Page 46 of Ruthless King
“Do it,” I say, spinning to face Fabio. I lift my hands in defeat like a child accepting his punishment. “Call a meeting. Whatever the terms, I’ll uphold them. I only ask that the man hold his fire until we can speak face to face. Secure Vincenzo’s safety in the meantime. As for Mischa? I’ll meet him anywhere as long as he keeps this between the two of us.”
“Good,” Fabio says, already racing from the house. “Very good.”
So is the price of a future. For Vincenzo, I’d pay anything. Give anything.
I’ve already failed Safiya.
I won’t fail my son.
15
WILLOW
Death has been a permanent fixture in my life, the one constant that even Mischa’s carefully constructed haven can’t fully eradicate. When Ivan—Mischa’s long-term mentor and the grandfather of his children—died suddenly of a heart attack, a pall had fallen over the house unlike any other sadness to come before it. Time seemed to stop, and this cheerful, private world was forced to accommodate the harsh, grim reality if only for a moment.
The child’s laughter had quieted. The bright, cheery colors had been slowly replaced with black accents of mourning, and a picture of Ivan dominated a space in the drawing room where it still resides.
For all his protectiveness, there is only so much Mischa can shelter his family from.
And to anyone who might not know better, the house reeks of mourning. Hushed voices sound muffled from behind my bedroom door. Gone are the typical shrieks and laughter of the children playing. Any movement throughout the manor now is done softly enough so as not to disturb even the mice hiding in the rafters.
Or the one in this bed. Lying here, I eye the ceiling, recalling the past seven years I’ve spent in this home as Willow and the playful Mouse. I used to pine for Havienna and its sturdy walls, but this place is my true home, even if I’ve only ever felt like a stranger. An outcast struggling to fit in where I don’t belong.
My spacious room holds so many more memories than the tiny, modest one I left behind. I picked out the wooden bed frame myself under Ellen’s direction. Eli and I used to take turns squeezing under this sturdy piece of furniture to hide during our games of hide and seek. Mischa himself helped me paint the walls a soft shade of beige to make the space my own.
There wasn’t a day I spent away at school when I didn’t wish I could be back in this very spot.
But now a shadow looms above me, casting a pall that even the bright colors of my room can’t overcome. It stretches across the ceiling, growing darker with every minute to pass by. Soon, I see a face lurking within the darkness, his eyes cold and watchful, eyeing me dismissively.
You are not Safiya…
“Willow?” A quiet knock on the door ushers in a slight figure who crosses my room with soft, cautious footsteps. I sense her approach my nightstand, and a dull thud alludes to her placing something there. The smell of food tickles my nose, though I don’t bother to lift my head and see the meal for myself. “Darling?”
The mattress barely dips beneath Ellen’s weight as she presumably sits beside me. Soft, her fingers run through my hair, parting the strands. At the back of my mind, I know the silence is cruel. I can’t imagine what she and Mischa might be thinking after the state I returned to them in.
I know it’s wrong to give them not even an ounce of reassurance.
And yet…
I can’t move.
“You need to eat,” she says gently. “I’ve brought your favorites. I even managed to get a hold of that jam you like. The one with the strawberries. Willow?”
She sits with me in silence for a while, continuously petting my hair before finally, with a sigh, she stands.
“I’ll just leave it here,” she says.
She’s barely left before a heavier set of footsteps advance toward my room, resonating determination. This visitor doesn’t knock, boldly opening my door and approaching my bed without waiting for an invitation. I can recognize him by the sound of his heavy breathing alone.
The mattress sinks beneath his weight, and I expect a loud, bellowing command to follow.
Anything but a sigh, deeper than Ellen’s.
A small commotion of tinkling silverware draws my notice. I don’t turn to see what he does, but a minute later, something appears before me, dangled inches from my nose. It’s square, beige, and slathered in a red, jelly-like substance.
“Take a bite,” Mischa urges tiredly. “Just one. You can give me that much.”
His tone tugs at some inner part of me I can’t resist.
