Page 49 of Ruthless King
“You’re properly dressed at least,” Fabio remarks from the doorway of his private office. As agreed, a Stepanov agent lurks at the other end of the corridor, while my men, including Javier, have to wait outside of the building.
“You play this right, and you can smooth this over,” Fabio warns, opening the door. “You can wait in here.”
His office is empty apart from two leather chairs placed directly across from each other, out of range from any of the large windows showcasing a view of the city.
“At least my kennel is well furnished,” I grouse halfheartedly. As agreed, I’m expected to wait on the man like a naughty child called to a headmaster’s office. Patiently, I must anticipate my punishment.
“Don’t fuck this up, Donatello,” Fabio warns. “But I know you won’t. If there is one thing you care about, it’s family.”
He’s right.
And he’s wrong. Safiya Mangenello is proof alone as to the opposite. I’m a selfish fuck, and I always have been. But Vin isn’t like me.
“How long until he shows up?” I ask Fabio as I enter the office and take a seat facing him.
He shrugs, smoothing his hands down the front of his own suit. In a crisp navy blue, he cuts a stern figure befitting any neutral party. “Whenever he fucking feels like it. You’re lucky he even agreed to this.”
“And his daughter? How is she?”
“You probably have a better idea of that than I do,” he says ominously. “Seeing as how you claim you didn’t touch her.”
“I said I didn’t rape her,” I clarify. “And I didn’t drag her kicking and screaming into my room either. She came at me. Besides, I’m still not even convinced the girl I was with is Willow Stepanova. Attacking an unarmed man with a knife doesn’t sound like the actions of some innocent, sweet little pianist, daughter of amafiyalord or not.”
But it’s starting to sound more and more like the actions of a spurned daughter, alright—just not Mischa’s. Gritting my teeth, I glower from the window and try to refocus on what matters. Making it through this meeting with my hide intact, for one. Doing whatever it takes to keep Vin out of any potential feud.
In short—be on my best goddamn behavior.
“Well, let’s be sure before the man comes, why don’t we?” Fabio reaches into his pocket and withdraws a folded slip of paper. A photograph.
And the woman staring up from the glossy surface renders me silent.
“So, itwasher, you son of a bitch,” Fabio snarls, shoving the picture into my hand. “God damn it, Don! I got that picture from her fucking school files. Look innocent and sweet enough for you?”
And by God, she does. Pale as snow, hair like spun gold, eyes that soul-sucking shade of brown. She cleans up nice, the littletigre, her hair in a neat bun and a starched white blouse in lieu of a low-cut dress—but even as she smiles, I’d recognize that stern tilt to her mouth anywhere.
“I don’t understand,” I blurt out loud, swiping my finger across that beautiful face.
Fabio laughs. “You fucked up, Don,” he says, fishing yet another cigarette from his pocket. He lights it up and inhales deeply, flicking the ash into the base of a nearby potted plant. “To be honest, you were probably drunk. I wouldn’t blame you if you were, but now you need to make this right. Wait for Mischa; I don’t care if it takes him a fucking week to show. You wait for him, and you make this right. Understood?”
I hiss out a sigh of agreement. “Yes, Mama. I’ll be a good boy.”
Fabio jabs the lit butt of his cigarette toward me and nods. “I’m going to hold you to that, Don. As for addressing Mischa, do you remember what terms to use?”
Now I really feel like a scolded schoolboy. “That outfit of his likes to refer to their leaders asPakhan.”
“Good,” Fabio says. “I suggest you practice your pronunciation as we wait.”
Trailing a cloud of smoke in his wake, he leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.
I slump into the chair, still eyeing the picture in my grasp. With the pad of my thumb, I trace the pouty line of the woman’s mouth, imagining it curled into a snarl, those eyes filled with hate.
“What the hell did I do to you, littletigre?” I murmur.
But the potential answer is too insane to consider seriously. I swat it away for as long as I can before it unfurls in my mind regardless.
Safiya Mangenello, all grown up, somehow rescued from her fate by a man with a reputation fearsome enough to strike terror into the devil himself. It sounds too surreal. Too much of a fantasy. Not to mention that even if Safiya did survive, her birthday would have been months ago, not days.
And if Mischadidget a hold of the girl, then it was probably with an aim in mind more sinister than adoption. Nicolai Brayshnikov certainly isn’t known for fostering a nurturing environment for children or women.
