Page 4 of Ruthless King
“Except Mischa Stepanov.”
“Hey!” I smack him on the back so hard he coughs. “No one. You got that?”
“Whatever you say, Don,” he mutters under his breath. Nonetheless, he strolls off with his head held high, the way I taught him.
The same way my father taught me—Vanicis always keep our fucking chins up. You make eye contact with only those who matter. Shove your way past anyone bold enough or dumb enough to stand in your way.
Bow to no one.
We may not have much, but we are Vanici.
Daughter of a Stepanov or not, thismafiyaprincess will be lucky to have him. Willow is her name, and the things I told Vin weren’t all bullshit. They say she’s blond like her father. Thin. A swan, apart from the family of raptors she sprung from. For what it’s worth, they’ve kept her out of the public eye, limiting the information known about her. I hear she’s beautiful, at least. Like Vin, she runs in better social circles than the criminals her family controls, attending the best schools in the world.
Even if he won’t admit it, Vincenzo deserves a woman like that. With his pretty pianist wife, he can play doctor all he wants, and an alliance with the Stepanovs will give him a hand up in the world I would have killed to possess at his age. Nestled in their powerful orbit, he’ll be untouchable.
More importantly, he won’t have to scrape like me.
He won’t be like me.
The only problem?
As Vincenzo stated, we weren’t exactly invited.
Why? I’d be a fool not to consider the most obvious of reasons—my reputation has preceded me, even after all these years. It would certainly explain why the man has rebuffed all my attempts to meet and why Fabio balked when I even suggested attending this little party.
Perhaps Mischa doesn’t want to associate with such a monster, though from the rumors, he’s no saint either. The same man who singlehandedly fought a bloody war for over a decade doesn’t seem like the type to shy away from an old phantom from the past. Besides, if the man saw me as a real threat, I doubt we would have made it past security at all.
They’re professional, the kind of men it costs good money to keep. Loyal. Subtle. Intimidating. A least twenty men cover this room alone. Dressed in black, they stand guard at strategic positions throughout as a constant reminder of the vigilance a man like Mischa lives under—and for a good reason. In our world, even a girl’s debutante party could invite danger.
Danger I know well. Unease prickles my skin as I watch Vin meld into the assembled crowd of criminals and socialites. It’s comical in a sense—politicians and crime lords alike, all gathered to kiss the ring of one man.
And, as if on cue, he appears beneath an archway at the back of the hall, drawing everyone’s notice.
I stiffen at the sight of him, but not out of fear. Hell, maybe it’s jealousy? Some men need whiskey to make it through the night while others…
They bask in the bosom of family like something out of a fucking sitcom. Despite his reputation, I’ve only seen him in person a handful of times. Tall, built like a bear with the cruelty and wit to match, he requires no introduction, nonetheless. Basking in the attention, he starts forward, a beautiful brunette on his arm. A mature grace gives her a poise I doubt a nineteen-year-old girl would possess. His wife, I presume.
They say she too comes from a powerful web of families—the proud, ruthless Vasilevs and the callous Winthorps. Standing beside a man nearly twice her size, she looks every bit the welcoming hostess I’m sure she is.
But no sane woman could live with a man like him without possessing some ruthlessness of her own. Even my Olivia, with her soft, gentle ways, had a temper. Mischa’s wife, I’m sure, is no different—and the elegance of this soiree is no doubt in part to her efforts. Though, judging from the size of her belly, Mischa looks well on his way to expanding his brood of daughters to display.
My jaw clenches as I take a step forward and consider approaching him now. Would he really refuse a direct meeting here?
In theory, he shouldn’t. Donatello the Butcher is dead. Brick by brick, he rebuilt his life in the sun—and I don’t intend to look back. Though while my days in thefamigliaare over, I still have something to offer Mischa and hismafiya—an alliance. For peace. For stability.
For outright greed.
With Mischa’s resources and my assets, we could secure this city for years to come with plenty of spoils for us both.
Emboldened by that thought, I take another step, tracking the couple across the room to a raised dais festooned with white roses. Clearing my throat, I adjust my collar and try to compile a fitting greeting.
“Hello, Mischa. Thank you for presenting your daughter on a silver platter? Have you met my nephew?”
Not exactly tactful, but it might do. So intent on my quarry am I, I don’t realize someone’s beside me until they grab my forearm, triggering years of instinct. My hand slaps against my pocket before I even remember that I’m unarmed. Those empty fingers curl into a fist regardless, poised to attack in any way possible. Tense, I jerk my head around and sigh.
“I thought I told you that you were not welcome,” a man scolds. One look at him, and some of the tension drains from my muscles. Some. Rather than prepare to fight, I brace for a scolding like a boy caught by his mama with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Don’t look so grumpy, Fabio,” I gruffly reply, shrugging him off. “It’s a party. Don’t tell me you’re tired already, old man?”
