Page 17 of Violent Pawn

In other words, he may have saved my life.

For too long, giving by obligation was trained into me by the man who made me into this person. So while others may fall over themselves thanking Nero, proper and polite words tie up in my throat. How do I thank him for a choice he made? How do I display gratitude when he’ll expect payment in return?

It’s why I no longer give.

Deny, my inner voice repeats. Instead, a different force overcomes me. One that has me grasping for that truth. I wrap my fingers around it and whisper, “Why didn’t you?”

He wets his lips before replying, “I didn’t want to. You weren’t a threat, so I didn’t understand why you were my mission.”

I’d like to believe that makes him different from other men. He made a choice, indicating he had the semblance of a soul.

I peek over my shoulder to ensure none of the others have come down and could overhear. “Does Zeno know we’ve met before?”

He flinches. “Does Vanessa?”

“You never gave me your name. You look like you did back then, so when I saw you all those months ago when we came for Vanessa…” My eyes drift to the doorway, and the lobby through it that we had them once kneeling in. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Same.” His gaze rakes me in a manner reminding me too much of the men Papa once paraded me in front of. The kind of gaze that’s meant to strip away my defences. Only this time, I’m strong enough to withstand it. “No, he isn’t aware. It felt pointless, considering the Bratva shouldn’t have been hanging around us this intimately.” The way he says intimately is intimate itself, a caress of syllables that brush against my skin. “He changed the game.”

“That a problem?” I’d come around to the idea of Vanessa being with the Cosa Nostra, but maybe everyone hasn’t. And anyone who’s against their relationship and them by extension is against me.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” He sips from the bottle again before adding, “I won’t go after anyone from the Bratva, yourself included, so get whatever’s in your head out of it. Z deserves to be happy, and Vanessa isn’t at fault for Ursin’s actions.”

He’s alluding to something else. Some other issue he finds within the history between our two organizations that sets me on edge.

He takes another chug before resting the bottle down. It’s an opening, and being way too sober for this trip down memory lane, I move to escape the room. That moment in time has been addressed, so there’s no point in lingering. From here on out, no one has to know, and we’ll go on being allies. One interaction eleven years ago doesn’t really matter.

Except it does.

His eyes, once reminding me of ocean waves, propel me to the doorway. They stroke down my neck, water drops sluicing to the curve of my shoulders and onto my back. As a dancer, I’m used to people studying me, but Nero’s stare is different.

It’s not an examination, but rather a caress. One that goes deeper than my skin, right into my mind and body.

Maybe it’s what stops me in the doorway with words rarely spoken. With the past in the open, it’d be cruel to ignore this any longer, even if owing him is worse than lighting myself on fire. We’ll be around one another often from here on out, so I’ll consider this the final piece laid into the ground. After this, it’ll be a ground we can freely cross, and our families will never be aware of how it was initially dug.

“Spasibo.”

“Which means?”

“Thank you.” I glance over my shoulder, catching a brief second of soberness as my words break through his drunken fever. “I don’t want to imagine what could have happened if you didn’t allow me to escape. Knowing our world, I acknowledge that you risked a lot by saving me. I may not like you, but I’m not enough of a bitch to admit my life may have ended a long time ago without you. So, thank you. Truly.”

His deep gaze sweeps over me. Starting at my hair, following the loose curls leftover from the wedding today—yesterday, technically, seeing as it’s past midnight—then to my shoulders, where they loop over my top. He continues down my arms, following my hips and legs. A full-body study that doesn’t have me wanting to bolt.

Interesting.

“Prego. It means you’re welcome. It’d be a damn shame if something happened to you, Petrov.” As I turn away to cross the threshold, he speaks again. “For repayment, I want that dance.”

Technically, I owe him a life debt. A dance is nothing compared to that.

But it’s the very point that he’s demanding repayment for a choice he made that undoes so much of the past ten minutes. It’s a fucking shame, I think, escaping the room and leaving his request open-ended with neither a confirmation nor a denial.

Inside my room, I press my back to the door, hand to my racing heart. We can never have that dance because it’d mean touching. If he touched me, it’d bring me back to eleven years ago. The single time a man had his hands on me without stripping me bare—clothing and defences.

That day, his mere presence branded my skin. I wouldn’t survive his touch now, and refuse to fall victim to another man’s whims.

It’s been years since I feared a man. Not since the last time Papa lifted his hand against me.

But Nero Amato has the ability to truly and utterly scare me.