Page 70 of Ruthless King
“Get down, you son of a bitch!” A man calls from a group of at least four.
One look at the girl, and they fall back.
Aware of that, I shift her tiny body, holding her in front of me, my arm around her waist while I keep the gun trained in my free hand.
I’m not fool enough to think it will stop them—hell, would it even stop me? Regardless, I keep moving, carrying her right to the car. One of the men steps toward me, and I fire without thinking. He goes down with a howl, clutching at his leg.
“Salvatore’s dead,” I say coldly, preempting any other threat.
Against me, the girl stiffens, and my steps falter…
I didn’t even have the balls to tell Safiya as much back then. I couldn’t even give her a reason to her face. Why I sold her. Why I needed to hate her in that moment.
Because her father betrayed me.
But the truth is more twisted than that. Crueler.
By hurting Safiya, I wasn’t hurting Gino.
I hurt myself—and God, Ineededto hurt.
“Don… Donatello?” one of the men calls. I brace for a shot, but none comes. In the dark, I vaguely recognize his face as afamiglialieutenant. Luciano.
“Come after me if you want,” I declare, approaching the car as they watch. I head to the driver’s seat and find a lever to pop the trunk. Still keeping the girl within view of the men, I move toward the rear of the vehicle and drop her inside. She’s fallen silent, curling onto the floor of the compartment.
For a second, guilt almost levels me, slicing through the haze of rage.
Before it can take hold, I slam the lid and turn around. All this time, my back has been to the men, but they haven’t moved, even as their comrade groans on the ground.
And deep down, I think I know why.
That name I’ve struggled to outrun. That reputation I’ve tried to redeem.
An identity I know now I can never fully shake.
UnderIl Mostro, thefamigliawas untouchable, an outfit unrivaled. Even now, it seems some men still remember those days.
“If you want to see thefamigliarespected again, then wait for me to call,” I say, letting my voice ring out.
As I return to the driver’s seat, no one fires a single round.
Even as I drive away.
24
WILLOW
The Donatello I knew was a man who, at his core, embodied everything I grew up admiring. Strength. Wisdom. Most important? Kindness.
I still remember the first day I met him, hiding behind my biological father’s pant leg as he paraded me before his boss.
The memory hurts to relive, and I’ve resisted it so bitterly until now.
Gino Mangenello was the type of man who saw those in his orbit merely as tools. Even me. At my young age, I knew my worth—to him, I was more of a doll than a daughter. A toy he could use to curry favor.
Or a pawn he could leave on a shelf in the meantime.
That day, his friend “Don” had stared down on me from behind a massive desk at the old complex he and my father “worked” at, a sprawling mansion outside of the city. What they did exactly? I didn’t know, only that Donatello was a man that even Gino—a brutal drunk who raged at everyone weaker—deferred to.
