Shaking my head, I ignore it. “Leave.”
He does.
And I slump into my chair, wondering just what the smug son of a bitch was hinting at.
Something well beyond my trouble with Mischa. Could Salvatore be planning to make his own play? If he were behind the attempt on my life, I wouldn’t put it past the fucker to aim a little higher.
The only reason I haven’t killed him—despite having no proof that he was behind the attack on Olivia—is because though nowhere near the height of their power, the famiglia is still a force to contend with this side of Hell’s Gambit.
And if Salvatore is making a play for Mischa’s throne, then even I can admit that a hell of a war is in store.
Should I do the good thing and warn Stepanov of what danger might be headed his way? After all, Salvatore is one to play dirty, preferring to break his target from within. Sounding the alarm would be the good, neighborly course of action.
Fuck that. I lean into my seat, prop my feet on my desk, and fish through a drawer for a cigar.
I may not trust my intuition much, but what is it telling me to do now?
Sit back and watch the fucking world burn.
As long as Vin is safe, I really don’t give a damn who wins either way.
19
Willow
Mischa may have left me alone for the rest of yesterday, but his visit seems to serve as a signal to the others. It’s barely dawn, but already a commotion outside of my door breaks the heavy silence I’ve been living in for at least three days—a tiny, girlish cry followed by a louder, boyish shushing.
“Be quiet,” said boy declares, most likely Ivan, utilizing his bossiest tone. “You’ll wake up Mama and Papa.”
“She stepped on my foot!” a girl declares indignantly. “I’m telling Mama.”
“Not uh, Jona,” another girl counters. “You’re such a baby.”
“Uh-oh,” Ivan mutters as louder, sterner footsteps approach. “Here comes Mama—”
“I told you, my darlings,” Ellen says gently. “Willow needs rest. Leave her be. Why don’t you play outside?”
“Is she sick?” one of the girls asks.
“Jona said Willow is dying!”
“She’s not dying, my sweet,” Ellen replies. “She just needs rest. Out to play. All of you.”
As the children scamper off, whining their disapproval, a knock gently sounds on my door.
“Willow?” The door opens, and Ellen pokes her head from behind it. Her tense expression softens once she sees me sitting up, facing her this time. Warily, she takes a step forward. She’s already dressed, her hair swept back into a neat braid draped over her shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
I shrug, and she advances with more confidence. The second she’s close enough, she strokes her hand through my hair, tilting my face toward hers. A beautiful grin shapes her mouth, obscuring the concern visible in her gaze. I don’t know what Mischa has told her; all I sense from her in this moment is genuine warmth. “Eli and I are going into town for some of those flowers you like. Do you want to come?”
I suck in a breath at the invitation. While their relationship may be far different from that of most mothers and sons, they do have their small traditions that have carried on even while I’ve been gone. Once a week, they go to the market, just the two of them. For her to invite me means more than a simple outing.
Heart in my throat, I scan her beautiful features, and guilt strikes me with unexpected force. All this time, I think I’ve been resisting it—her simple affection. But like Mischa’s, I know it’s genuine.
I shake my head but brush my fingers over hers reassuringly. Her smile widens.
“Get some rest, darling.” After placing a kiss on my forehead, she withdraws, cradling her swollen belly with the flat of her hand. “Enjoy the quiet while you can. It won’t be long now.”
I smile in return and watch her go. It seems like my door barely has the chance to close before a smaller figure appears in the gap, watching me with huge, guarded eyes.
He says nothing, but I can sense why. My heart constricts as I remember the state I left him in—one he obviously hasn’t forgotten. He may be able to read me better than anyone, but I can read him just as well.
I lift my fingers, watching them shake in the air before I find the nerve to finally sign, I’m sorry.
He blinks and turns away, shrugging his small shoulders. Like Ellen, he’s dressed, ready to go.
Cautiously I stand and cross over to him. He doesn’t move an inch, not even as I sink to my knees and pull him into my arms. This position makes it painfully apparent that we’re almost the same height. He has to lean down just to return the embrace.
“I didn’t want to tell,” he confesses against my shoulder in a voice I’ve never heard him use before, faint and hoarse. My eyes burn, but I let the tears fall. He deserves that much.
“I didn’t,” he insists. “But Papa was so mad… Where did you go?”
I cradle his cheek against my palm and shake my head. One day I’ll tell him, I swear it to myself. As it stands, all I can do is squeeze him, appreciating his love more than ever. I was so selfish to take him for granted—to take them all for granted.
Donatello can only damage what I’m willing to let him desecrate.
And he will have no more of me.
“Are you okay?” Eli asks once I finally loosen my hold enough for him to pull away. He scans my face intently but whatever he finds makes him press his lips together, unconvinced.
I’m fine, I sign. Now go get me my flowers. I want the best ones.
A wary smile alights his face, wrinkling his cherub nose. “I’ll bring you some candy, too,” he declares.
I nod and sign, My favorite, of course.
He beams. “You got it. A chocolate chunk bar.”
“Eli, darling?” Ellen calls from down the hall. “Are you ready?”
“Coming!”
As he scampers off, I cross to my wardrobe and withdraw a simple shirt and jeans. I shower, get dressed, brush my hair, and when I leave my room, the hallway is surprisingly empty.
It doesn’t take me long to sense where the other occupants are. Boisterous noises drift from below; excited murmurs and girlish shrieks draw me into the drawing room. I hover near the doorway, peering at the scene taking place within.
“And then what, Papa?” Aljona demands, bouncing on Mischa’s lap as he sits on a leather chair positioned by the fireplace.
Marnie stands behind him, somehow having wedged herself between his back and the chair. Her position makes for the perfect perch from which to studiously braid pieces of his long hair. Across the room, Ivan lounges on the couch, his nose seemingly buried in one of his books. More often than not, his attention drifts to the tale Mischa is telling.
“And then, the prince found his princess,” the man declares, his voice deep and booming. “She had already escaped the villain on her own, rescuing another princess while she was at it.”
The girls exclaim in awe, clamoring for more.
“And then what happened, Papa? Did they get married? Huh?”
In disgust, Ivan mutters from under his breath, “That would be boring.”