Page 59 of Ruthless King
As well as judging me for the minor crime of oversleeping, causing us to run late and miss my morning whiskey.
But, I suspect he’s pouting for another reason. Sure enough, he declares, “You’re not the one being shipped off like some unwanted stepchild.”
“Correction,” I say, stepping forward to cup his jaw in both hands. I squeeze his cheeks and coo like a mother hen. As he wrenches out of my reach, I’m lucky he doesn’t punch me. “You’re being shipped off like my only child. My cherished baby boy. Be glad you don’t have a mother here to pinch your cheeks. Though I may get teary-eyed when you finally leave, so take that as fair warning. Now give me a goodbye kiss.”
“Knock it off, old man!” He winces, dodging my hand as I reach for him again. “You do enough fussing over me for ten mothers.”
“Damn right. Now be a good lad and gather your stuff. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be back in your dorm, crying with homesickness.”
And I’ll be somewhere outside of the city, crying over a shot of whiskey at the state of my finances.
“Whatever you say, Don.” Rolling his eyes, Vin marches past me for the front door. A car is already waiting outside to take us to the airport, and with an exaggerated sigh, he heads toward it. From over his shoulder, he quips, “Since I’m your cherished boy, you should carry most of the bags, right?”
“Think again, smartass,” I call after him.
The second he’s out of view, the smile I’ve been sporting for his benefit falls. Fuck. Heavy with dread, I approach the room off the main hall that I’ve been using as a makeshift study. For the first time, I scan the pile of documents lying on the desk in a neat stack, left by Fabio, who worked all night to compile them. I look them over, hissing through my teeth. In a sense, they serve the same purpose as a white flag, ceding my control of the docks—and much of my income.
After Mischa’s suggested “donation” to his daughter’s conservatory, my disposal accounts will be all but drained. The rumors weren’t exaggerating about the bastard’s malicious streak.
God only knows how I’ll scrape together enough to continue to cover Vin’s tuition. He still has his trust fund, separate from any other accounts, but I’ll find more. Even if I have to sell the rest of my assets piece by piece. I’ll fucking find every last cent.
I form a fist at the thought of Mischa’s ultimatum and smash it against the wooden surface of the desk.
“Everything okay, Don?” Vin calls out.
“I’m fine,” I rasp back.
I’m not.
My knuckles smart like a bitch, but a grim truth dulls any pain I might feel—it could have been worse. Much worse. No matter the damage done to my pride, I’d be a fool to challenge these terms.
I would be an even bigger fool to waste any time. Turning tail and running now is the best course of action for everyone involved—regardless of whether or not I feel like a whipped dog in the process.
“Don?” Vin calls from the hallway, but the inflection in his tone catches my attention. He’s alarmed. “Are you expecting a meeting or something?”
“A meeting?” I call back. Then I groan at the thought of Fabio dropping by to issue yet more stern mothering and fucking paperwork—I turned my phone off just to avoid his calls for a reason. The man is well known for his tendency toward overkill. Forcing another smile for Vin’s sake, I head for the foyer. “Coming.”
I’ve barely gone a step before I realize what he means—a sudden commotion erupts from the front lawn, but Fabio’s arrival never draws this kind of fanfare. Or chaos. I break into a run, shouting for Javier as the piercing sound of squealing tires is followed by a sharper crack that chills me to the core.
As I near the doorway, I see the cause for myself—a black car crashing through the gate, speeding toward the house.
I know instantly the driver isn’t Fabio, and my blood goes cold. On the list of potential suspects, one stands out, and I take a step toward the gun safe I’ve yet to clear out in the living room. Apparently, Salvatore decided to stop playing coy with his attempts on my life and try a more direct course of action. But no…
The second I see the car’s model—a practical kind, not flashy and expensive—I know I’m off base. Only a professional would ride like this.
And not to discuss financial terms, either.
“Vin, get inside!” I demand.
He’s standing on the front steps, watching the car approach. I barely manage to shove him behind me as the vehicle careens up the front path, swerving to a stop before the steps.
The door to the back seat flies open, and a man lunges onto the pavement without so much as a warning. Confusion roots me to the spot the second I see his face—this man doesn’t work for Salvatore. Long blond hair streams down his shoulders, his expression cold, his identity chilling.
Mischa.
One look at his face, and I know he’s not here to gloat over my capitulation. Recognition gives me a cruel taste of déjà vu. In his eyes, I see a blind rage I know all too well—the same look I saw in the mirror seven years ago.
It happens in slow motion. I see the gun he pulls from the pocket of his gray fatigues. See his hand aiming. Hear the shot…
