Page 9 of Ruthless King
“Stop sulking,” Fab scolds. “And for your information, no one got to dance with her. She never showed. At least not before I left.”
Frowning, I eye the gilded clock mounted over a fireplace at the other end of the bar. “We left what? Four hours ago?”
He nods, grabbing for the water glass the bartender sets down before him. “Four hours. You should have seen it. We were all milling about like scurrying cockroaches as thehors d’oeuvresdwindled. Soon it became a bloodbath for the last glass of champagne. It seems our little Stepanova found other entertainment tonight. A shame.” He shakes his head with a wistful sigh. “She was spared a hall of lecherous old men hoping to charm her in pursuit of her father’s favor. I’ll have you know that poor Antonio Salvatore looked like he might piss himself in disappointment.”
I chuckle at the mental image before another takes its place—Salvatore skulking around, hoping to claim the girl for himself. I wouldn’t put it past the sick bastard to want someone so young. He can’t keep a real woman long enough to tell the difference.
Eyeing Fabio, I ask, “Mischa ever say why I wasn’t welcome at his little party?”
I’m more curious than I let on. Anxious too. My foot bounces against the rung of my stool, and those dark thoughts start to gnaw through my alcoholic daze. Virgin mother Mary above, the man is lucky I’m reformed.
“No,” Fabio admits, but his grim expression confuses me even more. “I know a death glare when I see it, however. I explained you were my guest, but it did no good. I’d go as far as to say I may have just lost the Stepanov accounts from my clientele because of my association with you.”
“Bullshit,” I declare, lifting my glass and slamming it against his. “You’re the best damn accountant in the game. He’d be a fool to dump you, regardless of your ties to me.”
“I’m still convinced you haven’t told me everything about what’s going on between you two,” Fabio suspects, eyeing his lemon wedge. “That look… You don’t build up that kind of animosity for nothing. Come clean now, Donatello. You fucked his wife, is that it? She’s pretty enough for your tastes with that sweet, wholesome thing and all. If one of Mischa’s little whelps is yours, that would explain his feelings a bit.”
I scoff at the prospect. “No. Though, if I had, considering how fertile she is, I’d probably have an army of children by now. Then I wouldn’t be pining for Mischa’s approval, pissing myself with worry every time Vin leaves the country, and I certainly wouldn’t be spending my nights at the bar like some patheticstronzo. Bartender!” I flag the man down and shove my empty glass toward him. “Another.”
“I’ll try to find out,” Fabio says softly. “If only to satisfy my own curiosity. The man deals with Salvatore, so it can’t be a moral standing. You may be no saint, but I’d bet my soul on you getting into heaven over him.”
Even I have to chuckle at that assessment. “Antonio Salvatore may be a cunt, but he’s never killed half as many men as I have,” I point out. At least not with his bare hands. The pussy prefers to hide behind mercenaries, covering his tracks. Or, as in the case of Gino Mangenello, manipulating others into doing his dirty work. Still, sin is sin, and I’ve spent my fair share of time in the confessional to be unable to judge anyone.
“It’s not a contest, Don,” Fab says.
“No. Though if it were, let me add up the score, then. Antonio Salvatore may have gone through four wives in his lifetime, but he lost them all to divorce—”
“His latest one died in a car crash, remember?” Fabio interjects. “The Salieri heiress.”
“Yes, but he didn’tfailthem.” My voice breaks, but the arrival of a fresh shot of whiskey provides the perfect distraction. I down it and mutter, “He never had to scrape pieces of their brains from his living room floor with his bare hands—”
“God damn it, Don,” Fabio exclaims, clearing his throat. He looks visibly pale, though he should. His sister was the woman in question.
My Olivia…
Could I prove that Salvatore was behind the attack that killed her? No. But I more than got my revenge on the sick sons of bitches who carried out the plan. Gino Mangenello suffered the most of them all.
“Another,” I demand, striking the counter. But the promise of another drink isn’t enough to shut me up. “As vile a cunt as he is, Antonio Salvatore never failed to protect that horrid fucking family of his—”
“Protect?” Fabio sniffs. “The bastard is no father of the year. I’ve heard more than one rumor about his little girl sporting bruises—the one who lives with him.”
“While he may beat his children senseless,” I say over him, “he hasn’t sold one of them—”
“Enough! Don’t even compare yourself to him,” Fabio snarls. He levels me with a hallmark stare that serves as one of the many reasons why his reputation is so respected in our circles. Despite all his pomp, Fabio always tells the truth, no matter how cruel it may be. A skill both valued in an accountant as well as a friend.
“What happened wasn’t your fault, and you’ve made the best of it,” he insists. “And as for that last thing you mentioned…”
“Selling a child, you mean?” I choke down the rest of my drink and gesture for more. “Vincenzo mentioned her tonight. He whispered her name, and I don’t even have the heart to tell him that I’m the reason she’s gone.”
“You were mad with grief,” he says. “That doesn’t make it right, but there is no telling what a man would do in that state. I remember how you were back then. God knows, you could have done so much worse…” He shivers, and the horror unfurling across his face is a testament to how hard I’ve worked to change. Never again will I be that man.
I’ve gotten clean.
Gotten a soul.
But even so, most days, it feels like God is merely mocking me, testing my patience by the day. What might he throw my way that could finally put me over the edge?
“We all have our lot to live with, Don,” Fab says. “Stop punishing yourself. You want to know why? Because even after what you’ve done, you live with it. You’ve done your best to repent, and I think you have.”
