Page 61 of Violent Pawn

“See if the cops figure it out,” Vanessa commands Lev. “Report if you discover anything. This could have been a coincidence or planned. I have to wonder if it’s the start of something more.” She scans the room, grimacing, and then sighs. “For now, I need to wake my fiancé and return a call from the wedding planner. Not to change the subject so abruptly, but do you know how often she harasses me over this event? I love him, not whatever flowers will hang from the goddamn ceilings! When she asked about a colour scheme, I said burgundy. There was a follow-up question. What fucking shade? A shade! Why the hell should I care?”

Lev and Dimitri take Vanessa’s rant as time to leave while I settle into an empty seat beside Katya and we listen to her shout, all while thinking about a blood drop on a man’s collar.

30

NERO

January

For the first time in forever, there isn’t a sip of alcohol in my system, and it fucking sucks.

Zeno requested I remain alert given the number of people in attendance, but more specifically who’s here. I’ve already done him wrong enough times throughout our life. I’ll remain sober tonight.

I hope. It’s practice for when the pressure in my chest eases forever—right as the light leaves the final ex-Elite’s eyes.

Even a sip could unwind the muscles that are seconds away from loosening only so I can pitch myself off a cliff if one more thing pisses me off.

It’s Vanessa and Zeno’s engagement party, and everyone important has shown up. There are the four other Five Families’ Capos, their wives, their right-hands, and anyone else important throughout their circles, along with their personal protection. Cosa Nostra event or not, no one comes without their own guards, regardless of the extra men Zeno stationed around the property to ensure no one uninvited gets in or out.

There are the five Commission representatives. The group of old fuckers has stuck together, silently regarding the party from a corner of the room while making their judgements on the bride-to-be.

Then there’s the other side, which keeps me on edge. The prevalent fact that the Bratva is in Italy, and they’re both awed and feared by the crowd. During Serafina’s wedding, the Bratva were regarded as “other” but the union kept everyone’s attitudes toned down. They were the unwelcome guests then, but now they’re honoured guests, and the Cosa Nostra is losing their little minds over this.

Ever since Vanessa and Zeno have entered arm in arm, regarding the room as royalty of the criminal underground, the others have shut their mouths.

Behind them walked Dimitri and Katya, making a point by having Vanessa’s second close by. His gaze swept the room, promising death to anyone who looked wrong at his Pakhan. A promise I’ve come to know him well enough to know he’ll keep.

Lev and Serafina were next, which is where much of my stress comes from. Until recently, Serafina was protected from the pomp-and-circumstance bullshit stuffed within the room. After the cursed wedding to Vitale, there’s no more hiding her. The Cosa Nostra princess has come out of hiding, only rather than taking her place in the organization, she’s dating a Bratva Elite. To some in the room, it’s an insult, especially to those who were going to harass Zeno for her hand in marriage.

Anastasia entered last, becoming another tick to my stress. Having her where so many are staring pisses me off.

That, and the fact I should have walked in with her, but Zeno’s secondary request involved guarding Gabriella alongside Elio. This is Gabriella’s first event since she was Giovanni’s wife in name as well as the church, and he isn’t sure how long she’ll be able to handle it. It’s been nineteen years since most of these people—some of whom are her old social circle—have seen her in public.

With Elio and me, no one’s been brave enough to breathe in her direction.

So between ensuring no one picks a fight with the Bratva, says shit to Gabriella, or harasses Serafina, I’m strung so fucking tight my sanity is about to snap. The kind of snapping that needs alcohol—even a single fucking shot, maybe two—to survive.

Anastasia certainly isn’t helping.

Though she remains close to her people, mainly her brother, while Vanessa and Zeno work the room, too much attention lingers on the sexy-as-hell unattached woman who’s a beacon for their gazes.

To them, she’s different. Exotic. Not a man’s armpiece but a jewel, able to shimmer and shine beneath the crystal chandelier in a dress that rivals the piece. The deep-blue floor-length gown clings to her every curve. Curves I’ve felt, and ones I’m sure other fuckers are thinking about as she moves through the room, smiling politely at anyone she’s introduced to. Then there’s the twist her hair is bound into, which leaves her neck bare, tendrils framing her face.

She took my breath away the instant she walked in. One hour later, it still hasn’t returned.

She’s only looked my way once, but it seemed to be an accident—a pass over the crowd as she was taking it all in, only to hesitate briefly on me before moving away.

It’s been two weeks since New Year’s Eve. Two weeks since seeing her, since kissing her. I’ve missed her. There isn’t a woman alive who can claim to have tugged that feeling from me.

Our kiss on New Year’s Eve was softer than the one from Christmas, and ended after only a few minutes to observe the fireworks shooting off in the distance, but it was enough. She was enough. Holding her healed a piece of me I still don’t understand.

When I finally woke late morning on the first, she was already gone to her studio, and since Zeno insisted we return to Italy, I was limited to texting her instead.

It went unanswered, and so did the one the next day.

Over two weeks, she replies every five messages or so, claiming exhaustion or being busy. It doesn’t feel like it. And seeing how she barely glances my way, reverting to old behaviours, worries me.

To my right, Zeno’s standard greeting makes its way from the group beside me. “May I introduce Vanessa Volkov, Pakhan of the Bratva, and my fiancée and soon-to-be wife. Thank you for coming.”