Page 101 of Violent Pawn

“It’s fucked, but we’ll find them before the wedding. I swear it, Z.” I fucking hope it pans out this way, anyway.

“I still want those weapons found, and it feels like we’ve scoured the world for them.” He sighs through the exaggeration. Our search could only go so far, since looking for illegal weapons would trigger international laws’ attention. “Figure out what you can, and I’ll draw up a list of anyone who may have an issue with us. I’ll ask Vanessa about enemies she may have too. We can’t rule out the team being Russian and hurting our ranks to confuse us. Keep this between the three of us for now. I’ll ask Lev to run background checks on anyone we come up with, see if phone records and emails bring up something.”

“Will do. I’ll start as soon as I’m back.”

There’s a beat of silence before the expected question: “Where are you running off to this time?”

“Cayman Islands.” Again.

More silence. “Why? Haven’t you done enough damage?”

“Because I’m sober and allowed on a flight.” For almost twelve hours now, which is becoming somewhat a record these last two months—minus my recent trip to Moscow and back.

“Be serious.”

“I am.” I slide out of the car and ensure the door shuts loud enough to reach him, so he wraps up the call. “Look, I’m trying.”

“Nero,” he starts low in that don’t make me say it tone he’s so proficient at. “She’ll reach out when she wants to. Don’t push it. Were you really at her show two days ago?”

I blame the roses—the same ones I bought her at Christmas. She’s smart enough to have put it together and undoubtedly went yelling at Zeno for allowing me in Russia and in her vicinity.

I had to.

The flowers, my donation…all for her. An apology while she won’t allow me to give her in person.

“Nero.”

My lungs decompress with a long breath. “As long as you don’t say shit to her, sì.”

It was a risk, and took me days of work-up knowing I’d have to detox myself at some point in order to get on the commercial flight. So I packed a bag and sat in the airport parking lot for hours as my body sweated through the cravings with only the images of her in my mind to get me through.

It worked. Then again, it shouldn’t really be a surprise. She’s always made the cravings go away. Betraying her returned them greater than ever. Thoughts of her help me to the other side.

My body sweat through the trip, and I couldn’t wait to drink again, but once reaching Moscow, the cold grip of addiction released me to her—even if substance addiction doesn’t realistically unwind its binds so cleanly. There wasn’t a drop required to get me through the performance that had me on the edge of my seat. Not from her skill, but the fact that after months, she was right there.

My preferred kind of liquor greeted me once returning to Rome. I missed her so fucking much, and being inside her dressing room that was tainted with everything Anastasia—her clothing, her makeup, her perfume—killed me. I needed to be sick in a different way before I’d hop a flight and return to her on my knees, pleading for her to take me back.

“She suspects,” he murmurs what I guessed already. “I lied and said you were in Rome since you should have been. Why didn’t you join me when I flew up?”

“Because you’d know I went and could have told her. She wants nothing to do with me, so I’m respecting that. Doesn’t mean I can’t watch from afar.”

He goes silent for another beat, so I collect my bag from the trunk. “Please don’t tell me you’re stalking her or having her followed.”

If only. “I’m not.”

“Alright, so you went to the show, returned, and now are heading to the Cayman Islands, presumably to her padre’s house? What are you looking for exactly?”

“Don’t tell Vanessa, but I’m not sure yet. Anastasia briefly explained what happened to her.” In between screams. “Lev called the other day, mentioned they were clearing out his house soon. Last night, I got thinking about Ursin’s journal, the one Vanessa discovered that detailed his plans. Once, you even located documents in your padre’s desk that listed his larger deals. The old generation was fuckin’ weird about keeping a paper trail, so maybe hers did the same.”

His sigh is lost in the crowd of people hugging one another on the curb as I pass by a few small groups and head for the main entrance. “Were you drunk when you came up with this plan?”

“Maybe.”

Another sigh. He should teach a course on the sound of polite aggravation and irritation. “Don’t get arrested. When’s the last time you drank?”

“Does it matter?”

“To me it does.”