“Oh, she’s got jokes?” I ask, lips twisting into a delighted smirk. “I like that in a dance partner.”
Anya shrugs, a bashful expression taking over her playful smile. And without another word, she takes the first step. Her dress brushes over her ankles as she moves to the right, starting to sway from one side to the other.
Anya catches onto the soft beat of the music and uses her hold on my shoulders to pull me along with her. She may look half-terrified, but the girl has rhythm. If I went to prom, this is exactly how I imagined a slow dance with a girl would go—well, other than the handcuffs.
“You’re a natural,” I tell her sincerely, moving at her steady pace. “I could tell that you’re a ballerina, even if I didn’t already know, you know?”
She stiffens ever so slightly. “I haven’t danced in almost three years.”
Fuck.
She hasn’t danced since it happened.
Refusing to ruin the moment by letting her sense pity that isn’t there, I shake my head slightly. “Once a ballerina, always a ballerina, I think. I can see it in your posture, and your turnout.”
Her brows lift, surprise lighting up her face. “You know what a turnout is?”
“Martha is obsessed withDancing with the Stars,” I explain with a reluctant sigh. “I know far too much about ballroom and contemporary dance, Anya. It’s a whole thing.”
Amused but confused, she asks, “Who’s Martha?”
“She’s our chef. Well, more like our house manager, chef, cleaner, grandma…all the things. She’s been with our family since before I was born.”
Anya hums, continuing to sway with me. “And you watchDancing with the Starswith her?”
“Religiously, I’m afraid. We fold laundry while it’s on. She’s Valentin Chmerkovskiy’s biggest fan, and she makes me vote forhim no matter who his partner is. I could show you my text thread that goes on for ages with all his past partner’s names.”
“That’s sweet.” Her lips twitch subtly, concealing a smile.
“I suppose it’s not the most embarrassing thing about me,” I concede.
“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who gets embarrassed easily…” Anya looks up at me through her eyelashes, blushing. “I mean, you’re dancing with me?—”
“What the fuck would be embarrassing about that?” I cut in harshly, hopefully not too harshly. The question flew out of me before I could even think about holding it in. “You’re beautiful, a way better dancer than I am, and probably smarter than anyone else knows.”
Her throat bobs in a thick swallow. “Smarter? What makes you say that?”
“Well, I’ve gotten quite close with your brothers this past year,” I say, carefully watching how she reacts to me bringing them up. “And it seems like you three had similar tutors to me and my siblings growing up. And mafia princesses are almost always more studied than their brothers.”
She gives me a doubtful shake of her head. “If you say so. I wouldn’t call myself a princess, though.”
“I would.”
“You’d call yourself a princess?” she quips. Again, she looks instantly shocked with herself, like she didn’t mean for the question to be verbalized.
A bark of a laugh bursts out of me, and I fight the instinct to throw my head back. “See? Look at you with the clever comebacks. Comedy is my favorite use of intelligence.”
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes sheepishly. “That was rude.”
I couldn’t disagree more. “It was hilarious.”
The song is coming to an end when I see her peek to our side a couple of times. Her bottom teeth catch her lip, contemplationseeming to be eating at her. When I turn my head to find what’s caught her attention, my heart nearly bursts into flames. It’s my dad, holding Isobella and Cesar. He’s sitting down with one twin on each thigh, speaking to them quietly as the party floats softly around them.
She’s never met her niece and nephew.
Myniece and nephew. The kids that I’ve seen and held nearly every single day since their birth, she’s never had the opportunity to meet. Whether due to her own fear of leaving her house, or her reluctance to see her brothers, she’s not been able to meet the babies.
“They’re amazing,” I tell her, just loud enough for her to hear. “Do you want to?—”
