I nod, scowling. “I thought Salvatore or some other twisted cunt hired her to get to me. If she couldn’t kill me, then her aim was to torment me. Make me relive that guilt—”
“When in reality, she was the poor daughter of a fucking psychopath. For all we know, she could be simpleminded.” In horror, Fabio hunches over again. His face pales, and he truly looks on the verge of vomiting. To console himself, he takes another hit of nicotine and exhales harshly.
As dramatic a display as it is, I can’t blame him. I’ve worked so damn hard to cultivate peace for Vin’s sake. In one cruel twist of fate, have I fucked up everything?
Or was that her aim all along? The sneaky blond with the fiery eyes. What the hell did I do to her?
“I think your best chance is to request a meeting,” Fabio says, rising to his full height. “Now. As soon as possible. Request a meeting with Mischa. Explain your past. Prove you didn’t harm the girl.”
“And what?” I demand. “He’ll take me at my word and send me on my way with a kiss? I couldn’t even get an audience with a bastard to form a truce over the fucking harbor.”
“But that was a formality,” Fabio warns, his tone cold. “This? This is life or death, Donatello. This is no game. For Vin’s sake, I suggest you prostrate yourself before the man and plead for mercy. Trust me, you do not want a war with Stepanov. The man is ruthless, and he has enough money to not only kill you—but ruin your name and anyone associated with it forever. The only doctor Vincenzo will ever be is the kind who uses his fancy degree to keep him warm at night while begging on the street for spare change.”
I flinch at the imagery and slam my fist against the desk so hard my knuckles crack.
“You know I’m right,” Fabio says.
And he is. Mischa is a force to be reckoned with.
But so was I. Once.
I know the heartlessness required to build a name attached to a fearsome reputation. I know what it takes for a man to cut off his humanity. I know the lengths such a man must go through to purge his soul.
Even now, Mischa does not frighten me.
But if the man takes it in his head that I did harm his family and decides to retaliate, Vincenzo won’t be spared regardless of my guilt. It’s the thought of him that makes me sigh, resigned.
“Do it,” I say, spinning to face Fabio. I lift my hands in defeat like a child accepting his punishment. “Call a meeting. Whatever the terms, I’ll uphold them. I only ask that the man hold his fire until we can speak face to face. Secure Vincenzo’s safety in the meantime. As for Mischa? I’ll meet him anywhere as long as he keeps this between the two of us.”
“Good,” Fabio says, already racing from the house. “Very good.”
So is the price of a future. For Vincenzo, I’d pay anything. Give anything.
I’ve already failed Safiya.
I won’t fail my son.
15
Willow
Death has been a permanent fixture in my life, the one constant that even Mischa’s carefully constructed haven can’t fully eradicate. When Ivan—Mischa’s long-term mentor and the grandfather of his children—died suddenly of a heart attack, a pall had fallen over the house unlike any other sadness to come before it. Time seemed to stop, and this cheerful, private world was forced to accommodate the harsh, grim reality if only for a moment.
The child’s laughter had quieted. The bright, cheery colors had been slowly replaced with black accents of mourning, and a picture of Ivan dominated a space in the drawing room where it still resides.
For all his protectiveness, there is only so much Mischa can shelter his family from.
And to anyone who might not know better, the house reeks of mourning. Hushed voices sound muffled from behind my bedroom door. Gone are the typical shrieks and laughter of the children playing. Any movement throughout the manor now is done softly enough so as not to disturb even the mice hiding in the rafters.
Or the one in this bed. Lying here, I eye the ceiling, recalling the past seven years I’ve spent in this home as Willow and the playful Mouse. I used to pine for Havienna and its sturdy walls, but this place is my true home, even if I’ve only ever felt like a stranger. An outcast struggling to fit in where I don’t belong.
My spacious room holds so many more memories than the tiny, modest one I left behind. I picked out the wooden bedframe myself under Ellen’s direction. Eli and I used to take turns squeezing under this sturdy piece of furniture to hide during our games of hide and seek. Mischa himself helped me paint the walls a soft shade of beige to make the space my own.
There wasn’t a day I spent away at school when I didn’t wish I could be back in this very spot.
But now a shadow looms above me, casting a pall that even the bright colors of my room can’t overcome. It stretches across the ceiling, growing darker with every minute to pass by. Soon, I see a face lurking within the darkness, his eyes cold and watchful, eyeing me dismissively.
You are not Safiya…
“Willow?” A quiet knock on the door ushers in a slight figure who crosses my room with soft, cautious footsteps. I sense her approach my nightstand, and a dull thud alludes to her placing something there. The smell of food tickles my nose, though I don’t bother to lift my head and see the meal for myself. “Darling?”
The mattress barely dips beneath Ellen’s weight as she presumably sits beside me. Soft, her fingers run through my hair, parting the strands. At the back of my mind, I
