Because of Slava Romanov.
The irony isn’t lost on me. As much as I want to just collapse, I know that Lydia is still waiting for me to tell her just what the hell happened. So, I take a deep breath, blink back the tears threatening to overwhelm my eyes, and walk back into the living room.
When I get there,two shot glasses sit on the coffee table, filled to the brim with whiskey.
"Drink," she says. “Then talk.”
It’s a familiar ritual of ours. Has been ever since Luca’s funeral when I couldn't stop crying and Lydia couldn't stop holding me. Lydia knew exactly how much to let me drink and when to takeit away so I wouldn’t spiral and seek comfort in it. Perks of being a pharmacy tech, I suppose. Spend enough time around people asking for ways to take away their pain, and you gain a knack for easing someone you care about out of it.
The whiskey burns going down, and for a moment it's the only thing I can feel.
Slowly, I tell her about the gala, about catching Slava in the service corridor with Vanessa Ashford-Price, about sending her away right before the bullets started flying, and about how Slava and I pulled each other to safety into that alley.
Lydia's expression is unreadable. "And then?"
"And then nothing. He asked me to bandage his wound and I did."
"That’s not all, is it?”
No, it’s not.
My hand slowly rises, running my fingers over the seven-pointed star pendant the way I always do when I’m anxious, and give it a squeeze.
"He saw my necklace." I take a slow breath. “And I think he recognized it."
"What do you mean, he recognized it?"
"I don't know." I shake my head. "We were close and he looked down. That’s when he saw it, and something changed the moment he did. He asked me where I got it. When I said it was a family heirloom, he looked at me like he’s seeing me for the first time."
I can still feel his fingers on my skin, and feel his touch and his eyes burning me up from the inside out. And suddenly, a different warmth—completely unrelated to the whiskey in my belly—courses through my veins.
“Like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve.”
"That's not good, Bella."
"I know that."
“And what happens if he starts digging into you?” Lydia leans forward, her green eyes sharp. "And instead of Bella Creminelli, he finds BellaFarnassi."
My real name sounds strange out loud. I've been Bella Creminelli for all these years that sometimes I can almost forget she’s a lie.
"He won’t," I say.
"But if he does? What do you think he’ll do to you?”
What would he do to me?
What do I want him to do to me?
The question sends a shiver down my spine that isn't entirely fear. Then something darker slithers into my mind as the fantasy comes rushing back, and I feel my thighs clenching together under the table.
My panties start turning traitorously damp. The air around my face grows warmer, and I lie to myself that it’s just because of the shot of whiskey I took.
"Bella." Lydia is staring at me.
I blink. "What?"
"Where did you go just now?"
