Page 125 of Violent Pawn

“You once told me you observed one ballet performance and knew what you wanted to do in life. My life goal was to admit my faults to Zeno. If I did anything before death, let it be that—to have him judge my soul. When Vanessa and Zeno called a truce, I was left dealing with my feelings all on my own. That’s when I decided to target the previous Elite, hoping it’d fix things.” He stops. Sighs. Stares down at our feet. “I don’t regret killing him, especially after hearing what he did to you. I don’t regret slicing his neck and watching the light fade from his eyes. What I do regret is not dragging his pain on for longer. No—I actually regret not handing you the blade so you could do it yourself.” He shuts his eyes, swallows, and stares at where my hand rests on the balcony. “I regret hurting you, for destroying the trust you felt comfortable enough to gift me. And I say gift because after what you survived, that’s what your trust is. I regret making you feel used when it’s the last thing I meant to do. Going through your phone was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done because it destroyed us. I was too deep in my head and didn’t know how to stop.”

His hand comes down on mine, warm on top of cold. His thumb tucks beneath until he’s basically holding my hand. When I don’t pull away, he lifts it higher into his.

“You,” he murmurs. “You were getting so deep into me, under my skin, burying your way inside that I didn’t stop to consider any other path. I don’t regret killing your father, but I regret losing what could be. Petrov…Anastasia, I was falling in love with you, and losing you didn’t only break your trust for me, it broke my soul. The very one you saved eleven years ago. Past, present, or future, you’ve always owned some part of it—controlled it somehow.”

He releases my hand to trail fingers up my arm, goosebumps paving his way to my shoulder, which is reassuring that something inside me still functions because my heart certainly doesn’t. My lungs. The pieces of me that are slowly dying inside with his disclosure.

Love.

He moves from my shoulder to cup my face, angling it up. My eyes shut with comfort. That’s what Nero is and always has been for me. His thumb brushes beneath my eye, requesting I open them. If I do, if I see him, surviving won’t be possible. With my cheek in his palm, he brings my face closer.

Warm lips press against my forehead.

The music from beyond the glass fades. The wind dies down. Noise no longer exists. Colours blur all except the black of his suit and the blue of his eyes.

He inhales and drops his hand to tangle his fingers around mine.

We stand like that for a long time. Long enough for everything he said to really settle in my heart.

He said he was falling in love with me.

For months, he’s been trying to earn my forgiveness, so why can’t I respond? Open my mouth and put us both out of our misery. So many times, I’ve wanted to say something to Papa only to be silenced. I promised myself to not be silent for any other man, yet here we are.

He exhales with a sigh, and his lips lift from my skin. He staggers backwards. The imprint of his affection remains, though. “I’ll wait as long as it takes, and if you never want to see me again, you better have an amazing life. Nothing I ever do will be enough to apologize, but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.” My hand in his, he kisses the back of my knuckles like he had playfully months ago. Except this time, it’s as impactful as the one he tattooed onto my forehead. “Goodbye, Petrov…cara mia.”

He drops my hand, straightens, and looks me in the face. Destruction meets confusion, clashing like the thunder that cracks the night sky seemingly out of nowhere. A normal person might look up and check if a storm is coming, but I’m in the midst of one. As powerful and destructive as any can be. Then lightning cracks, a strip of white that slices across his face and highlights his own misery.

Or maybe the storm is happening inside my heart and head.

He turns and walks away. Through the door and disappears into the reception.

Why can’t I speak? Open my mouth and say what’s in my head. Why did history choose now of all times to stun me silent?

“Nero.”

But he’s gone. Because I kept pushing him away.

Not again. Not anymore. He has to know I don’t hate him anymore. That I’m not mad. Papa’s death is yet another trauma for me, but more importantly, it keeps history alive. Nero is my future. Nero is something to me. Nero doesn’t deserve to keep being blamed for situations that aren’t his doing.

With him in my mind, I turn and re-enter the party, scanning the room but not spotting him in the crowd. Dimitri catches my eye at their table, and confident he’ll have the information I need, I storm over. My lungs work overtime when pushing out, “Where’d Nero go?”

“He left a moment ago.” He points at the main doors, so that’s where I rush off to without a goodbye to anyone.

Hands in my dress’s skirt, I lift it higher so it doesn’t tangle as I shove between the crowd. Breaking out into the carpeted hallway, I scan back and forth in either direction, but he isn’t here, so I continue straight for the front entrance.

I shove the doors open, rushing into the cool night air. A few of the many stationed soldiers turn to watch, but I pay no one attention as all my focus directs to the stone path leading to the parking a few dozen steps ahead.

And the man walking it.

Skirting the path, I dig my heels into the grass to cut through the lawn and intercept him. It’s not the most ideal journey, given the fight my heels have with the soft ground.

He reaches his car before I’m halfway there, but he can’t leave. The lurch in my stomach demands he stop walking and lets me catch up.

Inhaling deeply, I call, “Ne⁠—”

Pressure from nowhere explodes over the back of my head, knocking his name from my mouth.

Darkness greets me before my body lands on the grass.