Page 123 of Violent Pawn

Her reply is right fucking there, but Zeno approaches and clears his throat, breaking us apart. He offers his hand to her for a dance, really testing my restraint. He won’t have that honeymoon he’s been wanting when I kill him before the night’s end.

“Dance with Vanessa,” he commands before stealing Anastasia, but her attention remains on me as he spins her away.

So in the end, I’m the winner.

59

ANASTASIA

“You two have never looked more like twins until this moment.” Dimitri gestures between Lev and me from where we’re leaning against the bar. “You could at least look like you’re happy.”

My argument is immediate, a lash of my tongue. “I am happy. For them anyway.”

He replies with raised brows before dragging Katya to the dance floor for what’s probably their tenth dance. He mentioned something about making up a decade’s worth of missed chances.

It’s cute, though sickening.

Lev, his thoughts aligning with mine, also observes them. “We’ll probably be doing this again soon.”

“The massive rock she’s been sporting for months didn’t give that away? At least he won’t want a big ceremony. Katya’s anxiety won’t allow it. Plus, the guest list will be smaller. No Cosa Nostra.”

He blows out a breath, hooking an arm on the bar. “Thank fuck, because two massive weddings in a matter of months are too much.” His expression darkens as he sources Serafina standing beside her mother.

“Wouldn’t surprise me if they do something intimate on the mansion’s property. Or maybe she’ll want to do it in Canada rather than bring her parents here.”

“That wouldn’t be bad. We’ve never been there, and Fina enjoys exploring new places. Between us, her parents, and some of the friends Katya retains from her life there…a few dozen attendees at most. It’s tolerable.”

“Are you two seriously planning the next wedding?” Vanessa pops behind us. Her flushed cheek lands on my shoulder, and her colossal dress embraces our bodies. “You’re barely through this one and already dreading the next.”

Lev toasts his drink in her direction, much to Vanessa’s laughter. It quickly dies, though, when she kisses my cheek. “I’m sorry it’s rough for you guys. You’re both free to go. I won’t be mad. Lev, I know it’s hard, and Ana…”

“I’m fine,” we both chime.

Vanessa snorts. “Sometimes you two are weird. Anyway, if we’re talking wedding planning…” She nudges Lev’s side with her elbow.

I expect my brother to snort, cough, shy away, and deny anything of that being his future despite their brief conversation when he was asking to buy the two pieces of land off her. Instead, he tilts his head, watching Serafina with Zeno and their mother across the room. It’s the same expression Nero pointed out months ago at their engagement lunch.

“It’ll be up to her where and when.”

Vanessa smirks at me, our thoughts presumably aligned. It’s best not to comment and interrupt his breakthrough.

She lingers for a few more moments, talking about the night in general, and then she and Lev able off to find their people. I turn to the bartender for a strong drink and wander to the farthest side of the reception hall, towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that drew my attention earlier.

I don’t walk through the door leading to the balcony, instead staring in the distance to where the Roman Colosseum is visible against the night sky. Vanessa may despise the wedding planner, but the woman chose a lovely venue.

Steps approach, and I brace for who it could be. After the forced first dance of the night, I’ve avoided the floor, clinging to whichever family member—mainly Lev—wasn’t celebrating. It didn’t deter the many men who’ve requested a dance, but luckily, my brother’s glare shooed them off.

With a large swig and a deep breath, I turn to face the two approaching men. Broad-shouldered and standing side by side, they fence me from the party. My grip tightens around my drink, shoulders pulling back on instinct.

“Anastasia Petrov.” One dips his head, his thick Italian accent rolling the A’s in my name.

“Hello.” Play nice, don’t kill people.

“There are rumours about Russian women that intrigue me.” The second man approaches, and by instinct, I step backwards. The glass chills my bare skin, but nothing’s more chilling than their abruptness. “That you’re wildcats in bed.”

The lust in his eyes sucks me into the past—to the notebook hiding beneath my mattress at home. They’re the spitting image of the kind of men Papa would push me to seduce.

I hum, smiling and maintaining a polite façade. “Maybe, maybe not. If you’ll excuse me, the bride is waving me over.”