Page 96 of Merciless Queen

“Vanessa.” My cousin’s voice is right behind me. His hand touches my shoulder in what’s meant to be reassuring, but I flinch away. “We’ve already gone through everything.”

“I know. But…but I need to now. You must have missedsomethingthat mentioned Serafina.”

“And if there isn’t?” Anastasia inches beside me. “What then?”

I guess I’ll move on.

“Then nothing. But I need to look.” My hand clenches tighter on the handle and I push it down an inch. As one, three bodies step closer. “Alone,” I tell them in a commanding tone. “It’s time I finally go in here. I’ve avoided it long enough.”

Without another thought, without allowing doubt to take over, I jerk the handle the rest of the way down and push the door open just enough I’m able to slip inside. My back presses the door shut and I remain there, waiting until three pairs of feet walk away.

Once they finally do a few moments later, I open my eyes—when did I even close them?—and my breath whooshes out of me.

“Enter.”

I do right away because even taking a few more deep, bracing breaths will consume too much time—in his opinion,anyway—and it’ll annoy him. It’s simpler to not irritate him, for my own welfare.

Papa stands from behind his desk after I shut the door. A finger crooks toward him and he commands, “Come.”

I hate when he talks to me like I’m a dog.

Wrenched from the memory, I have to remind myself he’s no longer here. Yet, as I stare across the room at his large wooden desk, I can still see him, like a reflection. The same stance, with his fist pressing into the desk’s surface. The same flat expression. It’s all the same, and my legs buckle.

He’s not here. He’s not here.No matter how many times I repeat it, it doesn’t feel enough. Not as the vision of him coming around the desk, the memory of that specific day, returns.

“I hear you insulted our guest. He was quite displeased with his purchase.” Papa grabs my chin and tilts it up, to better study me like I’m an animal to be bought.

Or sold. Because that’s what happened yesterday. Sold like I was one of the many poor women the Bratva forces into employment. Although, employment might be a stretch of a term for what happens to them.

“I didn’t insult him.” My refute will probably anger him further, but being forced to spread my legs and have my tears lapped rather than wiped, my body destroyed rather than worshipped, pisses me off more.

Papa’s brows lift and he releases my chin. Blood rushes back to the area, making the skin tingle. “He claimed you refused to thank him.”

“Thank him?”My scoff could probably be heard from the next room over. “Thank him for raping me?”

Slap!

Papa pulls his arm back while my mind rushes to catch up. It’s certainly not the first time he’s hit me, and it won’t be the last.

Yesterday, it took hours for my body to stop shaking. Hours to finally open the door and let Dimitri inside. My cousin helped me into the shower and even stood outside the door in case I needed anything, but it wasn’t enough to rid the feeling ofhim.His scent imprinted itself in my nose. His touch tattooed my body with a feeling I’ll never get rid of. His cock forever a shadow of losing my virginity.

I rotate my jaw, letting my eyes drop to the floor to avoid pissing him off when I’ve made my point. It’s our pattern. He demands, I fight back, I lose, we move on. A system we’ve perfected.

“You will not speak to me that way,doch'. You willcherishwhat was given to you yesterday, and you will learn your fucking place. Now go. Write a letter to Boris, begging him for forgiveness. Maybe then, we can all move forward.”

Move forward? That’s joke number one. There’s no moving on from this. This is something I’m forced to live with for the rest of my life.

He wants me to plead with my rapist…I can’t even put into words how fucked up that is. I don’t need his forgiveness for voicing my true feelings. He needs mine for his actions.

I never wrote that letter. In fact, despite spending all week on edge, Papa never brought it up again, so I assumed he forgot.

The present comes back into focus and the image of Papa looming in front of me dissipates. It’s like I’ve waved my hand through the air, except I never moved, and he was never here.

This is why I refused to enter his office before today. Why I transformed another room into my office.

My feet are heavy as I stride across the burgundy carpeted room, passing walls of shelves stocking books I doubt Papa ever cracked. A built-in bar is to my right, a few alcoholic options untouched from his last use. A gathering of four small glasses are also there, and I imagine him pouring drinks for businesspartners before planning world takeovers and sending them to kidnap women and children.

Everything he’s done, everything he was, it’s no surprise what happened to the Mancinis. He never understood limits because he never had any for himself. A person’s rights didn’t matter if it furthered his own needs. He was selfish. He was everything a villain is.

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