Page 108 of Violent Pawn

Fourth finger.

Anastasia spending Christmas with my padre.

Pinky finger.

Anastasia seated beside me at dinner, pretending she didn’t enjoy me petting her thigh.

My thumb slides from the bottle, surrendering it to him.

Zeno moves to the side of the room, presumably discarding it from view. My hand still hovering over the ghostly memory of it lowers to the couch, sinking into the leather instead of searching out the required liquid gold as he reclaims his seat across from me.

“I need help, Z.”

He suggested it before. Detox, rehab. I need it all. This time, I’m ready to listen to his suggestions.

“We’ll get you help if you answer me why.”

“I’m tired. It’s been my vice for way too long. It’s my solution to everything. The day your father died, I found the balm on the bottom of a bottle. For eleven years, it’s been dragging me through life. I went after the ex-Elite to resolve my responsibility. Only in doing so, I broke trust with the person who was making it better.” I swallow that admittance, which is much more bitter than the drink I should be sucking back. “Z, she made things better. The cravings went away. I felt normal. Then I shattered a perfect fuckin’ thing.”

“So I ask again, why? This for me, her, or yourself?”

“All.”

“Not good enough.”

My teeth press together. I’m over here, baring my soul, and it’s not good enough?

“Myself,” I finally admit. “Myself, to be better. To be someone worthy of her. Whether or not she ever forgives me, she won’t like this version. I don’t like this version of me.” My eyes lift, but not to his face. It’s not possible yet. But his chest. “I don’t remember much since the day it all came crashing down, which isn’t fair to you or the organization, or Elio, who’s taken up being my babysitter. I’m doing this for me, Z, so I can be better for everyone. I’m doing it for you so that you can trust me again. I’m doing this for her—with her in mind.”

“Good answer.” He stands, approaching.

“It’s been a week,” I murmur, swallowing roughly. “A week with only two drinks.”

“You’re doing good, but I want you to attend detox regardless. To fully dry out in a place meant to help. After that, we can decide if rehab or something else is next.”

I bob my head, too choked up to verbalize my agreement. Saying anything gives a name to my addiction. An admittance I’ve already said to myself—that I have a problem to resolve. Detox feels like a curse word, when it’ll actually be my saving grace.

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Get rid of it all. Every bottle. What’s in my room and in the kitchen. And…and if you want any for yourself, hide it and don’t tell me where it is. Please, Z.”

“Give me one hour.” His steps take him across the room, the gentle clacking of his shoes against the marble that isn’t as shiny as it normally is, ever since he forbade the cleaners from entering the villa because he didn’t want me using them to clean up my mess.

“Z?”

He turns. “Sì?”

“Grazie. Not only for today, but the entirety of our lives.”

“She’ll be proud of you.”

He leaves, and it’s thoughts of Anastasia I pass out to.

In a rare instance of sobriety.

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