Page 35 of Violent Pawn

After Ursin’s death, Vanessa stopped hosting them. She didn’t want the displays while risking an assassination attempt on her life, nor to deal with all the men who once preened over her, begging Ursin for her hand in marriage.

Vanessa groans again, rubbing her hands over her face before peeking through her fingers at me and Lev sitting to her left. “You two will back me on this being unnecessary.”

My brother immediately chimes, “Da,” which is a testament to his entire personality and inner issues with the world, but I reply, “Nope. Dimitri’s correct. As much as I despise agreeing with anything from your father’s time, he hosted parties as a power exhibition. After two years away, you should as well—to prove your authority and growth as a leader. These are the very people who once doubted you. Time to show them how wrong they were.”

“That’s my point.” She knocks her rock of an engagement ring against the scarred tabletop. “Years of fervently insisting I can rule without a man by my side, and my first party happens to be one celebrating my engagement. It’s like they won.”

“Use that against them,” I offer with a shrug. “Not to say they won, but to remind them you’re in control. No ally will expect you to wed a leader from a rival crime group. That’s pretty much a giant middle finger to them. Plus, all those who begged Ursin for your hand will see you chose a complete outsider. It proves you chose for you, not for the Bratva.”

“Vasilyev included.” She frowns at the mention of his name. “You know, he called again the other day when I was in Italy. Zeno grabbed my phone and detailed out what he’d have done to him if Vasilyev brought it up again.”

My responding, “Exactly,” is cut off by her thumping her head to the table scarred with bloodstains and stab wounds.

“But that’ll mean two engagement parties. The Cosa Nostra is demanding one, and we’re not going to want all Five Families here on our territory, which means a second one.”

“That’s what you get for marrying another mob leader,” Lev grumbles, once again not reading the room.

Vanessa lifts her head but stabs her fingers through her hair. “Gabriella wants the party to be mid-January, after the holidays. We’ll plan one around that…I guess. Gabriella’s hiring a planner, so I’ll have the planner do it.” Her huff is reminiscent of Veles’s whine as she scans the room. “Anyone have anything else? Maybe something that doesn’t make me want to swallow a bullet.”

Lev crooks a finger and leans forward in his seat. “Anastasia and I will be heading down to deal with our father after the holidays. After Ivan’s shit, I don’t trust our papa won’t try something if he hears who you’re marrying.”

Vanessa’s lips quirk as she glances from him to me, nodding—telling me she reads between what he isn’t saying. Lev, as loyal as he is, wouldn’t think like that. She knows he’s using her marriage as an excuse to protect Serafina, while not outright stating so and getting emotional. “Serafina, you mean.”

Red darkens my brother’s cheeks. Beneath the table, he taps his usual pattern against his thigh. “Da. Our father was second only to Ivan. If he learns what’s happening with you and that there’s someone important in my life…” He gestures at Dimitri. “That we all have people to live for. I don’t trust him. Besides, it’s time. Ana and I should have done it years ago.”

Vanessa’s eyes flick between us before she lifts her chin off her hand. “Alright. If we can be of any help, let me know.

“Security for Serafina,” Lev replies without a beat, his taps ceasing for the urgency in his tone. “When we’re gone, she’ll still attend classes. I want someone with her, but I’ll pick them myself.”

Vanessa’s eyes—identical to Serafina’s and Ursin’s—shine with both amusement and admiration. “You got it. She’s lucky to have you.”

The compliment lingers until my brother swallows. I swear actual sweat breaks out across his forehead, and though I’m loving watching him choke on his tongue trying to reply, I should probably do the sister thing and save him.

Dimitri’s low and deep tone replaces Lev’s panic, sending all our minds into other places. “And we’re lucky to have you at the helm, Van…Pakhan.”

The rest of my week is split between work and practicing for The Nutcracker performance approaching in the coming days. At first, alone in my studio, and then with the troupe, in costume and on location.

The first day of the show arrives, and with it, all the usual feelings of exhilaration that accompany a sold-out performance.

For the past two years, Vanessa and Dimitri have attended the first night. They usually try to get Lev to come too, but he’s had an adamant no-attendance rule ever since Papa forced him to sit through them. That is, until a couple of months ago when he learned Serafina wanted to see one and he did so without even checking with her.

Love. What a quirky thing.

This year, Katya and Zeno join Vanessa and Dimitri, and on night two, Serafina and Lev sit through it. Lev was tenser than the show’s manager, but once again, he did it for her.

On day three, dancing will be easier. Without family observing, there’s less pressure. That is, until a knock on my door in the twenty-minute window before I’m supposed to be on stage jerks me upright. I had visitors the past two days when everyone cycled through this place, but I’m not expecting anyone else.

One of the staff stands in the doorway, gaze averting from my robed form. “You have a visitor requesting to see you. He claims to know you and was quite insistent that I ask you. He wouldn’t leave me alone until I came back here.”

“Did he give a name?”

“No, but he’s Italian if that makes a difference.”

The blow pushes into my gut, a combination of irritation and something much lighter resembling happiness—but couldn’t possibly be that because that feeling doesn’t fit the Italian he’s presumably speaking of.

“Send him back,” I murmur, pushing away from the doorway but leaving it parted a few inches. I head for my vanity, to feign that he interrupted me getting ready.

What is happening to me? This…this itchiness in my palms and the way my heart thumps hard and fast enough against my sternum, it practically hurts. My breath evaporates quicker than it does on stage.