Page 3 of Ruthless King
I nod in his general direction, though Vin has no trouble seeking him out. A white suit sets this man apart from the rest of the crowd—but not in the way he probably expects.
“Antonio Salvatore,” Vin hisses. His handsome façade cracks as his lips twist into a snarl. “He runs thefamiglianow, but we definitely don’t like him because he’s a—”
This description, I voice for him. “A sick son of a bitch. Dickhead. And a murderer.” Even if I could never prove it. His hallmark is a signature of all the crimes he has a hand in—cruelty, brutality, and callous rage. Turning his head, the bastard catches me staring and winks, puffing up his chest like he’s some big man.
A different me would have slit his throat here and now. I just smile. “You stay away from him,” I hiss to Vin.
He nods in agreement, only to raise an eyebrow at a sudden thought. “But you haven’t spoken about this guy much. Mischa.”
He’s scanning the massive grand hall of the Stepanov manor—and I don’t miss the appreciative gleam in his eye. Despite his studious tendencies, he has enough sense to know power when he sees it on stark display. He’s impressed.
And I’m unnerved.
“Why come here if we weren’t invited?” he questions, cutting his eyes up to mine, as perceptive as ever. “What makes this Mischa so important you’d drag us here on Uncle Fabio’s coattails?”
I turn away, avoiding those searching looks he excels at. The bastard will make a damn good surgeon one day. Or a cop in another universe.
“You don’t party, Don,” he points out, refusing to let the subject drop. “Ever. Hell, any other day, you’d be sloshed by this time of the night—”
“You want to know why we’re here?” I slip my arm around his shoulders and jerk my chin to indicate our surroundings. “Take a look. View more than the surface beauty. Tell me what you see.”
I see deceptive white accents and enough fucking roses to choke someone to death on the stench. But beneath that? I see power. The massive hall alone is large enough to fit the entire floor of the hotel Vin and I booked, with room to spare—and it’s just a fraction of the manor itself. Well known for his swagger, Mischa spared no expense to celebrate his daughter’s exploits. Decadence oozes from every corner of the space, from the ivory tablecloths to even more sprawling floral centerpieces.
I figure it’ll take months of showers before I stop smelling like fucking flowers.
But roses aren’t enough to sway the men gathered here. No, this gesture of fatherly love serves another purpose entirely. Even someone as disconnected from our world as Vincenzo can instantly pick up on it.
“He must have more money than God,” he mutters in awe, and I’m reminded of the boy I used to be who’d craved to own just that. “And a lot of sway to get you to even enter the same mile radius as Antonio Salvatore.”
“And then some,” I grudgingly admit. “He’s only been active in this territory for about six years, but he now controls the entiremafiya,which—their exploits combined—gives him a hefty sum of dark money to draw on. Not to mention that his allies outnumber everyone else two to one. Only a fool would dare to challenge him.”
And under his control, this city has transformed, forgetting all about the legacy of thefamigliaand its once feared ex-leader. Or so I’d hoped.
Maybe I’d been the naïve one, thinking that I could quietly return and just meld into the business sector, newly focused on legitimate enterprise. I’d tried that—only to be thwarted at nearly every fucking turn. Someone doesn’t want me back, and if I were a betting man, I’d place my money on Antonio Salvatore.
The funny part is that we came up together, both pupils under Giovanni’s tutelage. There were three of us once—Antonio, myself, and another man I considered to be my brother, Gino Mangenello. While I went on to lead in the old man’s place, Antonio was too busy lusting after everything I had to achieve anything on his own. Some might say he still won in the end. Now he rules over the fragments of thefamiglia, but it’s a shadow of its former glory. Case and point—he’s here sniffing after Mischa just like I am.
I’m sure he’s done everything he could to scuttle my latest deal, but I managed it regardless, and now I own legitimate shares in the city’s port. It isn’t much, but it’s something, more than enough revenue to fund Vin’s education. With a new advertisement campaign, I hope to extend that holding.
And with Mischa Stepanov on my side? No one could stand in my way, and I technically wouldn’t be breaking any of the vows I swore to myself all those years ago. Perhaps, just bending them a little.
“A fool would challenge someone like that,” Vin agrees, a note of seriousness in his voice. “Which is why we just snuck into his party even though Fabio told you we couldn’t come?”
“We didn’t sneak in,” I counter gruffly. Spying a man dressed in black lurking on the outskirts of the room, I point him out with a grim warning, “Do you really think we’d make it past the front door if we had? Besides, Fabio always says no to everything. He worries worse than you do.”
“Fine, we didn’t sneak in,” he admits. “We just kindly hijacked Uncle Fabio’s invitation and spent five grand on a silver mirror to impress some crime lord’s daughter.”
“It’s a nice gift,” I say grudgingly, eyeing the pale blue wrapping paper and its nice white bow. The saleslady was right—it looks fitting for any princess, be her legitimate royalty or not. Meeting Vin’s disapproving stare, I shrug. “Here is another lesson for you—in this world, my boy? You’ve got to pay to play.”
“What would you call it? A down payment on my future?” His sneer reveals his true thoughts on that statement, but I smirk, satisfied. At least he’s thinking like me for once.
“Exactly. And you might like this girl. I hear she studies in Vienna, at a school just as fucking pretentious as yours.” He purses his lips at that, but I know him well enough to sense he’s intrigued. Vinny admires smarts the way most men do tits. “She’s a musician too. Blond. Beautiful, and—”
“And she’s the kind of girl who has her father throw her some stuffy ass party for clout.”
I bark out a laugh. Every now and again, he reminds me that beneath the book smarts, he’s one hundred percent Vanici. “Like that makes a difference? Now, look sharp!” Ruffling his hair again, I shove him forward.
Speaking of his future, the time for jokes is over. Switching to a sterner tone, I tell him, “No heiress will pick you out of the crowd if you stick to me like a baby up his mother’s skirt. Take this gift and go mingle—” I hand him the box. “And stop slouching. Remember who you are. Vanicis cower before no one.”
