Page 14 of Villain's Prey

She keeps eating, though her gaze darts to the kitchen every so often.

“Looking for the cat?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies too quickly.

“Mm-hmm.” I smirk.

“Something I’ve wondered about you—” She takes a big bite.

I cock my head toward her, suddenly interested in whatever she’s been thinking about me. Of course, she has to know my reputation. There’s no way the Fernandinos aren’t aware of every single Taletti player. It’s in their best interest to be as informed as possible about their enemies. Not that it did them any good. I already have what I realize is their prize–Olivia Fernandino. All along, my father and I thought Vincent’s or his brother Leon’s death would bring old Giuseppe Fernandino to his knees. We were wrong. It’s this little pistol right in front of me. The loss of her–my stomach churns as my mind goes down that dark road.

“Your name.”

“My name?” I ask.

“Sergei. It’s Russian. Not Italian. Your dad never married. Everyone knows that. But no one’s ever been able to figure out who you and Sal’s mother is. His name, though, is Italian.”

“I didn’t hear a question.”

She rolls her eyes. “What’s with the Russian name?”

“Sal and I don’t have the same mother. Mine was Russian.” I say it as nonchalantly as possible, but the truth is I don’t like thinking about my mother. I don’t remember her, don’t know a damn thing about her. Only that my father said she turned on him just like all the rest. The same with Sal’s mother. My father didn’t have to elaborate about what happened to them once he’d decided they were against him.

“Was?”

I stand. “I need to make a call.”

She shrinks back against the couch.

“Easy, princess. I’m just calling Sal.”

She swallows hard. “Okay.”

I turn and head to the bedroom, grabbing my phone and scrolling through Sal’s messages. He’s losing his shit.

Me: Tell Dad I’ll call him in the morning. I’ve got some shit to straighten out.

Sal: Where are you?

Me: Tomorrow. Fuck off until then.

I stow my phone then walk back into the living room.

The light’s out, and Olivia isn’t on the couch anymore.

The air shifts, and before I can move, a knife is at my throat.

“Got you, asshole!” She presses the blade against me, the edge drawing blood.

With a quick and easy movement, I shove her arm away and grab her wrist, squeezing until she drops the bread knife.

She yelps when I scoop her into my arms. “Let me go!”

I laugh and carry her to the bedroom. “I knew you’d go for the knife, princess, but you’re being foolish.”

“Foolish?” she bellows.

“Your foot.”

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