Chapter Thirty-Nine
Matteo
One Week Later
It’s only been two weeks since I came to stay near Anya and her family. Two weeks and I’ve already realized that going home any time soon isn’t something that I want. Going home at all isn’t something that I want.
I think I may be going crazy because all I can think about is figuring out a way to stay here forever. I’m not thinking about how much I’ll miss my family—Jade and the kids especially. I’m not thinking about spending my life with Grigory’s cooking instead of Martha’s or who will watchDancing with the Starswith her while helping her fold laundry.
My mind is completely occupied by one simple thing. Convincing Anton Morozov to take me in. And unfortunately, I’ve only come up with one realistic way of making that happen. The solution to my problem is as obvious as it is extreme. I can’t stay here with Anya forever if I’m a Moretti Man.
Sure, the Pakhan of the Bratva can make allies through marriage to an Italian syndicate. He can have those allies cometo visit his territory, yes. But to have a man with allegiance to another mafia permanently living in your domain? It’s not done.
So while Anya’s in her therapy appointment, I have her father and her uncles meet me somewhere that we can talk privately. I trust his guards are too scared of him to spy on us, and I’m guessing his office is at least partially soundproof. It’s the only location that makes sense.
“Are you just going to stand there and stare at us?” Lev asks, sitting back in his leather chair.
Mikhail and Anton have taken a seat too, but neither of them speaks.
I couldn’t sit if I wanted to, even though there’s another chair up for the taking. Anton’s office reminds me a lot of my father’s. But it’s bigger, and I’m sure that’s because he needs space for his brothers to join him often.
“I want to stay here. With Anya.”
There it is, just rip the Band-Aid off.
Lev, Mikhail, and Anton all blink and breathe quietly, completely unresponsive. I didn’t expect shock, but I assumed at least one of them would have something to say—even if it was just a snarky remark from Lev.
“I don’t think I need to say that I’m in love with her. You all have figured that out by now. But she loves me too, no matter how muchsome of you—” I pause, narrowing my eyes at Lev. “May wish it weren’t true. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to be with her, and I think we all want the same thing when it comes to Anya’s happiness.”
Still, they give nothing away.
“She wouldn’t be happy moving to Moretti territory. Her routine would be interrupted, and all of her comfort zones would be ripped away. Sure, maybe after a couple of years she could learn to love it. We all know that she’s gotten better aboutbranching out. But I don’t want to disrupt her life so that she can be with me. I’m willing to disrupt mine instead.”
Finally, Anton tilts his head slightly to one side, acknowledging me. “And how do you plan to disrupt your life?”
“I’ll leave The Outfit.” I swallow hard but keep my eyes steady on his. “And I want you to allow me into the Bratva.”
Lev lets out a cold scoff. “You do not belong in the Bratva.”
I try not to let his words affect me, knowing that he’d say anything to keep me away from Anya. He hasn’t hit me again, but he hasn’t warmed up to me either.Antonis less intense when it comes to our relationship, and he’s her father.
“Yeah? Where do I belong, then?” I challenge, shoulders straight and chin raised. “Back in the east with your niece by my side?”
“Watch it,” Lev warns.
“You watch it,” I snap back. “By all rights, I didn’t have to include you in this conversation at all. You’re not her father, and you’re not her Pakhan. I asked you all in here because Anya cares about you and I’d hoped that you care enough about her in return to help me with this.”
Lev doesn’t reply, but he clenches his jaw like he wants to.
“You think she’d be happy to have you give everything up for her?” Anton questions, tilting his head. “Say I give you what you want?—”
“Anton,” Lev implores.
“Hypothetically,” the Pakhan continues. “You wouldn’t just be moving houses. You’d be forsaking your bloodline’s legacy for a girl. You would be publicly turning your back on your family.”
“She’s not just some girl,” I reply, barely containing my anger. “And I wouldn’t be turning my back on my family. They wouldn’t see it that way, and they wouldn’t give a fuck about anyone who thought that.”
“Our Bratva is different than your Outfit,” Mikhail points out mildly.
