Page 33 of Violent Pawn

“She snagged a Mancini without bloodshed. Of course, she isn’t.”

“Oh, there was bloodshed. But the crazy fuckers still fell in love.”

Later that evening, Zeno calls out for pizza while I catch them both up on the meeting. Zeno’s quick to brush off the comments, but it’ll obviously be a conversation later when they’re alone, based on Vanessa’s glances.

Eventually the conversation shifts to other things, mainly Serafina’s education and the fact that Gabriella is already in the thick of hiring wedding planners—something Vanessa rolls her eyes at.

“You know,” I say, “I’d love to know what happened two years ago when you took over.”

Over her food, she glances at her fiancé. “You guys were stalking us. Your intel didn’t figure it out?”

“We know,” Zeno cuts in with a hard look that asks what the fuck are you doing?

Pretending not to see nor understand, I wave my hand. “We got reports, but I’m asking about you specifically. The little things we wouldn’t know. Like you disbanded your father’s Elite to make room for your own, but where’d they all go?”

Zeno kicks me hard under the table. “You don’t need to⁠—”

Vanessa, two drinks in, starts. “It was an ultimatum of retirement or death. They were loyal to my papa, which means I couldn’t trust them. They were part of another time, and it was one I was trying to distance myself from. If they remained, they’d question my choices and probably try to usurp me at every turn. The Elite are supposed to be trustworthy close confidants, which is exactly what they wouldn’t be. The only one who remained was Ivan, but given he’s my uncle and Dimitri’s father, it was different and understandable. We had him more or less managed.” She pauses, rolling her lips together. “Turned out to be a mistake, since the minute I didn’t strike war on you guys, he went behind my back. As for the others, they scattered.”

“Lev and Ana’s padre is one of them, sì?” My hands are sweaty for the first time in years, with the anticipation of answers so fucking close.

“Where’s this coming from?” Zeno grinds, staring at me.

Vanessa barely spares him a glance before shrugging. “His fate was left to them. Figured it’s only fair.”

“Where’s he then?”

“That’s it.” Zeno stands suddenly, grasping Vanessa’s hand to tug her up with him. “Let’s take a walk or something. Nero’s annoying me.”

She glances between us, stumbling to keep up with his speed. “What did he do…?”

They disappear so I don’t catch his response.

I’m on the precipice of something big.

Today was the strangest combination of preparing for the wedding. Vanessa didn’t really tell me anything of substance, but confirmed that getting close to Anastasia might have a few benefits.

Long after Vanessa and Zeno go to bed, I nurse a bottle of whisky on the back patio. Tonight, drinking isn’t to bury the emotions but to celebrate them. Progress is happening, and I hold the bottle up in the air in an imaginary toast.

As it’s lowering back down, a hand comes into view and swipes the bottle away. My sluggish reflexes don’t react fast enough.

“You’ve had enough.” Zeno drops into the seat across from me and lowers the bottle to the ground. “You’re drinking a lot more these days—as I’ve now mentioned to you a couple of times over the past few months. What the fuck is going on?”

“Nothin’.” I reach for the bottle, though it’s not on the table, so my attempt goes nowhere. “Go back to your bride.”

I need to stand. To become a mountain, firm and tall, and steal back my liquor.

The ridiculousness of that thought makes me laugh.

Zeno sneers as I stumble upright, only to fall back down, drunker than I believed. “Whatever the fuck that was earlier—stop. I mean it, Nero.”

Lucky for him, I’ll be too drunk to remember this conversation later. Alcohol pushes me to believe my actions are still for the good.

I try again with hands braced on the table to stabilize my wobbly steps. My hand slips, nearly sending me down until Zeno grips my arm and tosses me onto the chair. Without another word, he strides away, liquor in his hand, and returns to the house.

I tip my head backwards to watch him, but that only brings the alcohol higher up my throat in a bitter taste of vomit. He disappears, which probably means he’s giving up.

I would too if I were him. He also didn’t need to take my pain’s bandage when he did. Now, I have to get my drunk ass into the kitchen and somehow reach the high cupboard he insists on the staff storing the alcohol in, all without making the world turn sideways, puking, or dropping the precious liquid.