My smart boy may have some inclination toward politics yet.
“My God, Donatello,” Fabio exclaims, slapping a hand over his chest. “It’s been years since I’ve seen you smile. And the last time you had just killed a man. The blood on your chin negated the effect a little.”
“I think every father cracks a grin when he sees his baby boy out in the world.” The seriousness of the moment flattens my mouth again. “Forget me. You ask why I came here? For him. I can’t protect him forever.”
Fabio sighs, inspecting his now empty glass. “There are real fathers out there who don’t treat their own sons the way you treat Vin—let alone their nephews. Donella would be proud of you for how you’ve looked after him. I know she’s looking down on us both right now, cursing us to hell and back for letting Vincenzo wear a tie that clashes so harshly with his skin tone. Really, Don? Navy?”
I shrug, gritting my teeth—but he’s right. I can hear my little sister nagging from here. Even back when we had pennies to our name, she was so fixated on keeping up appearances. It was that pining for more that cost her her life in the end. When she didn’t achieve the fairy tale ending she envisioned for herself, not even her son could keep her from a bottle of pills. One day, she took too damn many.
“A tie is a tie,” I snap, shaking my head to banish the memory. “No matter the color, let’s just hope it catches the younger Stepanova’s eye, huh?”
The girl hasn’t made her entrance yet, though I sense her arrival is imminent. Her parents are positioned expectantly by the dais, and an air of impatience buzzes through the shifting crowd. Already, anyone with something to prove has jockeyed for a prime spot near either of the two entrances she’s bound to come in through.
“I feel like we’re watching one of those animal documentaries about the breeding season,” Fab remarks, ever the intellectual.
I’m not so tactful. “Welcome to the world that awaits those of us without wives,” I tell him. “It’s all one big pissing contest.”
Some have gone through greater lengths, it seems. I catch a flicker of movement from above and spy a shadowed hall overlooking this space. An amusing thought makes me chuckle. Could the little principessa be lurking up there, gloating over her crowd from above?
From her vantage point, she’ll have a good view of the contenders, including a familiar figure who managed to score one of the best spots available.
“Smart lad, Vin,” I mutter with pride. “Smart lad.”
Finally, a commotion near the back entrance draws my attention, along with everyone else in the room. Visible from beyond the archways, a retinue of people approach, Willow presumably among them. I surprise myself, eagerly craning my neck for a glimpse of this elusive mafiya princess along with everyone else.
“Don.” I barely register Fabio snatching at my forearm until he digs his nails in. “Don!”
I swivel my head toward him in alarm. That wasn’t his usual worrying tone. Constricted, his gaze is focused straight ahead and whatever he sees makes him clench his jaw. “It seems you weren’t subtle enough.”
Confused, I turn to look in the same direction and instantly find the source of his concern. Mischa Stepanov. Apparently, my party crashing has not gone unnoticed—and judging from his frown, the man has no intention of rethinking his slight.
I’m no pussy. I’ve stared down grown men armed with way more than a corsage of roses more than once in my life.
And I can safely say that none of those foes ever looked at me the way he does. With raw, searing anger that transforms his expression into a snarl. Funnily enough, I know that look well, seeing it every time I look in the fucking mirror these days.
There’s no other word for it—hate.
“Wait here,” Fabio mutters before slipping through the crowd. He reaches Mischa within seconds, presumably speaking in that smooth, confident way he excels at.
But even his skills can only go so far.
I know hostility when I see it. Alarm for Vincenzo mingles with anger, festering, building… I have to dig my nails into my palms just to wrestle it under control. I’ve come too far to fuck up now. Too far…
But only respect for Fabio keeps me from crossing the room and confronting the man directly.
All this time, I’ve written off his shunning of me as arrogance. To him, I could be just another greedy son of a bitch desperate to lick up his scraps. God knows I ignored more than my fair share of ass kissers when I was the famiglia’s head.
But now? There is no mistake—he knows damn well who I am. Which rumor or horror story sparked his ire, I wonder? My past? The men I’ve killed? The crimes I’ve committed unchecked? Or maybe the man—with his many children—heard about what I did to the one I’d sworn to protect.
Her. Even while I look for Olivia at the bottom of every bottle of liquor, another face haunts me at night. Torments me, her dark eyes searching, her lips hollowed around a silent scream. Nothing keeps her away for long. Not booze. Not time. Not prayer.
My little Safiya…
No! I fight back her memory as my breathing quickens. Teeth gritted, I refocus every brain cell I have on Mischa. No matter the reason, he’s gone out of his way to prove his point. I’m not welcome in his orbit.
“Don?” Vin’s already by my side, scanning my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I snatch the present from him, but even as I force a smile, I know he suspects the truth. “But we need to leave,” I murmur as Fabio glances at me with an unmistakable warning. From the corner of my eye, I see that retinue of security start to peel away from the perimeter one by one, converging in our direction. Grabbing Vin’s arm, I practically drag him after me. “Now.”
“Why? What’s wrong?” he asks, but he doesn’t resist as I hook my arm around his shoulders and head for the entrance of the ballroom.
“Just a minor hiccup,” I say, glancing back to find Fabio following us. “I’ll explain later. But who needs a fancy shindig anyway? I’ll buy you whatever drinks you want back at the hotel. We should celebrate before you return to London.”
He’s still frowning, but he’s too smart to argue now. Guilt taunts me for bringing him here in the first place. Together, we exit the manor the way we came, skirting the scrutiny of Stepanov agents with every step.
A guard we pass on our way into the foyer touches a headset affixed to his ear, frowning, his gaze on me. Never before have I so bitterly regretted playing by the rules and coming here unarmed. Would Mischa be above mounting an attack right at this moment?
I can’t tell. Someone knew to expect our hasty exit, at least. We’ve barely made it down the front walkway when my driver pulls up. Not of my own employ, he’s a hire from the hotel, but judging from his blank expression, I doubt rushing his clients from fancy venues is an unusual occurrence.
“I’ll take that, sir,” he says, stepping out to retrieve the gift from me and set it in the trunk.
As I climb into the back seat, I make a mental note to tip him extra. Fuck, if he can get us off this property within the next few minutes, I’ll employ him my damn self. Fear of Mischa isn’t what sparks my impatience. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, making me think more clearly than I have in months. Calculating. The icy way I cringe from these days. Like the world is against me and fighting tooth and nail is the only way out.