Page 54 of Ruthless King
But to come here and ask me directly to piss off themafiyaon his say so? The man must have grown quite the pair of balls since our time under the elder Giovanni Rossi.
“Of course, you would be protected, old friend,” he insists. “I’d love to welcome you back into the fold.”
And have me groveling at his feet instead of at Mischa’s.
“Get the fuck out,” I snarl, dropping all pretense. I lift the gun and finger the trigger, wishing more than anything that I had the impulse to pull it. Maybe without my morning shot of whiskey…
As it stands, I need a reason to, not that I’d have to look too far. “Now. House rules say you’re trespassing. I’d have every right to kill you.”
“No need for threats.” He stands, dusting off his slacks. “I will leave. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Mischa finds himself unable to uphold his end of your little bargain—don’t look so surprised, Donatello. The entire world knows of how you violated his daughter like the pig you are. But I suggest you think carefully—” He snickers as I take a step toward him, curling a fist. “Join me now, transfer the harbor rights to me, and you may see the glory you once achieved again. The offer won’t last forever.”
My trigger finger twitches with alarming resolve. Maybe that whiskey wasn’t enough, after all? I can feel the icy coldness at the back of my skull, urging me to give in. Teach this sick fuck a lesson…
Shaking my head, I ignore it. “Leave.”
He does.
And I slump into my chair, wondering just what the smug son of a bitch was hinting at.
Something well beyond my trouble with Mischa. Could Salvatore be planning to make his own play? If he were behind the attempt on my life, I wouldn’t put it past the fucker to aim a little higher.
The only reason I haven’t killed him—despite having no proof that he was behind the attack on Olivia—is because though nowhere near the height of their power, thefamigliais still a force to contend with this side of Hell’s Gambit.
And if Salvatore is making a play for Mischa’s throne, then even I can admit that a hell of a war is in store.
Should I do the good thing and warn Stepanov of what danger might be headed his way? After all, Salvatore is one to play dirty, preferring to break his target from within. Sounding the alarm would be the good, neighborly course of action.
Fuck that. I lean into my seat, prop my feet on my desk, and fish through a drawer for a cigar.
I may not trust my intuition much, but what is it telling me to do now?
Sit back and watch the fucking world burn.
As long as Vin is safe, I really don’t give a damn who wins either way.
19
WILLOW
Mischa may have left me alone for the rest of yesterday, but his visit seems to serve as a signal to the others. It’s barely dawn, but already a commotion outside of my door breaks the heavy silence I’ve been living in for at least three days—a tiny, girlish cry followed by a louder, boyish shushing.
“Be quiet,” said boy declares, most likely Ivan, utilizing his bossiest tone. “You’ll wake up Mama and Papa.”
“She stepped on my foot!” a girl declares indignantly. “I’m telling Mama.”
“Not uh, Jona,” another girl counters. “You’re such a baby.”
“Uh-oh,” Ivan mutters as louder, sterner footsteps approach. “Here comes Mama—”
“I told you, my darlings,” Ellen says gently. “Willow needs rest. Leave her be. Why don’t you play outside?”
“Is she sick?” one of the girls asks.
“Jona said Willow is dying!”
“She’s not dying, my sweet,” Ellen replies. “She just needs rest. Out to play. All of you.”
As the children scamper off, whining their disapproval, a knock gently sounds on my door.
