Page 16 of Violent Pawn

My head drops onto the side window to tune everyone and everything out, Nero included. We haven’t spoken since I pre-emptively ended our bet without proper resolution, but when the timer on his phone ticked higher, preventing a potential war became more important.

Less than an hour after that non-bet, Dimitri, Lev, and I were pulling Serafina from the car crash she caused by stabbing Vitale. Lev then killed Vitale—the slight bit of life he clung to after the accident—before rushing Serafina to the hospital. Hours passed before the doctor came for Zeno, who later allowed Lev in as their secret relationship was revealed.

With Serafina in capable care and protected by a bodyguard who’d die for her, the rest of us return to the Mancini villa.

The promise of a shower so hot it’ll burn my skin and a bed that’ll steal me away from reality propels me from the SUV, murmuring “night” to the others. Instead of heading upstairs, some random urge takes me through the kitchen and out the back door, onto the low deck with the table set that overlooks the vast greenery and huge in-ground pool.

I should have known peace wouldn’t be possible when he follows me.

In the middle of the night, when sleep isn’t happening and my body is too wound up, I slip from my room and tiptoe downstairs for more fresh air. Apparently, getting interrupted earlier meant not receiving enough.

The chilly tiled flooring makes me hiss, quickening my steps past the living room. Only a figure slumped on one of the couches pulls me to a stop in the doorway.

Nero’s eyes are shut, his head tipped back onto the leather. His suit is rumpled, his hair lifted from running his hands through it. The bottle from earlier is still in his grip with much less liquor inside, though not empty. Since he likely didn’t hear me enter, he certainly won’t hear me leave.

Just the sight of him sends my thoughts backwards to hours ago when he joined me outside. He hinted at remembering Poland, but I couldn’t address it. Not yet and maybe not ever.

“I will get that dance, Anastasia. I promise you that. And once I do, you and I will finally have that chat.”

Flicking my hair, I brace myself, adopting old attitudes that have kept me safe. “Men have made me promises before and have regretted it. Don’t be another one. That’s your only warning.”

Our interaction lasted no more than five minutes, yet it lingers, interrupting my sleep.

As I turn to leave, a deep and throaty parched tone commands, “Stay.” He lifts his head and aims a bold gaze at me.

The last man to command me was Papa, and I vowed then there’d be no one else. Yet, without thought, I find myself slowly entering the room, watching him the way one does when faced with a wild animal as I lower onto the couch across from him and pull my legs up. Once seated, he seems to wake a bit more, groaning and rubbing his face as he straightens.

He rests the bottle on the ground and leans forward, dropping his head into his hands. He sits like that for ten long seconds before spreading his fingers and piercing me with a look. “You did good today. You and Lev, finding Sera. I’d never want anything to happen to her, so grazie.”

This conversation, his demeanour, it’s different from earlier. I’d like to believe it’s honest, too, that I can relax around him, but I’m unsure if that’ll ever be possible.

“Though I really wanted that dance.” His hands drop away from his face with a low chuckle. “Why do you hate me?”

Defend. Deflect.

“I don’t hate you.” I hate what you remind me of.

“Dislike me then.”

“I don’t know you well enough to dislike you.”

“Yet you act like this.” He reaches for the bottle, grasping the neck but not drinking, instead staring at the three fingers of bourbon sloshing inside.

My fingers dig into my knees, biting down on my real retort. “This is my normal sparkling personality. If you don’t like it—and me, by extension—that’s on you.”

He continues staring into the bottle like it’ll answer his questions. A few seconds pass before he snorts and tilts his head. “Is it dislike or not wanting to face the truth?”

That very truth lingers, each of us able to grasp it—neither of us wholly admitting. More than once, I’ve thought about telling Vanessa, but don’t know where to begin. A part of me hoped Nero would never mention it, to put it all behind us, but I should have guessed.

“Truth about what?”

His expression turns mocking. It’s way too controlled for someone who’s supposedly drunk. “Come now, Petrov. We both know what could have happened in Poland had I made a different choice.”

Deny. I swallow, both from avoidance and the sound of my surname on his tongue. Playful yet sarcastic.

The world feels too small. Suffocating. Of every organization my Pakhan had to literally fall into bed with, it had to be the same my past is tied into? Talk about a cruel twist of fate.

If Nero made a different choice then, Vanessa might not have a best friend. Lev wouldn’t have a living twin. I may have been murdered a long time ago if Papa and Ursin weren’t able to save me in time.