Page 49 of Violent Pawn

I’m back inside his room for only a minute, staring at the cage of the bed—the cage that’ll trap my dignity—when Nero enters. The door shuts with a quiet click that echoes through my mind. Without turning, I slide into bed, doing my best to pin the material to my thighs. Although he’s already seen more of my body before, at the club or on stage, his shirt is an intimacy I don’t feel comfortable sharing.

Clothing hits the floor and then a body slides into the bed beside me, the blankets becoming a few degrees warmer. He’s staring at the ceiling from his place on his back. Maybe if I don’t move, talk, or breathe, he’ll assume I’ve passed out, and this night will go on without any fuss.

Nero wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t ruin my plan, though.

“Having a beautiful woman in my bed was the ultimate dream to fifteen-year-old me. Back then, Padre would have murdered me rather than encourage it.” He laughs at the thought, shifting in place.

It’s too much, and I turn onto my side so my back is to the wall, my hand resting in the space between us. Awareness electrocutes my skin, down to the proximity. He’s lying on his back with an arm cushioning his head as he stares up. The blanket is low on his waist, revealing inches of smooth skin peppered by a thin line of hair and tattoos.

“Can I ask you something, and you not get mad at me?”

It’s a risky offer, considering “something” is so broad and vague, but one I find myself whispering my agreement to.

“What were the holidays like when you were a kid?”

Non-existent. “Papa never didn’t work, even on the holidays, which left Lev and me with our nanny who tried. When we got old enough to care for ourselves, Christmas became our problem, so we didn’t do anything. In the simplest terms, holidays meant nothing. We’ve all been making more effort the last couple of years since Ursin’s murder, but it’s the four of us floundering, uncertain what the holidays should look like. It’s what made this year exciting.” I tilt my head until I’m looking at his face rather than his chest. “Gabriella included us all—even Dimitri, Katya, and me. We’re the tagalongs who didn’t need to be invited, but she did. And you…” My grip tightens around my cell, which I never released earlier. “Despite my initial complaints, you brought me here with good intentions, so thank you. Your father’s really nice, and it’s been…nice.”

It’s been more than nice. Between him and Gabriella, I didn’t realize what we’ve all been missing about Christmastime. The connection, the celebration—family. To bring everyone together with food, drink, and conversation for no reason other than having a good time. For there to be no additional expectations; nothing I need to do for a person.

Nero bringing me to his father’s sends a message that isn’t written, but he did it to be kind, to take me away from the happy couples so I wasn’t alone.

I can’t totally dislike him for that.

“I’m glad you came to Rome,” he replies after a moment. “And that this year is better than previous ones. I’m sorry your father sucks.”

In ways you don’t even know.

“What about you?” I ask before he asks more about my father and ruins my happy mental place I’m beginning to blame on the wine. “What were your holidays like?”

“This.” Warmth fills his tone. “Papa always cooked large feasts even though it was only the two of us. Sometimes extended family, but not often.”

“What about your mother?”

His hand slides off his stomach, palm flat to the bed and only an inch from mine. “They divorced when I was two. Madre cheated on him and took off with her new boyfriend. She never returned, but I found her thanks to the Cosa Nostra connections. I left her be, though. She never cared enough to come back for me, so why should I care about her?” He pauses, the room swimming with childhood abandonment that makes my heart break for him. “Yours?”

“Never knew her. Papa needed an heir but didn’t want to get married. He paid a woman a lot of money to birth us—got two in the process—and she fucked off with a huge payday and left us with him.”

Sometimes I envision the nameless, faceless woman who conceived us. Sometimes I imagine finding her, which I have no doubt Lev could if he wanted to, and report all of what Papa did. Who she produced innocent lives for. We were bred for a madman’s use and nothing else.

Nero’s hand covers mine, pinky intertwining with mine. I don’t pull away.

“Can I ask you something personal this time, and have you not be angry?”

“I could never be angry with you. Go for it.”

While it sounds like bullshit, I skip arguing about something that doesn’t really matter. “Why do you drink so much?”

He stiffens beneath me, making my question a huge error in judgement. The kind of mistake that someone like my papa would scream at me over, so I guess I’ll see how truthful Nero’s emotional control is.

“Can you ask me that in the future, when I might be able to answer that. R-right now, I can’t.”

“Sure. Understood.” I squeeze my pinky, stunned by his stutter but not acknowledging it. “I’m sorry for asking.”

“It was only a question. It’s fine. Thank you for being perceptive enough to notice.”

Is it a cry for help?

Does no one else notice?