Page 110 of Violent Pawn

Gritting my teeth, I counter, “You break anything, our lawyers will be so far up your ass.”

“Seems like you’re hiding something, Miss Petrov. You wouldn’t want to be found uncooperative...”

The threat is clear, and if playing the game means they’ll fuck off, so be it. Even if my teeth are about to snap at how hard they’re pressed together. I lead him between a few of the alcoves to the far side of the room, where the hallway leading to the basement—this one, the legal one designed for storage—is hidden within shadows to deter clients from exploring.

I reach for the black metal handle, turn it, and rudely gesture to the staircase. “You’ll find storage boxes of files, our camera room, and alcohol stock—all of which is legal.”

He sweeps down the stairs with three men following, and while I’d love nothing more than to go down to give the aha expression when their greatest discovery happens to be the paper copies of all the legal documents that make this place function, a basement with four grown men isn’t a situation to handle.

Vanessa will be pissed if I end up receiving assault charges.

There’s a loud curse from below that makes me smile. Feet thunder back up the stairs.

And then my cheek is slammed into the wall, a large body pressing me there. For a moment, my muscles lock, stunned, and I don’t fight back until every other warning signal reminds me to.

“Anastasia Petrov, you’re under arrest for the possession and distribution of illegal arms…”

Cuffs slap around my wrists, and I’m hauled away from the wall, much to the numerous gasps of my staff. I kick my legs, wiggle my arms, and attempt to get free from the unresisting grip. “Nyet, whatever you found down there isn’t mine!”

“Mm-hmm, that’s what they all say. Let’s go.” The cop tightens his hold on my shoulder, pushes a knee into the back of my thighs, and forces me to trip forward to the exit.

One of my security guards, quickly followed by one of my sweet girls who’s never raised her voice a day in her employment here, cuts in front of us. “No, you can’t arrest her!”

I jerk my chin at the guard for him to keep her back before the assholes with badges find greater reason to go on an arrest rampage. He agrees with a click of his jaw.

“Call Vanessa!” I holler behind me right before I’m shoved down the hallway and out of view.

54

NERO

When Zeno said he’d help, it began with detox to dry me out. It was a painful few days, but useful to work through the immediate issue.

He and the program staff suggested rehab next, but I insisted on returning to work and making up for everything I’ve slacked on the past few months. Without rehab, my risk of returning to the bottle increases, but hitting rock bottom is my personal protection.

I refuse to go down that path again. While the cravings come and go, I don’t feel rehab is a requirement.

Zeno agreed on the basis that the second my fingers touch a bottle, I have to attend rehab and that I join some kind of support system designed for this in lieu. Apparently, Vanessa researched alcoholism and relapse statistics, so he and Elio found the current place, shoving me down the stairs to a church’s basement and into the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting after seventeen hard fucking days of being sober since our talk on the couch.

Relapse isn’t possible since I’ll be on my way to winning Anastasia’s forgiveness. Fuck Vanessa and her research. That’s what I told my suddenly overly handsy friend who wanted to ensure my progress didn’t go backwards. What fucking Cosa Nostra person goes to group therapy?

The mood swings are part of the healing, I’ve been told.

Personally, I think I was fine after detox and anything extra isn’t needed. I wasn’t that bad off.

When I first joined, my mind couldn’t wrap around the others who sit their asses on the fragile metal chairs alongside me. A woman dressed from her nine-to-five job, presumably an office role if her glasses and a pantsuit indicate; a guy who seems to live in an oversized, stained hoodie and ripped jeans with a head of unbrushed hair; a woman with bleached-blond hair and long-ass nails I wouldn’t mind tearing off her for the way they annoying click her cell right up until the time the meeting begins; and then there’s my personal favourite and whom I’m usually seated beside: the retired cop.

What a fucking joke it all is. At least, that was my initial consideration. If only the cop knew—if any of them knew—a Cosa Nostra member was in their midst. Someone who could kill any of them.

Too bad they’re all good people, sharing one commonality.

Alcohol addiction.

No matter how I spun it or what I claimed, the definition doesn’t change, nor the fact my face was plastered onto it.

“Good job today. Very nice insights.” The group’s leader and sponsor, Giovanni, stands to end the meeting.

Yeah. Giovanni. Pretty sure Zeno’s father was reincarnated or some shit and returned to mock me. It can’t be a coincidence they share the same name.