Page 71 of Ruthless King
Fully aware of that reputation, I’d been so shy in his presence. So curious of this man, my father so respected.
I remember inspecting every inch of his loose-fitting gray dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was ugly. The first two buttons had been left undone, revealing a sliver of his chest and a tiny gold cross he wore back then. Cautiously, I’d observed the bold features that shaped his face, and the pink lips pressed studiously in concentration as he inspected a set of documents. The second he looked up, I didn’t feel that strange disconnect I did when most people observed me, knowing that I was different.
“Dumb as a fucking rock,”Gino used to gripe.“Retarded.”
He growled at me, using his fist when he couldn’t understand me as easily as he wanted. Honestly, the reactions of others were far worse to endure. They would exaggerate their features and speak too loudly as though the dramatics made up for the fact that I couldn’t talk back.
Maybe it made them feel better. They could project onto me their own intentions as though I were a pretty, smiling little puppet.
Donatello Vanici didn’t. He eyed me as though he knew exactly what I was thinking. With a dark eyebrow raised and his head quirked, he could see every thought and feeling written clearly across my face.
“Your father told me about you, Safiya,” he’d said to me sternly that very first day. “He said you were a quiet, mindful little girl. I can take one look at you and see that he was wrong.”
Gino had stiffened, laughing nervously while I’d gone still in horror, my tiny cheeks flushing. It was a directness that no one had ever presented me with, and I was sure he would use it against me.
Already, I could sense the beating brewing if this meeting went poorly.
But with a booming laugh, Donatello surprised me again. His face transformed in an instant, and he withdrew a handful of sweets from nowhere, presenting them to me on his massive palm. “You look like you enjoy fun, eh? And even silent, you aren’t shy about what you’re thinking. Is my shirt really that ugly?”
Instantly I knew that he was different, a man apart from my father or the others he associated with.
Perhaps, I remember hoping, a man I could trust…
And even though he left me. Forgot me. Couldn’t even recognize my face as I stood before him; I know one truth in the pit of my soul, despite how hard it stings to acknowledge—the man I knew would never send his thugs to attack a woman and her child.
Much like he dragged me into Nicolai Baryshnikov’s lair himself, he would mount such an assault. If he wanted to harm Mischa, he would do it himself. No one else.
In a way, Mischa is the same, and his absence chills me to my core, distracting me all morning though I do my best to put on a smile for the children.
They’re worried.
Marnie and Aljona cling to each other, barely touching their toys while Ivan lurks in the corner of the nursery, a book under his arm. By bedtime, Mischa still hasn’t returned.
Tension poisons the air, and I suspect even the children can pick up on it, though they don’t mention their father, or Ellen, or Eli once.
At least until I tuck Aljona beneath her blankets and she demands, “Where is Mama?”
“She’s sick,” Ivan says matter-of-factly, already having crawled beneath his own blankets.
Marnie whimpers. “Sick?”
I shake my head, smoothing back her curls as she ignores her own bed and crawls in beside her sister. Holding each of their hands, I remain beside them until they finally drift off.
“I don’t need to be tucked in,” Ivan says as I stand and inch my way toward his corner of the room. Nonetheless, he submits to a kiss on the forehead.
Beyond the nursery, moonlight illuminates the darkened hallways, casting shadows that sway like phantoms. One looms over me as I enter the wing of the house overlooking the front entrance. My imagination runs wild, transforming the swaying shape into a solid figure, one so tall I have to crane my neck back to take him in. Fathomless, his eyes meet mine accusingly.
He’s not real. I know that.
Still, I hear him in my head.You wanted your revenge, Safiya?he taunts.Well, you’ve gotten it. How will Mischa enact it for you? A shot to the head? A knife to the throat? Either way, he won’t fail like you did.
His rich laughter haunts me as I advance toward a row of windows with a view of the main driveway. I have a clear look at the road from them, and at a glance, I can tell that Mischa hasn’t returned yet.
He’s probably washing the blood from his hands,the specter of Donatello murmurs near my ear.Don’t pout. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Me dead—though you can’t even be honest with yourself as to the real reason why?
I shake my head, fighting to ignore the thoughts.
But they persist, feeding on the unease building in my stomach with every second that Mischa remains gone.
