Page 56 of Pas de Trois
Ezra.
I know he’s near before he appears in the doorway beside Renata.
His eyes immediately land on mine without the need to glance around the crowded room for me. He felt the familiar tug and pull of our souls before he rounded the corner, just as I had.
Neither of us react; we just allow our eyes to connect, and in that connection, strength builds. He feeds me the power I need in his gaze, just like he always has. I want to touch him, kiss him, hold him more than anything else in the world right now, but I’ll have to settle for this brief connection.
Our gaze is interrupted when Renata sees me. She puts her hand on the center of his chest—his bare chest—and crosses in front of him, charging toward me with a graceful but fierce walk. But my attention is still on Ezra, distracted by his naked chest and the black leather collar around his neck.
She really has made him her slave.
Oh, God.
My stomach flips with nausea, but then anger burns my skin. I know I should be grateful she hasn’t killed him, but I feel sorely indignant that she thinks she can take what’s mine and make it hers.
I don’t care who she is, Ezra is mine.
She smiles at me as she comes closer and I turn my head, lifting my chin to look up at her from the seat I refuse to vacate. She slips her arm around my shoulders and bends, making it look as though she’s merely greeting me as she bends to kiss my cheek. She lingers there, whispering into my ear so quietly, I have to strain to hear her. “You can have my seat. I have your lover.”
My head ticks, jerking toward her as she straightens to look at me with a smug expression. I let a smile spread across my face. There are so many things I want to say to her in response, a million retorts scrambling across my mind.
But I breathe deeply and hold them all inside, deciding that my silence is more powerful than any words I could ever give her. I hold her stare, smiling up at her until her cheeks twitch from her faltering resolve and she walks away.
I try not to make it obvious when I blow out the breath I was holding.
Renata moves around the table and sits at the opposite end, facing me. Her family has gone quiet when she lowers regally into her seat and all eyes fall upon her. She snaps her fingers and Ezra moves to her side. I can see the tension rippling through every beautiful, bare muscle in his body, the familiar battle against himself to control his impulses to fight and run.
My mouth drops open when he lowers to his knees at Renata’s side and bows his head, and I force myself to clamp it shut.
She knows.
She knows how much this hurts me.
She knows how much it hurts him.
But what did she tell him to make him bow so easily? It’s not right…
My eyes are on Ezra, though his eyes fall to the floor. I want to kneel in front of him, lift his chin, kiss him like I’ve never kissed him before, and bring him back to life with me. But I can’t do any of that.
Not here.
Not now.
The whole family looks at Renata expectantly. She looks directly at Lorenzo, says his name, and tells him something in Italian.
He nods and glances at me and Olivia on either side of him, then at Kostya across the table. “She’s going to speak in Italian for the family. I will translate in English for you.”
I give a single nod of understanding. Lorenzo may translate her words, but I’ll be watching Renata—cataloging every twitch of her features, every flicker of her eyes, every movement of her body. She begins to speak slowly and clearly in her native language, and Lorenzo speaks quietly after her, translating in English.
“The events surrounding Vigo’s death have been settled with the four families,” Lorenzo begins. “There will be some changes to leadership.” Renata pauses, as does Lorenzo, and quiet settles over the room for a few brief, tense moments. She begins again and Lorenzo’s translations follow. “Lorenzo and I will serve together as Vittori Head of House to maintain our status and continue our business as one of the four families.”
Someone I don’t recognize shouts out something in Italian, and though I don’t understand all the words, I clearly hear the name Nikolai Mikhailov.
I tense immediately.
Renata nods, then continues, as does Lorenzo. “Yes, it’s true. Nikolai Mikhailov is dead. His former talent slave will be taking his place. As it turns out, she is his wife.” The crowd breaks into a murmur of chatter.
Renata holds up a hand to silence the group, then gestures toward me. Lorenzo doesn’t need to translate when she says my name. “Anya Mikhailov.”
