Page 34 of Ruthless King
So, I meet his gaze and do nothing. Eye contact with him is a different animal from years ago, when I had to crane my neck back just to look at him adoringly. I had viewed him only as Don, then. My savior. My protector. In a violent world, neglected by my parents, I knew he would always be there for me. Save me.
Love me.
My love for him was easy to shed after barely a week in Nicolai’s custody. But the hate? That remains, festering inside me, coloring the way I sit, hunched away from him. The way I breathe, my nostrils flaring, chest heaving. I think the hate has permeated my entire being so thoroughly he can smell it on me.
He sits forward, inhaling audibly, his eyes narrowing and widening in quick succession. Cocking his head, he furrows his brows. “Are you Safiya?” The question comes in Italian, and I barely manage to keep my expression composed.
How long has it been since someone has spoken to me directly in my mother tongue? Too long to count, though I’ve studied it as well as I can on my own, narrating old fairy tales to myself in the language. But hearing him speak it is a twisted, callous reminder of everything I’ve lost.
His punctuation is crisp, musical in delivery. With three words, he taunts me. Three little words.
Still, I give him nothing.
He sighs, sitting back in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs. “No,” he says, deciding on an answer for himself. “You are not her. Safiya was sweet.Delicata. A little dove. You, seem to be a vicious little snake.”
I clench my jaw—I can’t help it—and by doing so, I fall right into his trap. His eyes gleam in triumph, and he sits forward again, tucking a fist beneath his chin.
“You understand me, don’t you?” he murmurs. All along, he’s been speaking in our native language, mocking me with this relic of my past. It hurts to realize that I don’t understand him fully. My brain struggles with some of his pronunciation. But his expression clearly conveys his meaning, adding context to every word. Every syllable.
“Tell me your name, littletigre,” he says softly, switching to English. “Say it, and I will let you go. I know Antonio sent you. You reek of his meddling, and I believe you are his type—” He looks me over and chuckles. “Too sexy and probably too damn young.”
His tone implies a double meaning to that insinuation, and heat floods my cheeks. Amused, he chuckles.
“What lies did he feed you about me for you to bare your fangs, littletigre?” He eyes his side, and I feel a flush of guilt mixed with pride. I stabbed him. But in the process, I lost my knife, breaking another one of Mischa’s prized rules—always cherish your weapon.
It’s in his pocket, and he brushes his hand over the telltale lump in the fabric as if to taunt me. “He must have told you something horrific enough for you to look at me the way you do. So vicious. Like you want to do more than sink your claws into me.”
He’s right. I want to kill him. But my original plans for revenge are already growing and expanding. Having a knife in his chest isn’t good enough. No. He deserves something far worse.
“Tell me your name,” he goads, reaching out to stroke my cheek.
I start to cringe from him, but recognition hits me like a punch, locking me in place. His hands are calloused from years of hard labor, and my traitorous body grows hot, remembering this aspect of him so clearly. He used to tell me stories of the days he would work in his father’s repair shop, doing whatever odd jobs he could to help his family stay afloat. That business acumen pushed him to excel in any enterprise he undertook, even the criminal ones.
I’d been so naïve to his true nature back then. To me, Donny was God. The man who sheltered me from my parents’ instability, giving me respite, welcoming me into his small, makeshift family. He had a wife then, Olivia, and a little baby boy. To be honest, he transformed into a stranger days before taking me to Nicolai. If I had to pinpoint the moment he changed, it would have been the day his wife and son died.
The light in his eyes vanished overnight, and the warmth in his voice grew cold. In theory, what he did to me should have hardened him more, completing his descent into madness. But here he is, more like the old Donny, the figure in my memories.
But then his eyes darken, scanning my face. “Safiya…” He inhales sharply as if just saying the name pains him, and I sit straighter, steeling myself against whatever he might say.
“She had an illness as a baby,” he explains, seemingly oblivious to how I jump. “Afterward, she developed aphasia. She was mute, you see. Never said a damn word in her life. Though your boss must have told you that. But it was more than a coy little silence.” He sits forward even more, practically frozen mid lunge. Something in his expression changes, darkening his gaze, making his shadow loom taller. “She couldn’t cry out when afraid. She couldn’t whimper. She couldn’t scream. When in pain, she couldn’t even gasp in alarm like you or I can. It is a silence unmaintainable by anyone without her affliction. And when you scream for me, littletigre, I will know for sure that your ruse is a hoax. So I suggest you come clean now.”
A shudder runs through me. This tone I also recognize from my memories. The voice I used to overhear him utilize during heated conversations with the men in his employ. The voice I heard the day Olivia died.
The voice of the Donatello who struck fear into the hearts of his enemies.
Do I fear him now? The answer comes to me easily. No.
I meet his gaze and hold it until he’s the one forced to turn away. Just when I think I’ve won, those cold eyes return to mine, glinting with a renewed intensity.
“Javier?” he snarls toward the driver’s seat. The tinted window in the partition separating the back of the vehicle from the front lowers.
“Yes, sir?” the driver responds, a man with short black hair, olive skin, and a serious expression that renders him the polar opposite of my playful Evgeni.
“Has Vin made it to the villa?”
“Almost, sir. They have so far been unbothered by any attacks.”
“Good.” Returning his attention to me, Donatello raises an eyebrow in a way that makes my breathing hitch. “Send word to them not to wait. We’ll be taking a detour.”
