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The Marchetti boy drags Whitney’s friend from the room, her feet barely able to keep up, and he slams the door shut behind him, leaving the room in utter silence. When I dare to turn and look at Whitney, she seems deeply disturbed, worry etched in her brow as her eyes remain focused on the door into the hall.
Realizing the toy still buzzes in my hand, I click it off. “I’m calling it,” I state, ending the scene officially.
Whitney doesn’t object as I help her out of the swing. “Will you–” A strangled sob chokes her words, and she has to swallow before trying again. “Will you go check on Anya? Help her in some way?” she murmurs as tears brim in her eyes.
“No.” The word comes out harsh, but I won’t risk Bianka’s safety further by trying to help Whitney’s friend. As cold as it might sound, I’m fairly confident that Nicolo’s interest in the girl will most likely stop him from killing her. My sister, on the other hand, would be easy cannon fodder.
“What are you scared to stand up to Nicolo?” Whitney scoffs, her anger snapping toward me like a whip. “He’s practically half your size. I bet you could snap him in half if you wanted to, but my friend doesn’t matter enough to you? That either makes you an dick or a coward.”
My temper boils to life at her insult. “There’s more to it than just standing up to one asshole,” I growl. Suddenly, I realize how little Whitney understands of my world and just how dangerous that could be. Her actions could have put us both at risk, along with my sister–my entire Bratva even.
“He’s the son of Lorenzo Marchetti,” I growl. “Laying my hands on him would start an all-out war between my clan and his family.”
Whitney’s face falls as her anger leaves her. Her eyes shift back to the door of our room as a single tear rolls down her cheek. “God only knows what that assholes version of punishment might be. And it’s my fault.”
My heart twists at the thick guilt in her tone. Collecting her clothes, I hand them to Whitney, and she gets dressed wordlessly.
“Let’s go home,” I say.
The car ride back to Whitney’s place is utterly silent, each of us lost in thought, and even by the time we make it up to her apartment, she seems distracted by the fate of her friend. Whitney pulls out her cell phone several times and starts to type out a message, hesitates, chews ferociously on a thumb nail, and then changes her mind and shoves her phone back in her pocket without sending what she wrote. It’s agonizing to watch the level of anxiety Whitney feels over her friend. I’ve never seen her this upset before, and it’s unsettling.
Finally, I can’t take it any longer. Choosing to set aside my strict rule to avoid emotional conversations with her, I pull Whitney down onto the couch, taking her hands firmly in mine so she’ll stop biting her finger nails. “Listen,moya feya, in my world, girls get used all the time. Anya will survive it, and she’ll come out with good compensation for it. It might be hard to see, but it’s not your fault, and it won’t last forever.”
Whitney’s eyes remain lowered as she murmurs, “I just want to protect Anya. She reminds me of a softer, more vulnerable me before I met you, and I wish I could do something for her.” Finally, she raises her gaze to meet my eyes. “I knew Anya’s been turning Nicolo down for a while now. She doesn’t want to be with him. And then after the autumn showcase, he… he broke her partner’s arm. I think that’s what finally made her agree to go out with him, but god, Ilya she looked so scared,” Whitney breathes, tears rolling silently down her cheeks now.
A stab of guilt twists my gut at knowing I left her friend in the hands of someone who could be so brutal. But I know I made the right choice. “If he dared to touch her in my territory, I wouldn’t hesitate to beat the brat bloody. But here? My hands are tied. His family could retaliate on my sister. My clan. Fuck, just having his pet with us at Incognito could have started a bloody feud. You should have told me who her benefactor is. I warned you that I’m treading on thin ice by letting my sister go to Rosehill–by being in Marchetti territory at all. I’ll be lucky if Nicolo chooses to ignore that I incorporated his woman right into our scene tonight.”
She doesn’t argue with me. Instead, Whitney looks defeated as she hangs her head. I sigh heavily, releasing one her her hands to comb my fingers back through my hair.
“Maybe you’re not cut out for our arrangement. Maybe you’re more like Anya than either of us realized.” It pains me to say it, but Whitney doesn’t seem to fully grasp the dangers of my world. She can see it individually for her friend, but when it comes down to it, the same man who dragged Anya from our room at the club is the one who gets to call the shots about whether or not I’m welcome in Northern Chicago a what might be done to send a message if I’m not.
