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A smirk spreads slowly across my lips. As tough as Nicolo wants to appear, he’s just as trapped by his family name as I am by mine. What our parents say goes, even if he wants to will it otherwise.
Nicolo’s right hook catches me in the jaw, snapping my head back. Fuck, he packs a mean punch.
“You ever make my sister cry again, and I’ll make you wish you were never born. Got it?” he breathes, his finger in my face.
Then he nods to his brothers. They shove me to my knees as they release my arms, and my hands slap the wood to stop my face from connecting with the floor. Grinding my teeth, I force myself to remain quiet.
“Get the fuck out of my club, you piece of shit, before I change my mind and decorate the floor with your brains,” Nicolo snaps.
I slowly climb to my feet and comb my hair back from my face as I step away from the three brothers. I don’t look back until I reach the door. And even then, I only offer a cursory glance. They stand in a close group, watching me with mirrored expressions of hatred and disgust.
With a cheeky nod, I yank the door open and leave. Though I know they aren’t following me, I force my pace to remain steady, to carry myself with as much dignity as I can muster. My face smarts where Nicolo punched me, but that hardly compares to the heat of anger burning deep in my gut.
I hail a taxi once I’m outside the club, and as soon as I slide into the back seat, I pull out my phone.
“Are they getting the message?” my mother asks by way of greeting, her Russian smooth, almost lazy.
“In a manner of speaking. Silvia Marchetti definitely heard the message, but her brothers still seem to think they have a say in the matter.” I maintain the conversation in Russian to keep it private.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they just forced me into their car at gunpoint, dragged me to their club, and roughed me up in an attempt to intimate me.”
“You can’t let that go without a response,” she says without emotion. “I want you to make a statement. Something that says we won’t be intimidated. And if the Marchetti boys want to play dirty, so can we. Make a public display and humiliate their sister. That’ll make them think twice about messing with you.”
What motherly concern.The sarcastic thought intensifies my irritation. I left out the part that Nicolo considered killing me. Though, somehow, I don’t think her reaction would have been any different if I’d told her.
Ending the call, I drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes as the taxi drives toward campus and my car. The prospect of marrying Silvia Marchetti is growing less and less tolerable by the day. She might be beautiful, but there are plenty of beautiful women in the world who would be far less trouble.
5
SILVIA
“Like this, Auntie Silvi?” Clara asks, holding up her colorful pencil drawing to reveal a rough version of a spotted dog next to a tall blonde stick-figure woman, a tall black-haired stick-figure woman, and a short black-haired stick-figure girl.
Adorable representations of the three of us.
“That’s perfect,” I compliment, looking up from my own drawing to see her progress.
Clara’s been dead set on learning how to draw dogs for the past two weeks. Her tenacity is nothing short of adorable, and she’s definitely improved. Though I wonder if half her goal is to remind her parents that she’s been asking for a puppy.
“See, Mama?” she says, turning the drawing for Anya.
“That’s wonderful, baby girl,” Clara says affectionately, her smile lighting her blue eyes.
I adore Nico’s wife and daughter. This is just what I needed after what happened with Pyotr and Travis today. Between Cassio’s words of encouragement and Clara’s sweet enthusiasm, I can almost manage to forget that Travis never responded to my text apologizing for today.
Emily hasn’t answered me either, and I wonder if they’ll ever forgive me. Otherwise, I might just have to do three years of college without friends. It seems most of the students on the arts track that I’ve grown friendly with avoided me today after what happened with Pyotr.
Word travels around the small college fast, and the sidelong glances in my direction would certainly say people are going to think twice before talking to me.
It puts my stomach in knots to think of my betrothed. He might take my breath away with his perfect physique and captivating gray eyes, but he frightens me. I don’t blame my fellow students for avoiding me. I might do the same in their shoes. But instead, I’m the one stuck with Pyotr. For a lifetime.
As my thoughts turn sad, I redouble my efforts on my own drawing, casting glances at my unwitting subject as I focus intently. Using quick, light strokes, I fill in the texture of Clara’s curly hair, then add short, gentle strokes for her eyebrows.
“What are you drawing, Mama?” Clara asks, glancing toward her mother’s paper.
“I’m just making designs,” Anya says, holding her drawing up for Clara to see.
