Page 42 of Malevolent King

Soon, the days on the run with Nikolai would be the last taste of freedom I’d ever have. How fucked up was that? To feel freer in the hands of a captor than my family was a sobering realization. Most of all, for the first time in forever, I hadn’t felt lonely, not at all. I didn’t know what the hell to make of the disjointed, ill-fitting emotions bumbling around inside me. So I did what I always did: got dressed, plastered a good-girl smile on my face, and hurried to follow my father’s commands. Nikolai was right. I was hislastochka. A caged bird with clipped wings, too scared to make a bid for freedom.

* * *

On Sundays,the De Sanctis family hosted lunch at Casa Nera.

It was a tradition as old as I was, older perhaps. I could barely remember what it had been like when my mother was alive, but these days, it was my least favorite day of the week.

A host of skilled Italian chefs put on a feast to remember while more still ferried the food and drinks back and forth to the powerful men at the table. Being invited to Sunday dinner was a significant sign of favor and respect from the boss. A standing invitation was for family only. For that reason, Silvio and his father, Franco, attended every single Sunday and made me even more uncomfortable than I usually was in my childhood home. Since I’d been old enough to fill out a bra, maybe even before, lecherous eyes had followed me around the table as I caved my body inward and prayed to disappear.

Tonight, Silvio’s dark eyes followed me around the table. The sight of his self-satisfied gloating only sent my mind downstairs to the basement. Was Nikolai okay? The only good thing about this Sunday dinner was the man sitting at the far end of the table with a small cast on his lower leg. Gino was alive and well. He was heartily tucking into his first Sunday lunch at the boss’s table, thanks to his heroism in attempting to stop the escapee. Every time I caught his eye, I couldn’t help my grin.

“And where doyou think you’re going? You don’t have time for your cousin, is that it?” Silvio’s hard hand circled my wrist as I passed out espresso topped with sambuca after dinner. My father thought it important for his only daughter to show her wifely capabilities and obedience.

“Sofia?”

The fingers holding my wrist tightened until I bit down a gasp of pain. The small china cup in my hand rattled in its saucer before spilling across the table in a dark stain.

“Madonna!”Silvio spit at me, drawing all eyes to us as he threw a napkin down dramatically on the spoiled tablecloth.

“I’m sorry. I was daydreaming,” I muttered tonelessly.

Silvio smirked, reveling in causing a scene and embarrassing me into speaking to him. “Well, what are you going to do? You spilled coffee on my pants. Clean it up,” he said, his voice dropping toward the last words, for only my ears.

My eyes darted to his.Silvio had none of the good looks of the De Sanctis blood. My father was a trim man, wiry and elegant, even in his advancing age. His brother, Franco, was the same.

Silvio was only a little taller than me and didn’t resemble either of them. His short neck, hairy knuckles, and thick shoulders marked him clearly apart from my brother and me. Since losing his hand, he had only gotten heavier and meaner.

It was understandable. I couldn’t imagine being in his position. If Silvio had been a different type of man, his contrasting looks would be a welcome sight, but he was as far from a good man as could be. I had nothing against how Silvio looked, but I had a lot against my cousin coming on to me.

“Well, hurry, it’s getting cold,” he said to me, sitting back and spreading his heavy thighs on the velvet seat below.

“You must be kidding, right?” I strove for nonchalance in my tone when I really wanted to scream until my throat burned. I wished I could slosh the bottle of liqueur across the drapes and tablecloth and light it all on fire. I’d sit at the head of the table and watch some of the most powerful men in New York scramble away from the flames.

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Silvio’s eyes lost their smarmy glint and turned ugly with aggression. If there was anything a man like Silvio hated, it was being refused something he wanted. He felt entitled to everything and everyone, and apparently, that extended to me.

Anger, white-hot and flameless, roared through me in a well-worn path. I was reaching for the espresso pot before I could help it. The last few days had used up my patience, and worrying about Nikolai was sending my usual good behavior out the window. Without another thought, I tilted the full pot of burning hot coffee into Silvio’s lap.

“Che cazzo!” He shot up, knocking the coffee pot from my hand so it clattered across the floor.

Conversation in the room petered out as twenty pairs of eyes turned to us.

“Sofia, what’s happening?” Antonio called to me from the other end of the table.

Silvio was glaring at me, his hand raised toward me.

“Go ahead. Hit me in front of my father,” I goaded him in a furious mutter.

According to my father’s rules, only he could hit me. Discipline was a father’s duty, and he was well-practiced at dispensing it.

Silvio swore and let his hand drop. “You stupid bitch, if you had any brains at all, you’d be on your knees licking up your mess. Instead, you’re mouthing off like Antonio will never die.”

“If you had any brains at all, you’d be thanking me for spilling coffee and not sambuca and a match.”

My quiet words sent his eyebrows up his shiny forehead. He shook his head, his expression incredulous. “You really think Antonio and Renato can protect you forever?”

“Are you threatening my father, because that sounds like something I should tell him,” I pointed out starkly.

I wouldn’t, of course, Antonio would never take my word over Silvio’s simply because he was a man. Regardless, the words made me feel stronger. Even if the safety I felt under my father’s watch at Casa Nera might be imaginary, I needed it. Even if he was my jailor, he’d let no one else hurt me. Well, until he married me off, and then I’d be my husband’s problem.

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