Page 5 of Ruthless King
Though he’s my age, thirty-five, he looks older. Gray has already started to color his auburn hair, a testament to his gift for worrying, though the trait is a double-edged sword. His obsession over detail makes him a sought-after accountant employed by everyone from the governor, to Mischa Stepanov himself.
“If it makes you feel better, I promise to be on my best behavior, scout’s honor.” I slap a hand over my chest for emphasis. “Trust me, Mama. You don’t have to be up my ass tonight. Relax, I’m here for business.”
“I wouldn’t have to be ‘up your ass’—” He grimaces with distaste at the wording. “If you weren’t swaggering about the place, drawing notice. I saw how you looked at Antonio Salvatore. The least you could do is be subtle.”
“This is me subtle, Fabio,” I say, though I submit to letting him herd me toward the back of the room where we’re more hidden among the crowd. Eyeing him, I’m forced to admit, “You look good tonight. Aiming to snag this Stepanova for yourself?”
He cuts a confident image in a tailored black tux, his hair perfectly coifed. It’s easy to overlook the fact that he barely comes to the middle of my chest. For what he lacks in stature, the man more than makes up for in reputation.
No one in this room is more respected.
“At least you remembered her name,” he grouses while snatching a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing server.
“The adding an ‘a’ at the end for a woman?” I gloat, pleased with myself. “This old dog can learn some new tricks.”
“That’s the simple way of putting it. These Russians are sticklers for respect. Though like that matters any to you.” He takes a hearty sip from his glass as his cheeks flush pink. In a hoarse whisper, he confesses what has him so frazzled, “Even after all the years I’ve known you, you always manage to surprise me. Really, Don? Sneaking into the home of the head of themafiyaon my invitation. I’ll be lucky if I don’t wake up to a horse head in my bed tomorrow.”
“He’s themafiya, notfamiglia,” I correct. “It’s my kind that butcher horses—though Giovanni was partial to severing a finger or two instead. He was an animal lover, you see. I’m sure Mischa would just kill you. Or castrate you outright as a friendly warning.”
Wincing, Fabio downs nearly half of his glass in one go. “Thanks for the reassurance, Don.Cavolo!Why am I even letting you talk me into this?”
“Because I’m invoking Olivia’s name,” I say softly. It’s a low blow, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Sure enough, Fab’s strained frown reveals the appeal hit its mark. “You’re too good of a man to resist that,” I point out, but in no way am I pleased with myself.
Olivia. I can clearly remember the last fucker I killed… One would think I’d never forget her face. Never.
But as my last dose of whiskey wears off, the painful truth seeps in—I can’t even recall what she sounded like.
“She was twice the social charmer you are,” Fabio says. Some of the worry lines around his mouth soften. “If only she could see you now. She’d probably piss herself from laughing at the sight of you stuffed into a suit. Could you find no tailor to fit you properly? Though I suppose it’s too much to ask for a miracle—”
“Hey! I can’t help it that I spent more of my life fighting in the streets than mingling with the upper class,” I grumble, tugging at a sleeve of my jacket. Contrary to Fabio’s snide remarks, it was expertly tailored by a man I trust, not to mention damn expensive. Alas, fine material and expert craftsmanship can only go so far.
My life didn’t offer me the same pampered safety as a Willow Stepanova, or a Giovanni Rossi, who never wielded a weapon in his life.
Wars may begin and end, but battle scars will always remain.
“I should have known you wouldn’t be able to resist drawing attention to yourself, even unintentionally,” Fabio grouses. “It’s in your nature, you damn, prideful Vanicis.”
I feel my upper lip quirk into a grin. “Yes, us damned, incredible Vanicis. For all of your worrying, look at Vin.” I nod to where he stands. Head held high, he’s taken my encouragement to heart, radiating that trademark charm. Joy swells in my chest, overpowering even my own doubts.
My smart boy may have some inclination toward politics yet.
“My God, Donatello,” Fabio exclaims, slapping a hand over his chest. “It’s been years since I’ve seen you smile. And the last time you had just killed a man. The blood on your chin negated the effect a little.”
“I think every father cracks a grin when he sees his baby boy out in the world.” The seriousness of the moment flattens my mouth again. “Forget me. You ask why I came here? For him. I can’t protect him forever.”
Fabio sighs, inspecting his now empty glass. “There are real fathers out there who don’t treat their own sons the way you treat Vin—let alone their nephews. Donella would be proud of you for how you’ve looked after him. I know she’s looking down on us both right now, cursing us to hell and back for letting Vincenzo wear a tie that clashes so harshly with his skin tone. Really, Don? Navy?”
I shrug, gritting my teeth—but he’s right. I can hear my little sister nagging from here. Even back when we had pennies to our name, she was so fixated on keeping up appearances. It was that pining for more that cost her her life in the end. When she didn’t achieve the fairy tale ending she envisioned for herself, not even her son could keep her from a bottle of pills. One day, she took too damn many.
“A tie is a tie,” I snap, shaking my head to banish the memory. “No matter the color, let’s just hope it catches the younger Stepanova’s eye, huh?”
The girl hasn’t made her entrance yet, though I sense her arrival is imminent. Her parents are positioned expectantly by the dais, and an air of impatience buzzes through the shifting crowd. Already, anyone with something to prove has jockeyed for a prime spot near either of the two entrances she’s bound to come in through.
“I feel like we’re watching one of those animal documentaries about the breeding season,” Fab remarks, ever the intellectual.
I’m not so tactful. “Welcome to the world that awaits those of us without wives,” I tell him. “It’s all one big pissing contest.”
Some have gone through greater lengths, it seems. I catch a flicker of movement from above and spy a shadowed hall overlooking this space. An amusing thought makes me chuckle. Could the littleprincipessabe lurking up there, gloating over her crowd from above?
