Page 14 of Violent Pawn

That feels like it has a deeper meaning.

For the remainder of the night, I keep my eyes averted from him.

Avoiding him has been going well. When Zeno handed out drinks, I nursed mine, preferring not to get shit-faced and let my guard drop in a place so far from home.

Nero, on the other hand, does the opposite. He’s consumed glass after glass, until his movements are sluggish and his gaze glassy. The very gaze that continues to find me, but I’m only aware because of the glances Vanessa’s been throwing between us.

Not because I’ve been watching him too.

When Zeno and Vanessa take off for bed, I do as well, using their exit to escape undetected to the spare bedroom Zeno showed me earlier. It’s a decent size, with a large bed, attached bathroom, and simple décor on the walls.

After washing up and undressing, I note that without a change of clothes, my shirt will double as pyjamas for the single night we’re here. Not the most comfortable, but I’ve dealt with worse.

After the long day of verbally sparring with Alessio Vitale and ensuring Lev’s behaviours remain in check before his feelings for Serafina have him losing his mind, bed sounds like a blissful dream. The cool sheets and soft pillow will sweep me to sleep.

Then someone knocks on the door.

Nero

Anastasia Petrov continues to torment my life.

How does one move on from the guilt—the knowledge—that if shit was different—if I was a better soldier and accomplished my assigned task—my best friend might still have a father?

They don’t.

They especially don’t when the living reminder continues popping up in my life.

Not only does being around Zeno constantly remind me of my failed job, but so does she. Knowing the girl I allowed to escape was alive and well somewhere in the world was manageable, but having her around is something else.

But it gets worse.

So much fucking worse.

She’s every. Fucking. Where.

In my memories. In my dreams when I close my eyes and see her poised in front of me, angling a gun at my face, which was more sexy than terrifying. In my thoughts, to the point I’m literally climbing out of my skin with insanity.

Insane with want and lust. Insane to talk to her and confirm she’s living through this burning hell too. That her mind is as frazzled as mine is, and torment has us both wrapped in its cruel grip.

Being in the villa again, this time as friend rather than foe, is an opportunity to rid myself of this wonder. Even as she avoids me all evening, trying to focus on the others, her gaze continues seeking me out.

She can’t ignore me forever, no matter how much she wishes for it. Not since Zeno and Vanessa insist on making us all one big ole happy family.

The others drink, but I go heavier. Given that one source of my guilt is sitting prettily across the room, it calls for numbing my mind. She’s unaware of how my insides are knotted because of her.

When Anastasia follows Vanessa and Zeno’s exit, I say a few final words to Lev, down the rest of my bourbon, and stand—a miraculous feat on its own. Still, I’d like to believe the angel’s magic lingering in the room after her exit assists.

My head nearly ends up in the wall as I stumble from the room and near the stairs. Chuckling, I pat the wall, mumbling my thanks for catching me, and groggily make my way to the stairs.

It’s a bitch of a trip, practically done on my hands and knees and with the help of the wonderfully robust metal railing.

Alcohol, my good pal. A friend that frequently convinces me to pour just one more glass. Even with Zeno living his happily ever after, it’s not enough to appease that voice urging me to keep pouring, keep drinking…keep blacking out until his father returns from the dead.

Seems I’ll be drinking until eventually joining him in Hell.

Finally, the top of the stairs approaches, and I manage to reach the spare room Anastasia’s staying in. The wall beside her door must be friends with the one downstairs, because it too catches me, giving me a leaning post as my fist lands on her door twice.

It opens a second later, the face of my angel—or a devil, depending on the angle—appearing. Anastasia scowls, somehow looking down on me, even though I’m an inch or so taller than her. Maybe it’s because I’m slumped against the wall, so she really is looking down on me. Either way, she has this strange ability to make her eyes see past her nose like I’m a speck on the bottom of her shoe.