Whitney’s head snaps up, and she meets my gaze with a fierce look. “I’m strong enough for anything,” she says adamantly.
I study her carefully, unsure of where to go from here. It would be safest to cut ties with Whitney. She’s too interwoven with Anya, who’s at the mercy of Nicolo Marchetti, and aspakhanof my Bratva, it’s my responsibility to protect my clan. But the thought of ending my agreement with Whitney right here and now leaves an icy hollowness in my chest. “We can keep the arrangement going,” I agree tentatively. “But you need to be completely honest with me moving forward. No more hiding details from me. And no more asking me to help with Anya.”
Whitney nods silently, her tears continuing to trickle down her cheeks. Reaching up, I gently stroke the moisture from her skin, wishing I could do more to comfort her. Silently, I add another stipulation for myself. I need to be careful not to get in too deep. As much as I’ve tried to deny it, I’m starting to feel something for Whitney, and I need to stay objective about her. Otherwise, she’ll become a weakness I can’t afford.
“Come, let’s get ready for bed.”
She rises from the couch with me, and I guide her gently toward the bedroom. We change and complete our nighttime bathroom routine in silence, then climb beneath the covers. I pull Whitney close, cradling her snuggly against my chest in an attempt to hold her in one piece. And for the first time since I met her, I spend the night with Whitney without having sex with her first. I try to tell myself it’s because she wouldn’t be any fun to fuck when she’s so distracted about her friend–which is true–but I’m also concerned for her mental state, and I can’t bring myself to leave her alone tonight.
23
WHITNEY
Over the next few weeks, I’m a muddle of emotions, which leaves me feeling raw and vulnerable. I can’t get the image of Nicolo dragging Anya from the room out of my head. And yet, that somehow seems to be a turning point in their struggle. I wouldn’t say that Anya looks happy. Her blue eyes have always held a deep sadness that has only intensified with Nicolo’s abuse. But the last few times I’ve inquired about how she’s holding up, Anya’s said that things are getting better. That she feels like Nicolo might even be changing somehow. At least, he’s changing how he treats her. I hope that means he’s getting tired of her and will remove his claws from her soon, but something about the way Anya talks about him makes me less than confident that freedom from Nicolo is still what she wants.
On top of that, my feelings for Ilya have been difficult to manage since that night he held me in his arms. We haven’t spoken of it again. Not the scene with Anya, not Nicolo’s unceremonious way of removing my friend from the room, and not the tender care with which Ilya handled me. We’ve gone back to the same extravagant dates and the contractual sex, and Ilya seems almost more distant as ever, but I find I’m having to work hard to remain objective about him.
Beneath his cold, detached exterior, I got a glimpse into a softer side of Ilya I’ve only ever seen a glimmer of before when he’s spoken about his sister. And having him treat me so kindly when I felt like I was unraveling at the seams has left me in a state of deep confusion. I wouldn’t call it love–I don’t believe in the concept anyhow. But now when I think about Ilya, my chest fills with a deep ache that throbs painfully, and the only reprieve I can seem to find is when I’m near him once again.
About the only thing that seems to be going right for me currently is the way my performance piece is shaping up with Trent. We’ve somehow found a kind of simpatico relationship in which Trent lets me do all the thinking, and now that I’ve learned how to tune him out, I find that our time spent dancing together is surprisingly in sync. It’s muscle memory, and we’re both so familiar with each other’s movements after months of grueling practice that I don’t even have to think about it when I reach for his hand in support. And somehow, that’s the most bewildering of all.Why is it that when the rest of my life seems to be balancing on a knife’s edge, my dancing suddenly makes perfect sense?I don’t know, but I’ll take what I can get.
And then one Monday, Anya shows up to our choreography class in time for our warm-up stretches, and her arrival rocks me to my core. She looks like someone slapped the shit out of her despite her attempt to cover the bruising with makeup. She slips into the class surreptitiously, her eyes downcast, her face partially covered in a scarf, as if she’s trying to hide her presence until class starts. But her split lip and purpling bruise along her left cheekbone stand out like a the lights on a cop car, blaring for all to see.
Jumping up from my spot on the mat, I leave Trent in the middle of his sentence as I make a beeline for my friend. I reach her just as she stuffs her scarf into her bag and slides it into a cubby.
“What happened?” I gasp, gripping Anya’s wrist and turning her to face me.
