“I understand the ‘not in public’ part,” I say. “At least… for now.”
His eyes narrow. “For now? Did you forget who you are, a Campisi, and who I am, a Barkov?”
“No, of course not,” I say. “It’s just that I?—”
“You what? You’ll go begging the Don, your daddy, to let you slum with a Russian?” His laugh is harsh, humorless, and sharp with a sneer. He’s trying to hurt me, push me away, provoke me.
I was about to tell him the truth, that I’m about to leave, that my father may have named me his successor, but I’m only playing the part. I’m smiling, nodding, learning, using it all to craft my escape, to become untraceable, to start my life on my own terms.
But I don’t say any of that. I just say, “You care about me. Last night, you said we weren’t done.”
He shakes his head, dark and bitter. “So what? And then I fucked you.”
“So…” I trail off, my head spinning from the sudden shift in his tone.
“Ana,” he says, voice low, tight. “I was a mess all day yesterday. I couldn’t think with you in the room, couldn’t focus on anything but wanting to rip the eyeballs out of every man who looked at you. And there were many.”
“And last night,” he continues, teeth grinding slightly, “when we danced… I showed my hand to everyone in that room. That is not good.”
“This is so stupid,” I insist, crossing my arms. “If we care about each other?—”
“Then we’re both marked for dead,” he interrupts. “And besides, I have never wanted…” He hesitates, eyes sharp. “…that.”
“That?” I prompt, folding my arms tighter.
“A relationship. A marriage. A family.”
“I never said I wanted marriage or family,” I shoot back.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, voice hardening. “I didn’t ask what you wanted, because we are not in a relationship. We cannot, Ana. In my experience, those close to me tend to become targets. That goes for you, too. We are leaders. We are ruthless. We cannot afford anything that makes us weak.”
“And I make you weak.” Not a question, I state it, my spine straightening. I lift my chin. “So… was it just about sex for you, then? The whole time?”
The words hang in the air, raw, and I immediately regret how desperate I sound.
He shuts down. The walls snap up.
“This has always been about pleasure, malyskha,” he says, the pet name clipped, almost like a rebuke. “It was fun. To break you in. To show you what a real man can do for you.”
“And last night?”
I know he’s lying because he won’t meet my gaze. His expression is hard as stone, but he will not look me in the eye. Still, his answer hurts.
“It was just the inevitable endgame, Princess,” he says. “Hope your Campisi-approved husband enjoys everything I taught you.”
He turns away, gathering his things, and leaves the gym.
I stand there for a long time, like a forlorn idiot frozen in place, trying to decide what to do.
My foolish, naive heart wants to chase after him, to slip back into the shower, start the game all over again. But my head remindsme he needs space. Whatever he’s wrestling with, it isn’t about me.
And I get it.
Pragmatically, I always have.
What we’ve shared has never lived in the daylight. For months, he was only a masked man, a mystery. I was just a body, there for pleasure.
Even if feelings have started to creep in, how could something built like that ever survive once exposed?
