Page 40 of Ruthless King
“I know, I know,” he says in a tone that betrays he’s rolling his eyes. “I’m your sole heir, burdened with the weight of redeeming your fearsome, gruesome reputation, dear uncle.”
“And you will,” I say in agreement. “I have no doubt about that.”
I may have failed Safiya, but Vincenzo will salvage this sordid legacy. He’ll live well into old age, find a good loyal wife, and spawn multiple children. He will know the peace denied to me.
So help me, God, he will know it.
“Goodnight, Don,” he says, closing the door to the room after him. “Try to get some sleep, and we’ll discuss this when you’re sane and less fixated on mulling over your eternal torment.”
I choke out a laugh. “Smartass.”
In the silence he leaves behind, the specters return. Olivia. Little Nico. Safiya…
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, reaching out for her ghostly figure. “I’m so sorry, my little Safy.”
She fades without an ounce of mercy.
Not that I deserve it.
For what I did to her, I deserve the pitiful conclusion no doubt awaiting me at the end of this miserable life.
And I’m ready for it.
Acommotion of noise and chaos snaps me awake. Alarmed, I reach into my jacket for a weapon before I realize several defining realities. One, I didn’t think to arm myself before sleeping—a testament to just how badly the littletigreassassin has shaken my resolve.
Two, if the figure storming into the room I’m in now were my enemy, I’d most likely already be dead—and their first course of business wouldn’t be to wrench open the blinds, ushering in a painful stream of white-hot daylight.
“Son of a bitch.” I shield my eyes with the back of my hand, struggling to regain my bearings. Judging from the headache pounding through my skull, I’m long overdue for my morning shot of whiskey. “What the hell—”
“Have you lost your goddamn mind?”
“Fabio?” I lower my hand and strain my burning eyes through a sea of white light. Sure enough, the accountant is the one glaring down on me from the center of the room. One look at his face, and I know the brutal wake-up call is the least of my worries. “What’s wrong?”
“You tell me,” he croaks. His hands are shaking, tearing at his graying hair as he starts to pace. “What the fuck, Donatello? What the actual hell? I put my life on the line. For you! My literal neck on the chopping block, and you do something like this—”
“If you care to explain what it is that I’ve done, I’d be more than happy to apologize,” I grouse. It takes nearly everything I have in me just to get the words out.
Damn, I feel beyond hungover. Beaten. Wrecked. I could chalk it up to a near-death experience, but that only touches the surface of what truly ails me. Sleep was a poor refuge from her. That face. Those eyes. Not quite wide and innocent like little Safy’s. Colder. Harder, shaped by unmistakable hatred and rage.
She couldn’t be Safiya…
But she haunted me nonetheless. I see her still, daring me to make her talk. Taunting me with her silence as Fabio rants and raves around her.
“…know you have a suicidal, self-destructive streak,” the man growls, and I reluctantly attempt to focus on his ramblings. “But this? Even the mere thought of it is so insane I knew I had to ask you directly. You wouldn’t be that foolish. Not with this.”
I incline my head toward him, wincing as pain stabs through my skull. “With what?”
He stops short, frowning as he realizes he never exactly told me what it is I’m accused of. It must be bad, I suspect.
So bad that the calm, collected Fabio has lost his cool.
“Willow Stepanova,” he says, scanning my face intently as if to see how I’ll react to the name. “Her family is in an uproar.”
He pauses as if expecting a reaction from me. Groaning, I swipe at my jaw and shrug. “Let me guess. She didn’t enjoy her party?”
“No,” he rasps. “She went missing last night. Mischa has his whole damn entourage out looking for her.”
Alarm cuts through the fog in my brain, and I sit forward, trying to picture who would dare rip away the man’s daughter right from under his nose.
