Page 8 of Ruthless King
“You do,” he says softly. His eyes take on a distant gleam that triggers an ominous dread. I’m tensing before he even whispers her name, “What about Safy?”
Every time, it hits with brutal force, this pain—affecting me more than the remnants of my old icy mindset. I crumple beneath the guilt. Like a wave, it crashes down, drowning out everything else. The need to breathe. Think. I can’t even see as the world goes black.
In the midst of that darkness, her face appears in my mind. So innocent. So trusting. My little Safiya.
Only Vincenzo can ever bear to say her name. Why? He doesn’t know the truth, believing she died in a horrible accident all those years ago. I fed him that lie myself.
“Don?” I blink to find Vin nearly leaning out of his seat, his eyes on my face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you don’t like to talk about her.”
I look away, fighting the emotions down to the depths of my soul where they belong. The guilt, and the pain, and the regret. Gradually, I forget her—that face, those eyes. I banish her memory—for now. She always comes back.
Every night. Every nightmare. She always returns.
“You’re here now,” I rasp, turning my attention back to Vin. “You.”
He nods solemnly. “You’re lucky to have me,” he says. “I, at least, know how to wear a suit.”
2
DON
Ibarely get one glass of whiskey into Vin before he’s already heading up to bed.
“That fancy university has made you soft, whelp,” I scold him, horrified by his nearly full drink. “Be thankful that as a doctor, you won’t be expected to out drink a Russian informant while trying to secure a deal for a shipment.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were doing everything on the up and up these days?”
I scoff, but he’s right. While he’s been slaving away to earn those good grades, I’ve been on my own journey toward self-improvement. The new Donatello Vanici makes his wealth through legal means only. My first step in that direction was securing partial ownership of Hell’s Gambit’s sole port. The next goal in mind? Plaster the city with enough advertisements to overcome any hostile parties who might be trying to undermine me, be them Antonio Salvatore or Mischa Stepanov himself.
I’ve already covered the airport to capture any incoming businessmen looking to make connections here. I’d say that in a year, I’ll have my own shipping empire. Hell, even without themafiyaor thefamigliaon my side, I’m nearly there anyway. Most of the legitimate commerce flowing into this godforsaken place comes through me.
And I’m proud to say that I haven’t stolen or extorted a single dime.
But going on the straight and narrow overnight can’t help a man’s reputation. There are still plenty of my enemies waiting to strike a blow—from law enforcement to jaded old families. The Salvatores being one of them.
And, as it seems, the Stepanov clan.
“Take Javier when you go up,” I command, swiping my hand through Vin’s hair. Like a good boy, I’d left the old bodyguard here while at the manor, but I know better than to let Vin wander around alone.
“I don’t think I need a nanny, Don,” Vin says, but the argument is half-hearted.
“A nanny wouldn’t look half as badass holding a gun as Javier,” I counter. One of the first professionals I hired after leaving thefamiglia, I trust the man with my life—more importantly, I trust him with Vin’s. “Humor me. If you won’t carry a gun on you, at least stick close to someone who will.”
He eyes me sideways with far more maturity than a kid twenty-one should possess. “You’re drunk, Don.” His tone is resigned, belaying a truth that causes me to snatch up my glass rather than face.
He relays it regardless, “Though, to be fair, you’re always drunk.”
“I prefer the term ‘inebriated,’” I counter, saluting him with my drink. At least I’m not falling down pissing myself like my father. A few shots of whiskey on the regular keep me dulled enough to think with some ounce of sanity, let alone sleep until morning. Considering my track record when I was sober, I think it is a fair trade-off. Some nights it actually helps.
Vin disapproves of the habit. “Night, Don,” he says in that soft, sad way that makes me flinch with guilt.
“Night, Vinny!” I choke down my drink entirely and call to his retreating back, “As soon as you’re married and practicing as some renowned doctor, I won’t have to hide behind a bottle ever again.”
The sad part? I’m not joking. Maybe then, I’ll finally know peace. If my liver holds up, that is. I’m on my third glass when the seat beside me is taken by a figure who wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“How did I know I’d find you here?” Fabio grumbles while waving down the bartender. Rather than hard liquor, he orders a glass of water with a lemon wedge. Typical Fab.
“Shouldn’t you be dancing with the younger Stepanova by now?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
