Chapter 17 PARKHANESSA.
\~~~RAINA
“Pakhanessa,” Luciano repeats.
My soul is already halfway out of my body when it happens.
Because why did a tiny, and embarrassing chuckle slip out of my throat, completely uninvited?
The entire hall freezes and everyone in the room turns, their eyes snapping to me as if I just laughed at a funeral.
Oh, pleaseeee, it is not that deep!
I raise both hands quickly. “Sorry… sorry. I swear I am not laughing at you people. It’s just…”
I point at Luciano, whispering loudly, “It sounded like Vanessa. I thought you said Vanessa. I didn’t know you meant… Pakhanessa. The two sounded funny in my head.”
A second laugh slips out, and I swear, no one else laughed. It was only me. Not even a smile.
It was like I was joking in a cemetery.
My heart drops into my stomach and embarrassment surges through me.
Oh God. I have messed up, haven’t I?
He is going to kill me.
Luciano, my own personal grim reaper, is going to drain the remaining life in my body the moment we step out of here.
Slowly… very, very slowly… his head turns toward me.
And then he smirks.
It’s not a friendly smirk nor is it a cute one. No, this one is dark, slow, and dipped in pure danger. The kind that curls at the corner of his mouth like he is already deciding exactly which part of me he is going to punish first.
My whole body goes cold first, and suddenly it feels like the room has no air again.
How could I have let my intrusive thoughts win?
Luciano leans in, his lips barely brushing the shell of my ear, that smirk still there and carved into his voice when he whispers,
“What an interesting way to introduce yourself, Pakhanessa.”
My lungs forget how to function as he said and then he pulls back, his eyes glinting, and sweeping the hall like nothing happened.
“As you can see,” he announces to his men, “my wife has… a sense of humor.”
A sense of humor?
God, he just makes it sound like a medical condition.
‘I swear, I am not crazy, guys!’
I almost scream that out.
Everyone bows again, deeper than before, as if praying not to get involved in whatever doom I just unlocked for myself.
Meanwhile, I just sit there, stiff as a statue, knowing one thing for certain,
I am so, so dead when we get home.
Maybe when this gathering ends, I will beg the man who looked the oldest to take me to his house.
After what feels like an eternity, the men finally shift into discussions. It’s a low, clipped exchange that sounds like codes, numbers, and phrases only demons or mafia accountants could understand. I try to follow, I really do, but all I hear is,
“Sector three… shipment… confirmation… two nights before…”
Exactly, absolutely nothing useful.
My brain quietly logs out.
Finally, the chairs scrape back, signaling the meeting is over.
All the men rose to their feet in unison so sharply and coordinated that I jolted upright like someone poked me with a live wire.
Before I can blink, one of them breaks formation and starts walking toward me.
Straight toward me.
His face is blank, his steps purposeful, and his stare intense enough to roast corn.
I almost screamed.
I genuinely think this man is about to devour me whole, right there on the polished floors of this Mafia Hell.
But instead, he stops directly in front of me, bows his head, lifts my hand with surprising gentleness, and presses a cool kiss to the back of it.
“Pakhanessa.”
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
Before I can recover, the next man steps forward. And the next. And the next. One by one, they approached me, bowed, took my hand, kissed it, and murmured the same title with the kind of reverence priests should have.
By the tenth kiss, my vision blurs. By the fifteenth, my soul had left my body.
By the time the last man finishes, I am so exhausted that I melt into the chair like hot butter in a frying pan.
If someone doesn’t carry me out soon, I am going to pass out and they will have to mop me off the floor. Trust me, I am not exaggerating.
Finally, Luciano takes my hand, his fingers curling around mine like a steel trap.
We start moving, his grip firm, leading me through the door as the men part silently, their eyes trailing. My steps feel heavy, every glance from them making my chest tighten. I try to hold myself upright, but the exhaustion from sitting through the meeting and enduring their formalities makes my legs weak.
The murmured title, Pakhanessa, follows us as we walk, each syllable echoing in my mind.
I hate this.
I hate this attention, the weight of expectation, the way every motion feels scrutinized. And yet… I can’t deny the pull of it, the strange, suffocating thrill of being seen like this.
Finally, we reach the stairs leading out of the underworld. The cool night air hits my face as we step into the open, a relief so sharp that it makes me catch my breath.
We get to the car, and after I settle in, Luciano excuses himself, so it’s just me and the driver now.
After a few seconds, I mumble,
“It is Viktor, right?”
He seems to think about whether he should answer me or not before finally saying,
“Yes, Parkhanessa.”
Oh, just call me Mrs. Moretti, you cold bastard. I hissed inwardly.
For the first time, I seem to like the title Moretti more than that parkhan-whatever.
“Are you always this cold?” I asked him again.
He takes about a minute before answering.
“No. I just don’t like you, Mrs. Moretti. No offense.”