“An alliance?” he questions, palming his chin. “Or a mercy to prop up what little holdings you have left? When it comes to doing business, I only enter agreements with men I trust. Not only will you forfeit your holdings. Afterward, you leave the city, and you stay away. If you ever come near my daughter again, I have every right to kill you. We both know why.”
It’s a blunt insinuation. One that makes me wonder just how much he knows of his supposed daughter’s past. Going off the look in his eye? Everything.
And it all makes sense.
“You’ve been hostile to me for some time, Mischa,” I say. “I’ve always wondered why. Most men who show me such avoidance aren’t shy about their reasons.”
“Most men have a code,” he counters. “Lines they refuse to cross.”
Like selling little girls to men like Nicolai Baryshnikov. He doesn’t say it out loud.
He doesn’t have to.
“From what I’ve heard, some men might consider your code looser than most,” I snap. “For instance, I don’t think most men meet their wives the way you met yours.”
I certainly didn’t. I would have gladly run a knife through my chest before ever laying a hand on Olivia. Mischa’s wife was not so lucky, it seems.
An eyebrow raised, the man laughs. “And most men don’t discard the children in their care the way I heard some chose to.”
There is no mistaking it now. He knows. Just how much?
“Whatever happened between your daughter and me is in the past,” I say. “I didn’t hurt her.”
“And yet here you are, aiming to make amends,” he points out, gesturing to the space around us. “Or do you wish to compound your insult?”
By rubbing it in his face.
By spurning his gross extortion.
By spitting on the hand of the man who sees himself as the king of this shadow empire.
I want to. I do.
But I would be condemning Vin to a lifetime of fighting.
“Take the harbor,” I say, dropping all pretense. I turn to the window, eyeing the glistening waters of the bay in the distance. I let the sight ground me, picturing Vin superimposed over the image. His life is worth more than property. More than anything.
“You leave my family alone,” I add. “I’ll keep my distance from yours. I don’t want a war with you.”
“If you ever come near my daughter again, I will kill you myself. You leave me the harbor, you leave the city by the week’s end, and I’ll be expecting a generous donation to my daughter’s conservatory in Vienna to cement your contrition. Of your own volition, of course. You have a week to make the necessary arrangements, as well as to vacate any property you have within twenty miles—”
“And leave it to you?” I hiss, whirling to face him.
His eyes gleam. “Out of the kindness of your heart for any trouble you may have caused. I’m glad we cleared up this misunderstanding.”
“I don’t need a week,” I snap to Fabio, who’s hunched over his desk, pen in hand. “Give me until tomorrow. I’ll be out of this fucking city. I hope your daughter enjoys the peace.”
“She will,” Mischa growls. “And you will never see her again.”
He turns on his heel and storms from the room.
“That was…better than expected,” Fabio says faintly, his eyes on the doorway.
“Fuck me. Just get it over with,” I snarl. “Do it. I cede my hold on the harbor. Have my things removed from the hotel. And get Vincenzo on a goddamn plane.”
I turn to the nearest section of the wall and form a fist, slamming it knuckles first mere inches from a painting of a scenic landscape only Fabio would find soothing. To me, it’s a fucking taunt. I’ve spent so long clawing at pieces of land for myself only to see it ripped away in an instant.
“I’ll overlook that,” Fabio says. “But trust me, Don. You’re doing the right thing.”
“By rolling over like a whipped dog?” I hiss, inspecting my throbbing, reddened knuckles. The hand isn’t broken, not that I care. I curl it again, landing another blow. Another.
“By choosing peace,” he corrects calmly over the racket. “By choosing Vincenzo. Don’t worry. I’ll make all of the arrangements. You go cool off—preferably without another blond of questionable heritage.”
I push past him, leaving the building in time to catch Mischa entering a car out front, flanked by his retinue.
As angry as I am, I know Fabio is right. I dodged a bullet.
And whether she truly is alive or not, Safiya got her pound of flesh.
May she finally rest in fucking peace.
18
Don
I leave Fabio’s office and head to my own across town with the enthusiasm of a spanked child. So much for my grand, triumphant homecoming—it’s already become an unceremonious exile.
I’ve barely owned the property for six months, and already it’s out of my control. I might as well clean it out myself while Mama Fab tidies up my bad boy messes. Fuck. With every passing second, the reality sinks in—and damn, is it grim.
I’ve just given away almost everything I own to Mischa Stepanov without so much as a fight to show for it. The harbor. My holdings. My pride.
The last thing is the hardest loss to reconcile. That icy impulse deep within me stirs to life, aching to be indulged more than ever. The man I used to be would never tolerate that bullshit treatment from anyone.
Least of all, a man cocky enough to twist the knife when he has a rival cornered with his back against the wall. Not that I would have shown any more mercy.
All because of her. Even if the little bitch was Safiya… Is Safiya…
My thoughts trail off as I slump against the back seat of my car, my head in my hands. Rubbing at my temples, I drop the anger and taste the guilt lurking underneath. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.
If Willow is Safiya, she could demand so much more from me. So much more.
I’m too much of a coward to try and imagine what she’s been through. What she’s seen. Though, isn’t it obvious? The kind of pain and horror so intense that seven years later, she comes after me with a knife.
“Sir?” Javier calls from the driver’s seat.
I lift my head and find that we’re pulling into the parking lot by my office—but that isn’t what has Javier so alarmed. Another car is already here, parked in the space beside mine. I don’t recognize the model, but only two types of bastards would drive something so goddamn flashy—a blood-red sports car with gaudy gold trim.
The first being a blind, tasteless fucker with too much money to spend.
Or Antonio Salvatore.
“Call for backup,” I snarl to Javier. At the same time, I stoop to reach under the seat and drag a black case from beneath it. With a grim shudder, I can only appreciate the fact that the little tigre didn’t notice this cache while she sat in this very spot. I open the latch and withdraw a handgun. It’s already loaded, and I tuck the weapon into my pocket, returning the case to its spot.
“Should we leave, sir?” Javier questions.
“Hell no,” I call back. I’m already shoving my door open, climbing from the car. “Just keep the engine running and get another team over here.”