Page 59 of Violent Pawn

“Where are you taking me?”

Going anywhere with Nero feels like a bad idea. Inside the club, other people and our bosses-slash-friends are around. People who’ll distract and ensure I don’t repeat the stupidity from the other night. Alone gives him the kind of power others once stole from me. Alone in their hotel rooms, me bound by my father’s death threats, them by desire.

Though Nero is vastly different, leaving with him has me feeling bound. Tied up and confused by emotions that can’t exist.

“It’s not much farther.”

It seems like it. I’m freezing, and would have dressed differently if aware of my New Year’s near-midnight adventure.

The car drives a bit over ten minutes, going away from downtown, before reaching a stretch of greenery and a small paved road. We drive partially up before parking. Nero pays the man with the worst Russian I’ve ever heard a person speak, but the fact he’s trying to learn the local language warms a part of me the negative temperatures have frozen away.

“Sparrow Hills,” I remark as he helps me out of the vehicle and farther up the incline. It’s the highest point in Moscow—besides high-rises—which isn’t saying much since the city is pretty flat to begin with. It offers a panoramic view of the area and, given the time of day and holiday, is empty. “Why?”

He peeks over his shoulder as he guides me up to the very top. “It’s quiet and away from the club and liquor. And it’s where I want to be.”

He drops onto a stone bench before pulling me onto his lap and bringing my legs up to his chest. Wind seeps beneath my dress and up my thighs, but he wraps his coat around to cover me. Basically, I’m curled on his lap and in his arms and am supposed to accept being okay with it.

“So, lemme get this straight… You drop into the city, interrupt my celebration, and steal me away.”

“Sì. That’s what a man does when they miss a woman.”

My heart skips a beat. “You shouldn’t miss me. I shouldn’t be missing you either.” My head falls forward until I’m staring at my lap rather than him. “It makes no sense why I can stand you at all.”

“Hmm, I can think of some reasons. We make a lot of sense, except you pretend we don’t. Why else would you have kissed me?” When I don’t have a response to that, he asks another question. A murmur tainted with a determination I pretend not to hear. “What did you mean earlier when you said that I remind you of others?”

Fuck the alcohol. Between the drive and now being outdoors, I’m more sober than earlier and unfortunately recall the little tidbits that slipped out.

“Doesn’t matter.”

His arms tense. He disagrees but doesn’t push the matter. Instead, he pulls out his phone, checking how close we are to midnight.

“I planned on kissing a stranger at midnight. You’ve stolen that from me.”

I wasn’t. My midnight plans consisted of hiding until that part passed and the dancing resumed. Kissing strangers—or doing anything else with them—no longer holds the same appeal as it did a few months ago.

Ocean eyes and an Italian accent destroyed me.

His chest rumbles. “None of those assholes, that’s for certain.”

“Yet you’re not jealous…”

“I’m not.”

I hum, agreeing to disagree, as my hand rests against his chest. I bring it up to the skin above his collar, seeking warmth to numb my cool fingers, and it’s then I notice the spot of red. Like the lights scouring the club, this is as flashy and noticeable since it shouldn’t be there at all.

“Why do you have blood on your collar?”

He tenses again, warning me that whatever the excuse he gives will be a lie. “Nosebleed.”

In the criminal underworld, blood is an everyday aspect. It was likely a Cosa Nostra job this morning before he and Zeno flew here. I’ve decided I trust him, which means actually trusting him and letting this go.

“We have a few minutes. Tell me why ballet? What interested you in it?”

“That’s something I ask myself often,” I murmur, continuing to fiddle with his collar. “Papa needed us out of the house one day, so he had our nanny bring Lev and me to a local show. I was ten at the time, and can recall the dancer’s face as she performed. She seemed so calm, happy, and I wanted to be her, so I asked Papa to get into the sport, figuring it’d make me calm. Ten-year-old me assumed it’d change my life. Obviously, it doesn’t work like that. But I enjoyed it enough to stick with it.”

“Long-term, it makes you happy. It does make you happy, right?”

“Da.” I’m pretty happy right this second too. I’d be even happier if the weight leftover from the holidays were lifted, though. “Why did you leave the morning after Christmas without a word?”