“I’ll check the cameras while you write a report,” the man near the door grumbles. “Just make sure nothing’s stolen. That’s the last thing we fucking need around here.”
“Quit your bitching,” the man with the gift snarls. “Let me take her up first.” He jerks his head for me to follow, and I nearly trip in my haste to keep pace.
Together, we enter the elevator, and the man swipes a badge before selecting a floor just a few numbers down from the highest level. Within minutes, the doors open onto a lush hallway accented by blood-red carpet and wood-paneled walls polished to shine.
The driver shuffles forward to a room a few paces down and swipes the card to let me inside.
“Your uncle, huh?” he wonders, inspecting me with a curious expression. “Look, if either of you needs a ride in the future, here is my private card. I’m looking to trade up, if you know what I mean. The pay here is shit.” He rummages through his coat and withdraws a plain business card. “If the ride is for you, text this number. You know how to text?”
He grunts when I nod.
“Good. Text this number with your name and where to pick you up, no questions asked. And don’t forget to tell your uncle, if he’s hiring. Oh, and tell him happy birthday for me.” He hands me the present and leaves.
I can’t seem to move other than to slip his card where I hid my knife. Or turn away from the surprisingly modest space. My first coherent thought is that the air doesn’t smell like him, too crisp and clean.
Apparently, I wasn’t the first to find a way in here, either. A cake rests on the king-sized bed, along with small, square items wrapped in shiny silver packaging.
It’s so anticlimactic in a sense.
He should be sprawled in a massive penthouse, reveling in his money, unbothered by any skeletons in his past.
But this arena is as fitting as any to finally face him after all this time. Squaring my shoulders, I step inside, closing the door behind me. I drop the present near the entrance and find myself inching toward a row of windows overlooking a view of the busy waterfront.
We must be in the heart of the city. Several skyscrapers surround this building. The nearest one is close enough for me to make out various people exposed by gaps in curtains or blinds. They live their lives regardless, oblivious to being on display.
On a floor roughly equal to this one, I catch a man who seems to be staring intently in this direction. The second I spot him, he shifts out of view.
And I turn away, withdrawing my dagger from its hiding place.
For the first time, I feel a pang of guilt for leaving Mischa and Ellen to wonder where I am.
But after tonight, I’ll finally be able to live among them with no more crippling uncertainty.
No more pain.
After tonight, I’ll finally be free to become someone else and leave Safiya Mangenello behind for good.
I’ll silence Donatello Vanici’s memory, one way or another.
9
Don
Vinny, my sweet, cunning boy. He has taste after all—the little bastard went all out when picking his present for me. She’s perfect—a pretty, innocent-looking piece of ass every bit as beautiful as any pampered heiress.
Her dark eyes watch me, so fucking wide. Endless. I’m too drunk to be poetic about it, but if I weren’t, I’d describe her in the sexiest terms that get a man’s cock throbbing. Mine, at least.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
Unsettling.
Psychotic.
She has that knife raised high before I even have the sense to pivot out of her reach. Undeterred, she swipes for me anyway, her eyes blazing, teeth bared.
Laughing, I grab her wrist, and she recoils, stumbling into a sideboard in her haste to wrench away from me.
“You aren’t a professional,” I deduce, sizing her up with a glance. Disappointment melds with the effects of my last whiskey, and my shoulders slump in defeat. So much for my good boy sending a naughty toy my way. “Sexually or otherwise,” I suspect, sounding like a child denied a treat. “Not a part of my gift, it seems.”
What a damn shame.
A second glance makes it more obvious that she’s no whore. She’s far too slight for one, no hint of muscle in sight. Her skin is paler than the style these days, and her hair looks to be a natural shade in between blond and brown—no hint of highlights or some shit most escorts adorn themselves with. But her hands give her away—slim, pale, struggling to grip the knife she holds.
She’s no assassin, either.
“Revenge, is it?” I ask as she whirls to face me, blade drawn. “Which loved one of yours did I kill? A beloved daddy? A brother? It can’t be your mother,” I add, easily parrying her next attempt to slash my throat. “I don’t kill women.”
Her eyes flash at that, and she lunges again, flailing more wildly with her blade.
“So, your mother then,” I deduce while twisting on my heel to avoid her attack. Unguarded, she doesn’t even try to stop me from gripping her waist, tugging her against me. It’s only as her eyes meet mine for a split-second that I realize I’ve fucked up.
Pain lances through my side, drawing a hiss as I buck out of her range. Shit. I don’t even have to look down to know she got me. I can feel the blood already starting to pool beneath this godforsaken suit. Fuck it. What a way to end the night. Hissing in irritation, I swipe at the wound without bothering to inspect it in full.
“So, you are trained, after all,” I rasp. “Fuck, playing games, then.”
I snatch a handful of her hair, using the grip for leverage to shove her away. Only when I let go, do I realize how rough I’ve been. She’s so thin that in theory, she could go right through the wall. At the last minute, she catches herself with her free hand, already spinning to come at me again.
Even as I brace myself for her next blow, I’m impressed. Someone trained her well.
But her skill eliminates about ten potential motherfuckers off the list of who her employer—or avenged family member—might be. None of those sons of bitches would ever have the balls to train a woman.
“So, I offended your mother,” I say, trying and failing to maintain eye contact. Her gaze is a viper, darting around the room in search of an exit. I barely manage to shift my stance enough to keep her from lunging for the door. “Did I fuck her?” I ask, raking my gaze over her body from head to toe. “Don’t tell me you’re my long-lost daughter.”
It’s sick, but as my eyes fall over the small breasts peeking beneath the neckline of her dress, I pray to God she’s not. Though, fuck. At least then, I’d have a daughter to carry on my legacy in addition to Vin.
Her cheeks flush with fury at the suggestion, her chest heaving. Wrong answer.
“Did I fuck you?” I sound as skeptical as I feel, and the answer seems to be a definitive no. I would remember her. Those eyes. Those lips. Her smell—one inhale and I’m high on the stench—roses.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask, noting the shift in my pitch. I sound damn near genuine. “If I did fuck you and never call, trust me—put the knife down, and I will be more than willing to make it up to you. I was probably drunk.”
Very, very drunk, I decide as my gaze descends her shapely legs. Piss drunk. Vin had probably snuck something into my drink as a prank—it wouldn’t be the first time. His way of trying to convince me to stay sober.