Page 41 of Ruthless King
“Do they know for sure that she was taken?”
“Not yet,” Fabio says, still eyeing me sternly. “But there are rumors, Don. Rumors that claim you were seen at your hotel with a woman who suspiciously matches the girl’s description.”
I scoff. “I never even met the woman! You were there when I was unceremoniously thrown out on my ass.”
“Yes.” He nods, his eyes wide. “I was there, Don, when Mischa Stepanov insulted you. I was there when you left. But I wasn’t there when you supposedly dragged an unwilling blond from your hotel room in the middle of the night. I wasn’t there for that.”
My brow furrows. “That’s a rather interesting retelling of it. Especially considering a sniper tried to kill me in said hotel room and I was ‘dragging’ said woman to safety.”
“My God.” His face falls. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. I want intel run on Antonio Salvatore,” I say, curling a fist. “If the bastard came after me directly, he won’t get to make the same mistake twice. He’s always been a jealous son of a bitch. I bet he’s pissed that I won the port deal over him. I’ve heard he’s been trying to buy a share for years—”
“Noted,” Fabio says over me. “But first things first, tell me more about that woman. Like why you were with her in the first place. A whore? A fling? What did she look like?”
“She looked…” Blond and slender with haunting cat-like eyes. “She looked like a woman who waved a knife in my face; that’s what she looked like.”
Fabio strokes his chin. “You and your entanglements.”
As though I’m accosted by murderous women daily.
“This… This was personal,” I say. “I took the woman so we could have a nice long discussion about why it is unpolite to dredge up someone’s past.”
“So, you spoke to her?” Fabio sighs and staggers to a nearby chair, collapsing onto it. “Thank God. If you had a conversation with her, then that settles it. It wasn’t her.”
I raise an eyebrow, confused by the leap in logic. “How so?”
He shoots me a strange look. “It’s not common knowledge, but Mischa’s daughter is mute. Can’t say a damn word. Some kind of trauma from when she was young and… Don?”
“Describe her,” I croak, sensing the blood drain from my face. “His daughter. What does she look like?”
“Blond. Pretty. Smaller than you’d expect for a girl of nineteen. God, don’t look at me like that. Tell me it wasn’t her.”
“She tried to kill me,” I croak, lurching to my feet. “She tried… With a knife!”
And if, by some horrible twist of fate, the littletigrehad been Willow Stepanova, why would she want me dead?
“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap. “I never even met the girl!”
“You need to fix this,” Fabio demands. “Where is she now?” He scans the room as if expecting a woman to come jumping out of the closet.
“I left her,” I say.
“Where?”
“Havien—a property I own in the countryside.” There’s no need to bring up Safiya or my old home and the suspicions that might arise in him. I taught the girl a lesson, nothing more.
He nods, raking his fingers through his hair. “Okay. You were attacked. You took her to safety and left her in a countryside villa safe and sound. Right? Tell me you didn’t touch her.”
The look on my face makes him hunch over, cupping his hand against his mouth. “I’m going to be fucking sick—”
“It has to be a misunderstanding,” I insist. “Why would Mischa’s daughter want to kill me?”
“Forget his daughter! What about the man himself? If I heard the rumors about you, then I’m sure he already has as well. It doesn’t look good for you, Donatello, even if what you say is true.”
His tone sends an ominous sense of dread through my stomach. Turning to the doorway, I call out, “Javier?”
The bodyguard appears there within seconds. “Yes, sir?”
