That’s the only explanation for why I might have overlooked the woman watching me from beside the bed. Slender and blond with dark eyes that swallow most of her delicate face, she brings a new meaning to the term present.
“Vinny, Vinny, Vinny,” I murmur on a long exhale as my gaze drinks her in. While a bit on the thin side, a tight black dress clings to her like a second skin, revealing more than enough curves to work with. Perky little breasts and a nice round ass to start.
My cock stirs for the first time in weeks, and the sensation triggers a legitimate concern. How long has it been since my last lay?
Too damn long.
“What a damn fine son you are, my boy!” Appreciation thickens my tone, but the blond doesn’t simper in gratitude for the compliment.
Instead, she raises her hand, and I stiffen as the light glints off the object she holds. I recognize the shape instantly, and—if anything—my pulse surges faster, excitement heightening my senses to a manic state of amusement.
The little minx has a knife.
Willow
Twenty-four hours earlier…
One of my composition professors is an accomplished pianist who has performed with various orchestras worldwide. Undeniably talented, he also happens to be a virulent misogynist. Working with him was a trying nine-week-long test of my patience.
I did learn something from him, though—a valuable lesson when it comes to dealing with men outside of my family—most are vain, selfish creatures unable to think beyond a pretty face. It’s an aggravating realization to come to, but there’s also power in that knowledge.
There is power in destroying some pompous lecher’s perceptions of success.
“A young girl shouldn’t be studying music, wasting her beauty away,” he’d scolded me during our first lesson. “You should be living your life, thinking pretty thoughts, and finding a husband to whisk you away.”
He’d shouted, of course, presuming that I was deaf instead of mute. With an eyebrow raised in feigned pity, he then suggested I, “Take a less intense course this semester. I’m disinclined to make any adjustments to compensate for a disability as I don’t think it would be fair to the other students. I’m sure you understand, dear.”
I did understand. After all, he had a point. “Compensating” his notoriously ruthless schedule for one lone woman would have been a crime against humanity. So, to ease his concerns, I’d proceeded to play a concerto so complicated he promptly kept his mouth shut for the rest of the class.
“Disabled” or not, I went on to pass that semester with top marks.
Still, I could kick myself for channeling his banal thinking now. Maybe, in some warped, twisted sense of logic, the bastard had a point? On the eve of her nineteenth birthday, a girl should think nothing but pretty, happy thoughts. Fantasies starring men her own age, or silly daydreams, perhaps?
Especially if said girl is rich, well-protected, and healthy. Her life is perfect, and she should be grateful, not fearful. I know firsthand—it could be worse.
Therefore, fully content, someone in my position should be looking toward the future—not at a billboard innocently placed in her path as though fate itself intended it to be there.
Stopping short, I blink several times. Shake my head. I even pinch myself on the wrist so hard the pain lances up my arm.
Nothing makes the sight disappear.
Ironically, I should have been too distracted to even notice such an obscure advert but, for whatever reason, I couldn’t miss it.
And it can’t be real.
His face, staring at me from beneath a glossy veneer, must be the result of some horrific waking nightmare—and it could be… If it weren’t for the faint wrinkles around his eyes. I never picture him like this. Aged. Weary, and yet in so many ways, exactly the same. Dark, brooding eyes glowering at the world before him, his mouth curled in a beguiling half-smile.
There’s no mistaking him for anyone else—this is Donatello.
Pain rips through my stomach as though I’ve been punched, building with every new detail I notice. Even in a photograph, vigor screams from his coifed, dark hair and bronzed skin. Both could be the work of Photoshop, yes.
But the man I knew would be too proud to craft such a façade.
It’s him. In the background stretches an expanse of water and a succinct title reading: V Development Group: We build the future you desire.
A future…
I blink again and rub at my eyes for good measure. This can’t be real. Only in my imagination could such a cruel parallel be cast by that one word.
Because by just looking at him, one would never know of the so-called “future,” he ripped from me. The life he brutally stole. The beloved friend who put a little girl through unimaginable horror.
Closing my eyes can’t erase it. They burn beneath the assault of memories, and it takes everything I have in me to choke them back. Squash the emotions the way my father taught me to.
“Focus, Mouse,” Mischa would scold while training me with simple defensive moves in the courtyard of our home. “You always let your anger get in the way. Move past it! Focus!”
It was that mindset that drew me to studying music. Sheets of notes required more than just emotion to play effectively. They had to be analyzed rationally, every note carefully planned.
I try to do that now, pushing past the jumbled emotions clawing through my heart.
At the end of it all, one reality remains—I am not that girl anymore. He should mean nothing to the person I am in this moment. This rich, sheltered woman. This accomplished, scholarly musician. Nothing…
But like some lingering infection, he’s already inside me anyway, seeping into my veins with every frantic surge of my pulse. The memories descend one after the other, until I’m drowning in them. All I can think about is him. Donatello, the man who left me for dead. So sweet, his laugh could infect an entire room of people with joy. One smile from him could charm the sun from the sky.
His love was poison, but as a child, I gladly took every ounce he had to give.
And after seven long years, I’ve healed from him. Through grit, and luck, and pain, I salvaged the life he tried to destroy. I’ve found a new family with which to enjoy it. A new protector. A father.
A new life.
Nineteen is a significant birthday in the world I belong to now, denoting so many things—freedom first among them, womanhood overall. The day a girl shakes the bonds of childhood forever and takes her rightful place in society. It may be more symbolic in this case, given my real birthday was months ago—but I am no longer Safiya Mangenello, and Willow Stepanova will achieve this milestone with fanfare.
On this one day, I should be the happiest…
“Miss?” a voice beckons from the exit of this private terminal. I look over to find a man with black hair shorn close to his head, standing at the door. His dark suit and watchful gray eyes set him apart from any other airport customer—even before someone would happen to notice the gun professionally tucked beneath his jacket. He’s tall enough that I have to crane my head back to meet his gaze.
For his benefit, I force a smile, but I can’t seem to make myself move. Not yet. Slowly, I return my attention to the billboard, praying that it’s vanished, only a delusion after all.