her staff. She doesn’t go to touch her, though, purposely positioning herself between them.

She shudders, locking the phone and sliding it into Anastasia’s hand. “I don’t want to be married, especially to a stranger. This is a business deal done by my father who didn’t listen when I said I’m not interested. I took off, assuming my parents would take the heat, the deal would break, and life would move on.”

“Why here?”

“Last place they’d find me.” Alexis’s eyes flick to Zeno, her frown deepening, who puts her expression into words.

“Bad luck on your part to end up in this club of all places.”

Realization jolts, hiking her breath as she scans the room and me by the door. She licks her lips twice and wordlessly curses. “Please don’t.”

At this, Anastasia steps back with a hard look at Vanessa, who at least has the decency to seem ashamed. “We have to, Alexis. We’re sorry. I’m the head of the Russian mob, and if the Romanos learned you were here, it could be a sign of war. He”—she thumbs towards Zeno—“is a Capo within the Cosa Nostra—the same organization your ex-fiancé and now brother-in-law is a part of. If he doesn’t turn you in, it could also lead to more consequences we want no part of.”

Her face pales further and she, with no warning, darts for the door I slide in front of. Small fists hit my stomach in a weak attempt to get me to move as she bellows out a piercing screech. Sympathy for the girl who reminds me a little bit of the Anastasia from years ago, backstage in Poland, has me wanting to step to the side and release her.

Since Zeno will kill me for doing so, I plaster on the meanest expression I can pull together. “Signorina Graves, you have a husband to return to.”

69

ANASTASIA

As a child, I always pondered what the idea of comfort smells like. I knew it to have a scent even though it was a feeling. Discomfort had the scent of frigidness; of garbage in a back alleyway or sweat on a man thrusting unwanted between my legs. Considering there was nothing good enough in my life to be associated with a positive scent, comfort was a foreign concept.

Until now.