Page 107 of Violent Pawn

When I returned, I attempted to drown the fact she was right there beneath a bottle, only to pass out from exhaustion after two drinks in and well before hitting blackout level. Then Elio was dragging me to a murder scene, and I later hopped a plane to the Cayman Islands. A call from my guy later, I was hunting Anastasia’s trauma.

That’s what…almost five days without much liquor? Five days of near sobriety.

No fucking wonder I’m on edge. My skin is itchy and seconds from peeling off in order to escape this damn horrible life.

“She wouldn’t want you to.”

Of course she wouldn’t, but she’s not around to decide that. If she was, I wouldn’t drink. I wouldn’t need to. I’d have her.

She’s not here…but maybe I can get her back.

I can get her back.

I could place the bottle down. I could get better for her. She’d return if I changed.

Drinking isn’t the issue, my inner voice reminds me—and I wish he’d die. But it’s right. She didn’t leave due to my addiction. She has no idea how bad it was and how much worse it’s gotten. Her absence made me into this monster. She’d hate this version and how I’m living my life.

My mind drifts to my bedroom a floor above. It’s a destroyed mess I barely notice anymore, often passing out face-first on the dirty bedsheets. It’s nowhere fit for my ballerina.

I should clean it.

I should clean myself.

I should… My gaze finds the bottle again.

I need help.

The liquid sloshes. I’m shaking.

I miss her.

I don’t want this anymore. To be this anymore.

Anastasia will never return to me. Fuck, I wouldn’t forgive myself if I was in her position. Alcohol may not have caused our issues, but it sure would if she witnessed my hell. My eyes don’t remain open for longer than an hour at a time, and I’m unable to handle a fucking conversation with my childhood best friend without getting smashed.

I have to be done with this shit.

“Nero?”

I need to.

For her. For myself. For him. For the Cosa Nostra.

“Take it,” I rasp.

My arm doesn’t stretch the bottle towards him, but I don’t hug it closer either. It remains poised on my knee as Zeno drops one leg from the other and shifts off the couch. He slowly approaches while my attention remains on the floor between us.

A hand lands on the glass beneath mine and my fingers tighten on the neck, ready to tell him to fuck off, fly back to his new home, and go play with his pretty fiancée and leave me and my hell alone. He can go see her while I remain here in the burning flames of my actions.

Her. Anastasia. My ballerina.

My index finger lifts off the bottle as images flash.

Anastasia and I dancing in her studio. The first time she really eased around me.

My middle finger lifts.

Anastasia and I in the club.