“Son of a bitch…” The room spins, and I collapse into the leather chair, rubbing at my temples. “She couldn’t be—”
“Correction, she is,” Fabio hisses, crossing toward me, his face red. “You kidnapped Mischa Stepanov’s daughter. You dragged her away from the city and raped her in your derelict family home—”
“I did not!” I bellow. “I barely touched her.”
He shrugs with a callousness I’ve rarely seen in him. “That’s what it looks like. And who do you think Mischa is likely to believe? You? The bastard he can’t even be bothered to grant an audience with despite you pining for it for years? Or his daughter’s torn clothing. His men found her, you think he won’t believe them? You’ve been waiting for death for a long time, Donatello. I think you’re about to get your wish.”
“Let him come for me,” I growl, still rubbing at my throbbing temples. Reality tempers my bravado a bit, and desperate hope is all I have to cling to. This is a dream. A nightmare. Any minute I’ll wake up to Vin taunting me about having hidden my whiskey. Still, I play along, scoffing at Fabio’s insinuation. “I can handle Mischa.”
It’s a lie, but only in the context of loss vs. gain. Mischa has far more at stake than I do—but what I do have worth protecting is too great to risk.
“Vincenzo!” I lurch into motion at the thought of him, rising to my feet. “I need him safe—”
“I’ve already suggested your men move him to another location,” Fabio says, and I sway with relief. I’d hug him if the man didn’t look liable to slap me. “But this is deep shit, Don. I can’t help you. Fuck, I shouldn’t even be seen with you.”
“So enduring your friendship and loyalty is, Fabio.”
“Don’t give me that shit,” he snarls, digging through his breast pocket for an item that makes my eyes widen in shock. “Don’t look at me like that, either.”
He proceeds to prop a cigarette between his two fingers. He withdraws a gold lighter as well and ignites the end, inhaling deeply. It’s been over a decade since I’ve seen him reduced to this.
“It will take more than your alcoholism to explain this shit away,” he adds, starting to pace. “You’re lucky I’m still standing here. And if you want to fix this, I can help you. But I want honesty. You mentioned that she tried to kill you, if I believe your little story. So what did you do after, huh? Enact your revenge?”
“No!” Gritting my teeth, I storm away from him and brace my hands against the desk. Contrary to his snide remark, I remember every fucking second of last night. All of it. “I’m telling you, I didn’t fuck her. I barely touched her.”
“So, what did happen, then?”
“I…” After sleep and in a somewhat clearer mental state, I know how crazy the truth sounds. Insanity. A madman’s paranoia.
“Now isn’t the time to play coy, Donatello. For the love of God!”
“Alright! I thought… I thought she was pretending to be Safiya.”
“Shit,” Fabio says as understanding dawns over his expression. “She’s mute. And the girl was… I didn’t even stop to think of that.”
I nod, scowling. “I thought Salvatore or some other twisted cunt hired her to get to me. If she couldn’t kill me, then her aim was to torment me. Make me relive that guilt—”
“When in reality, she was the poor daughter of a fucking psychopath. For all we know, she could be simpleminded.” In horror, Fabio hunches over again. His face pales, and he truly looks on the verge of vomiting. To console himself, he takes another hit of nicotine and exhales harshly.
As dramatic a display as it is, I can’t blame him. I’ve worked so damn hard to cultivate peace for Vin’s sake. In one cruel twist of fate, have I fucked up everything?
Or was that her aim all along? The sneaky blond with the fiery eyes. What the hell did I do to her?
“I think your best chance is to request a meeting,” Fabio says, rising to his full height. “Now. As soon as possible. Request a meeting with Mischa. Explain your past. Prove you didn’t harm the girl.”
“And what?” I demand. “He’ll take me at my word and send me on my way with a kiss? I couldn’t even get an audience with a bastard to form a truce over the fucking harbor.”
“But that was a formality,” Fabio warns, his tone cold. “This? This is life or death, Donatello. This is no game. For Vin’s sake, I suggest you prostrate yourself before the man and plead for mercy. Trust me, you do not want a war with Stepanov. The man is ruthless, and he has enough money to not only kill you—but ruin your name and anyone associated with it forever. The only doctor Vincenzo will ever be is the kind who uses his fancy degree to keep him warm at night while begging on the street for spare change.”
I flinch at the imagery and slam my fist against the desk so hard my knuckles crack.
“You know I’m right,” Fabio says.
And he is. Mischa is a force to be reckoned with.
But so was I. Once.
I know the heartlessness required to build a name attached to a fearsome reputation. I know what it takes for a man to cut off his humanity. I know the lengths such a man must go through to purge his soul.
Even now, Mischa does not frighten me.
But if the man takes it in his head that I did harm his family and decides to retaliate, Vincenzo won’t be spared regardless of my guilt. It’s the thought of him that makes me sigh, resigned.
“Do it,” I say, spinning to face Fabio. I lift my hands in defeat like a child accepting his punishment. “Call a meeting. Whatever the terms, I’ll uphold them. I only ask that the man hold his fire until we can speak face to face. Secure Vincenzo’s safety in the meantime. As for Mischa? I’ll meet him anywhere as long as he keeps this between the two of us.”
“Good,” Fabio says, already racing from the house. “Very good.”
So is the price of a future. For Vincenzo, I’d pay anything. Give anything.
I’ve already failed Safiya.
I won’t fail my son.
15
Willow
Death has been a permanent fixture in my life, the one constant that even Mischa’s carefully constructed haven can’t fully eradicate. When Ivan—Mischa’s long-term mentor and the grandfather of his children—died suddenly of a heart attack, a pall had fallen over the house unlike any other sadness to come before it. Time seemed to stop, and this cheerful, private world was forced to accommodate the harsh, grim reality if only for a moment.
The child’s laughter had quieted. The bright, cheery colors had been slowly replaced with black accents of mourning, and a picture of Ivan dominated a space in the drawing room where it still resides.
For all his protectiveness, there is only so much Mischa can shelter his family from.
And to anyone who might not know better, the house reeks of mourning. Hushed voices sound muffled from behind my bedroom door. Gone are the typical shrieks and laughter of the children playing. Any movement throughout the manor now is done softly enough so as not to disturb even the mice hiding in the rafters.