“Will I need to?” Her brow arches.
“Depends how strict you are.”
She laughs, and the waitress arriving to collect our order distracts us both. Vanessa orders a Russian delicacy I could barely read off the menu, and I go with food I trust: pasta.
Once the waitress runs off, Vanessa murmurs, “My strictness will depend on what happens in the future. For now, one day at a time.”
I tap my glass against hers. “One day at a time.”
41
LEV
Things are different now.
While I still don’t sit inside her lecture halls, she kisses me before and after each class. If there’s time between them, instead of giving her space, we stick together. She’ll study, and I’ll glare at anyone who looks her way. When she’s not working, we pass the time talking. She asks about my childhood, growing up with a twin, my induction into the Bratva, and sometimes about my prison trips.
No person on Earth knows so much about me, not even Anastasia. Ana may be blood, but there’s plenty that’s been hidden from her; I’ve never felt completely willing to open up. Vanessa knows about some of my time in prison but little about my childhood, and mutual respect keeps it that way.
Serafina accepts everything I am, and it’s daunting.
Which is why, as I dress for Anastasia’s show, my fingers feel colder than normal, and it takes me three attempts to properly do up my tie.
Nerves, I think.
I’ve never taken a woman on a date. It’d mean getting close enough to one to deal with her for hours, making small talkmeant to learn about her when I couldn’t be bothered. Never saw the point in dating when I already knew there’d be no one interesting enough to get into a long-term relationship with.
The thought of this outing is everything I despise and already has my mind going haywire. People, dressing up, noise—it could very well kill me, if not for the woman getting ready next door.
For her, this is worth it.
We’re about ten minutes from the time I gave her. We’re arriving before the show because Anastasia suggested a backstage tour. She’s already at the centre, having gone hours prior like she does for every show, so it’ll only be us in the car.
Once ready, I slide my cell into the inner pocket of my suit jacket and head downstairs to bring my car around to the front.
Vanessa lingers in the foyer when I return. “I checked in a few minutes ago. She’s nearly ready.” If only she accepted my indifferent nod instead of twisting and inspecting me with the same effort she does traitors. “How is she actually doing? You see her more than anyone else.”
“She seems to be enjoying school.”
She stares another beat before smiling and jerking her chin. “You should clean up more often.”
“Meanwhile, I’m already dreaming of getting out of this suit.” And hopefully tossing it beside Fina’s dress.
“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” She shakes her head. “Make sure she has fun. I should have had Ana set me aside a ticket too. Stupid meetings. But we need to find Dimitri.”
It feels wrong to be going out to a show and not scouring for him, but Vanessa pushed me away from the computer earlier and said it was important. Dimitri’s capable, but his disappearance can’t change the fact that Anastasia’s show has been booked in for months and there’s a woman in this house anticipating it.
“Next time.” Thank fuck, she isn’t coming. Pretending Serafina hasn’t consumed my every waking thought now is impossible enough. I couldn’t imagine being forced to play professional with my Pakhan in attendance.
Noise from the top of the stairs draws our attention. Vanessa grins, and it’s her I focus on rather than the woman descending the steps. I’m not entirely sure how practiced I am at keeping my emotions in control with Serafina.
Serafina in a dress she’s been hiding from me since her shopping trip with Vanessa. Unable to keep from staring at the sun for too long, my gaze climbs the staircase.
If it’s possible to choke and die on one’s saliva, my body certainly attempts it.
Serafina’s encased in a deep red dress that brushes an inch above her knees. It’s high on her chest, the collar wrapping her neck while keeping her shoulders bare. Her hair’s been left down in loose waves that flounce with her movements, blocking her face from me, as she’s watching her step to avoid falling in her black heels.
A blush seeps through the strands, almost as red as the dress. There’s zero reason for her to be nervous when she looks every bit a Cosa Nostra princess. She may have grown up a regular girl, but the Mancini manners were engrained into her, whether everyone likes it or not.Thisis how she was always meant to look.
