Page 52 of Ruthless King
“I don’t need a week,” I snap to Fabio, who’s hunched over his desk, pen in hand. “Give me until tomorrow. I’ll be out of this fucking city. I hope your daughter enjoys the peace.”
“She will,” Mischa growls. “And you will never see her again.”
He turns on his heel and storms from the room.
“That was…better than expected,” Fabio says faintly, his eyes on the doorway.
“Fuck me. Just get it over with,” I snarl. “Do it. I cede my hold on the harbor. Have my things removed from the hotel. And get Vincenzo on a goddamn plane.”
I turn to the nearest section of the wall and form a fist, slamming it knuckles first mere inches from a painting of a scenic landscape only Fabio would find soothing. To me, it’s a fucking taunt. I’ve spent so long clawing at pieces of land for myself only to see it ripped away in an instant.
“I’ll overlook that,” Fabio says. “But trust me, Don. You’re doing the right thing.”
“By rolling over like a whipped dog?” I hiss, inspecting my throbbing, reddened knuckles. The hand isn’t broken, not that I care. I curl it again, landing another blow. Another.
“By choosing peace,” he corrects calmly over the racket. “By choosing Vincenzo. Don’t worry. I’ll make all of the arrangements. You go cool off—preferably without another blond of questionable heritage.”
I push past him, leaving the building in time to catch Mischa entering a car out front, flanked by his retinue.
As angry as I am, I know Fabio is right. I dodged a bullet.
And whether she truly is alive or not, Safiya got her pound of flesh.
May she finally rest in fucking peace.
18
DON
Ileave Fabio’s office and head to my own across town with the enthusiasm of a spanked child. So much for my grand, triumphant homecoming—it’s already become an unceremonious exile.
I’ve barely owned the property for six months, and already it’s out of my control. I might as well clean it out myself while Mama Fab tidies up my bad boy messes.Fuck.With every passing second, the reality sinks in—and damn, is it grim.
I’ve just given away almost everything I own to Mischa Stepanov without so much as a fight to show for it. The harbor. My holdings. My pride.
The last thing is the hardest loss to reconcile. That icy impulse deep within me stirs to life, aching to be indulged more than ever. The man I used to be would never tolerate that bullshit treatment from anyone.
Least of all, a man cocky enough to twist the knife when he has a rival cornered with his back against the wall. Not that I would have shown any more mercy.
All because of her. Even if the little bitch was Safiya…IsSafiya…
My thoughts trail off as I slump against the back seat of my car, my head in my hands. Rubbing at my temples, I drop the anger and taste the guilt lurking underneath. It’s a bitter pill to swallow.
If Willow is Safiya, she could demand so much more from me. So much more.
I’m too much of a coward to try and imagine what she’s been through. What she’s seen. Though, isn’t it obvious? The kind of pain and horror so intense that seven years later, she comes after me with a knife.
“Sir?” Javier calls from the driver’s seat.
I lift my head and find that we’re pulling into the parking lot by my office—but that isn’t what has Javier so alarmed. Another car is already here, parked in the space beside mine. I don’t recognize the model, but only two types of bastards would drive something so goddamn flashy—a blood-red sports car with gaudy gold trim.
The first being a blind, tasteless fucker with too much money to spend.
Or Antonio Salvatore.
“Call for backup,” I snarl to Javier. At the same time, I stoop to reach under the seat and drag a black case from beneath it. With a grim shudder, I can only appreciate the fact that the littletigredidn’t notice this cache while she sat in this very spot. I open the latch and withdraw a handgun. It’s already loaded, and I tuck the weapon into my pocket, returning the case to its spot.
“Should we leave, sir?” Javier questions.
