Page 22 of Violent Pawn

In the weeks since Sera’s unwanted wedding, as everything’s fallen back into place, I’ve given up keeping track of when Zeno visits. Sometimes she flies there, but more often he comes here.

“Sure, but Saturday is tomorrow. Tonight, however…” I lift to my feet, rounding the desk to grab her arms. “Van, you’re killing me here. It’s been months. Our last was when Zeno tricked his way into your life, and since then, it’s been battle with him, shit with Dimitri and his father, and then helping keep Serafina alive. We both need this. Bring him along. We’ll go to Posol’stvo, where you two met. It’ll be cute. Hell, we all deserve this break, so I’ll convince Lev to come as well.”

It shouldn’t be hard if I sell it to Serafina. He’ll tag along for her, cursing everyone out as he does. It’s a win-win on entertainment.

“Fine. But you won’t be convincing Lev to tag along.”

“Wanna make that bet?”

Serafina insists on watching her shows, and no matter how much I try to persuade her, she doesn’t fold. Which means she and my brother will take advantage of everyone being gone, especially since her own will be around for the remainder of the weekend.

I lost the bet.

As I enter the mansion after ballet practice, I decide to try one more time, but the idea becomes inconsequential when I’m met with three figures hovering in the foyer.

One being my Pakhan. One being her expected guest.

One being an unexpected pest.

14

NERO

When Zeno asks me to accompany him to Moscow, I assume he’ll be proposing this weekend and wants everyone, minus his mother and Elio, around to break the news all at once.

I nearly made an excuse to stay home. How will I survive the entire weekend aware that, as my best friend gets engaged to the woman he loves, his other parent isn’t around to share the news with? Zeno doesn’t seem bothered by it, but that’s the thing about self-blame. It makes little sense. Stress will build, as will the voice in my head that’ll demand the sweet poison of liquor.

So I agreed, because over the last couple of weeks, the concept of extinguishing the rest of the old Elite seems more and more appealing, and the easiest way to figure out where they’re all hiding is to get close to the current Elite themselves.

Vanessa picks us up from the airfield, immediately announcing we’re all going to one of their clubs. The weekend just got better. Clubs mean liquor. Liquor means sanity. Turns out, I will survive the weekend.

We’re inside the mansion for minutes before the door opens again, Anastasia drawing up short. Her grip around her gym bag tightens—as does her expression before she strides by us with a murmured greeting to Zeno and a scowl for me.

“Van, you never mentioned you’d be inviting him.”

“You did say ‘everyone.’” She winks at Anastasia, whose scowl deepens. Some hidden joke passes between the women that even Zeno shrugs at. “An hour,” Vanessa calls up to her as she starts up the stairs, waiting until Anastasia is out of view before twisting to me. “Sorry ’bout her. Come, I’ll show you to a room in the guest wing.”

“Grazie.”

I follow Vanessa and Zeno upstairs and to the left, but my attention remains on the other half of the hallway, to where Vanessa mentions the rest of their bedrooms being. I wonder which door is Anastasia’s.

While envisioning the woman within it who clearly doesn’t like me.

Unfortunately for her, I’ve never quit a challenge.

And she’s my most entertaining one yet.

Vanessa has a driver take us downtown to a club called Posol’stvo, which is where she and Zeno first met when he was playing Italian tourist with the intention of getting close enough to her to strike.

It puts the four of us inside the spacious limo-style backseat of the car. Zeno and Vanessa claimed the side bench, which forces Anastasia beside me. She wasted no time pressing herself to the opposite door. So far, she’s only spoken to Vanessa and Zeno, but I vow to change that when we arrive.

At the club, I climb out before the driver can do his job and reach inside for the victorious pleasure of being able to help Anastasia out of the back seat, playing the gentleman she’s determined to believe I’m not.

Lips the colour of red wine curl, but she takes my hand with feigned kindness and steps out onto the curb, her side pressing against my chest. She’s warm and smells fucking fantastic.

And looks it too.

My arm snakes around her waist before she can step away. “You look incredible, Petrov. Bellisima.”